Amos Gitai steps onto the Venice Film Festival podium carrying the weight of decades of conflict and a singular vision for humanity’s future. His latest documentary, The Road to Jericho, arrives amidst escalating tensions across the Levant, bringing to the attention of global audiences both the resilience of ordinary people and the abyssal despair threatening to consume the region. Set against the backdrop of ongoing hostilities in the occupied West Bank, the film follows a humble tire-repair school in Khan al-Ahmar—a fragile institution built from reclaimed materials that has become a powerful emblem of defiance. As Gitai puts it, the project is less about producing a neat political statement and more about preserving the dignity of those who refuse to be erased by systemic violence.
The Symbol Of Persistence: Khan Al-Ahmar And Its Fragile Pedagogy
Nestled off Dust-Bowl Highway One between the remnants of Jerusalem and the ancient port of Jericho lies a village whose most remarkable feature is not grand architecture but stubborn continuity. At the heart of this settlement stands the “School of Tires,” a makeshift classroom constructed entirely from discarded tyres, timber, and adobe bricks. For roughly three hundred Bedouin children, this improvisational institution represents more than mere education—it is a testament to the human refusal to surrender without a fight. The school operates on a shoestring budget, with classrooms cobbled together from salvaged auto parts and walls reinforced with layers of mud and plaster. Despite repeated threats from Israeli authorities, the facility survives by virtue of international pressure and the quiet resolve of its inhabitants.
The Israeli occupation regime has long treated the site as an illicit intrusion into territorial claims. Over the past eight years, authorities have systematically denied the village an official building permit, declaring the entire compound unlawful and ruling that demolition is inevitable. Yet the school continues to function, sustained entirely by vigilant watchers abroad and the unwavering commitment of its students and parents. As Gitai observes, the structure serves as a litmus paper for how far the wider world will extend its solidarity to marginalized populations. “For once, on this issue, Europe stood up and said no,” he remarks, highlighting what many have come to regard as a critical shift in global ethics regarding civilian protection in the region. The school thus becomes a microcosm of larger struggles, embodying both the brutality of occupation and the quiet heroism of those who persist.
A Director Unafraid Of Certainty: Gitai And The New Wave Legacy
Amos Gitai is widely regarded as the chief architect of contemporary Israeli cinema—frequently dubbed “Israel’s one‑man New Wave” by critical circles—that captured the country’s seismic social transformations during the 1970s and 1980s. Emerging from the turbulent waters of avant‑garde experimentation, he developed a distinctive style that blends gritty realism with lyrical contemplation, often refusing to offer tidy resolutions. Films such as Eden (2001) and Field Diary (1982) exemplify his willingness to excavate uncomfortable truths, allowing viewers to grapple with moral ambiguity rather than prescribing simple answers. This approach earned him acclaim for his unflinching portrayal of Israeli society’s fractures, from the burgeoning settlement movement to the psychological toll of armed confrontation.
When Gitai turns his lens toward Khan al-Ahmar, he does so not merely as a filmmaker documenting a location, but as an active participant in an enduring cultural conversation. He describes the project as a “tone poem” rather than a polemic, deliberately selecting a form that permits emotional resonance to pervade the narrative without imposing ideological rigidity. This methodological choice reflects his broader philosophy: he regards cinema primarily as a vessel for ideas rather than a mechanism for direct societal transformation. “I don’t believe art changes reality,” he insists, “what it can do is scratch a memory—and that is profoundly important.” By framing The Road to Jericho as an auditory‑visual meditation on loss and endurance, Gitai seeks to inspire a kind of remembrance that fuels future action, even if the outcome remains uncertain.
The Weight Of Historical Memory: From Rabin To Radicalisation
To grasp the urgency driving Gitai’s current work, one must travel back nearly four decades to a moment when the promise of peace seemed attainable. The 1995 assassination of Yitzhak Rabin by a radical right‑wing Israeli law student delivered a brutal blow to diplomatic optimism. Rabin, whose pragmatic approach to the Oslo Accords encouraged dialogue even as security concerns mounted, had been portrayed by many as the bridge to a normalized coexistence. His murder decapitated any remaining hope for constructive negotiation, replacing it with cycles of violence that defined the subsequent decades. Gitai characterises this rupture as a “decapitation” event that fundamentally altered the trajectory of regional politics, leaving a vacuum filled by extremism and misplaced anger.
The aftermath of Rabin’s death saw the gradual erosion of trust between Israeli citizens and their government, and between Palestinians and their oppressors alike. In the days following the assassination, protests erupted on both sides of the divide, yet genuine reconciliation remained elusive. Gitai argues that the political calculus of the Middle East continues to shift with alarming speed, often generating outcomes that favour aggression over compassion. He notes that the killing of Rabin “