'Naza' Review: Two of the 'No Other Land' Filmmakers Deliver a More Devastating Exposé of Israeli Genocidal Policy, This Time in Gaza

When the Camera Falls Silent

I've always believed that the most powerful documentaries don't simply present facts—they make you feel them. That's precisely what Yuval Abraham and Rachel Szor have accomplished with their latest work, Naza. The film, which was co-directed by only the Israeli half of the No Other Land filmmaking team, is an unsettling, unflinching look into the machinery of Israeli military operations in Gaza. It's a chilling, almost surreal experience that forces us to confront the stark reality behind the euphemistic language used by those who commit war crimes.

“You feel like God, because you hear everything they say,” one soldier admits, his voice flat and unemotional as he describes how Israeli intelligence listens in on Gaza's phones to track their prey.

The premise of Naza is deceptively simple: interviews with Israeli soldiers, filmed at night atop Tel Aviv rooftops, conducted in such a way that the identities of the interviewees remain hidden. Their faces are obscured, voices modified—just like the human lives they destroy. What emerges isn't just a record of war crimes but an intimate portrait of institutionalized dehumanization.

The Language of Erasure

What makes Naza so terrifying is its use of language. The term naza, which the IDF uses to refer to civilian casualties, is more than a word—it's a tool of psychological warfare. It strips away the humanity of victims, reducing them to mere statistics. As one soldier explains, this erasure isn't just about policy; it's about perception. The term naza obviates the need to see these people as men, women, and children, which makes it easier to commit atrocities without guilt.

The film is a masterclass in understated horror. The camera lingers on the rooftops of Tel Aviv, showing us glimpses of ordinary life: people watching TV, preparing meals, going to bed. It's a jarring contrast with what we're hearing from the soldiers below. And yet, this juxtaposition doesn't make the atrocities more palatable—it makes them more visible.

Dehumanization and the Psychology of War

Abraham and Szor do not attempt to sensationalize the horror they document. Instead, they let the soldiers speak for themselves, using sketch pads and detailed explanations to paint a picture of how the Israeli military operates in Gaza. Some describe drone operations from their Tel Aviv headquarters, others talk about surveillance and targeting. What stands out is not just their technical knowledge but their casual acceptance of their roles.

One soldier says, “You hack her phone, and then you kill her.” These aren't abstract statements—they're intimate, personal actions carried out in the name of military precision. The psychological detachment that allows for such actions is what Naza seeks to expose.

The soldiers are not portrayed as monsters; they are ordinary men who have been conditioned to see their duties as part of a system. One man even admits, “It was fun.” This isn't a callous statement—it's a chilling acknowledgment of how war can become normalized, even enjoyable, when the moral weight is offloaded onto institutions and ideologies.

A Film That Demands Confrontation

Unlike No Other Land, which faced controversy over its perceived political stance, Naza is a straightforward exposé. Its power lies not in its ability to provoke debate but in its unflinching portrayal of policy-driven violence. It's difficult to imagine a more effective tool for exposing the mechanisms of genocide.

What makes this documentary so haunting is its refusal to offer easy answers or comfort. Instead, it forces us to reckon with what we already know—about the brutality of war, the power of language to shape perception, and the ease with which systems can dehumanize entire populations.

“The message, disseminated not just within Israel but among the diaspora, is that one Israeli, alive or dead, is worth untold numbers of Arabs.”

These words from Naza are not just a description of policy—they're a statement of value. They speak to the deeper cultural and political structures that enable such atrocities. This is not just about one conflict; it's about how ideologies can be weaponized to erase entire populations.

The Cost of Silence

The film is also a reminder of how difficult it is to speak out against systemic violence. The Israeli filmmakers behind Naza had to walk a tightrope—exposing the truth while working within a system that denies its own actions. Their courage is palpable in every frame.

What's even more striking is how this film has been received. Despite its unflinching honesty, it has been embraced by festival circuits that claim to be neutral, allowing it to slide under the radar as if it's just another documentary about war. But Naza isn't just another documentary—it's a wake-up call.

In a world where media is often curated to avoid controversy or maintain “balance,” Naza stands out as a bold, necessary intervention. It challenges not only our understanding of war but also the ethics of how we consume and respond to such stories.

The Future of Documentary Truth

As the film industry grapples with increasing scrutiny over its responsibility to report truthfully, Naza serves as a model for what documentary filmmaking can—and must—be. It's not enough to simply present facts; we need films that provoke thought, challenge complacency, and demand accountability.

The legacy of No Other Land was complicated by controversy, but Naza takes the conversation forward. It shows how the same filmmakers can use their platform to push boundaries even further. And in doing so, they remind us that the most powerful films are often those that don't just tell stories—they force us to confront them.