Devastating Truths and Transformation Through “Soft Power”: An Interview with Farah Nabulsi
by Paul Risker

British Palestinian filmmaker and human rights activist Farah Nabulsi’s directorial feature debut The Teacher follows the journey of Basem El-Saleh (Saleh Bakri), a seemingly ordinary Palestinian teacher who is a reluctant hero.

Basem lives under Israeli occupation and colonization in the West Bank and understands the plight of his people. He is powerless to help two of his students, brothers Yacoub (Mahmoud Bakri) and Adam (Muhammad Abed El-Rahman), whose home is demolished one afternoon after school. The Israeli soldier tells an angry Yacoub that they have a demolition order and advises him he has six weeks to pay for the cost of the demolition, or he risks a fine and imprisonment. Later that evening, Basem tells Lisa (Imogen Poots), a British volunteer worker at the school who has taken an interest in Yacoub, that it was unfortunately their turn. He’s resigned to the reality that his own home, like all the others in the village, is marked with a demolition order. He continues to be a friend to the family, but he knows that the Israeli aggression is pushing Yacoub toward a tragic future from which he wants to spare the young man. 

The titular character’s reluctance is borne from a struggle to reconcile competing ideologies: political resistance that puts his life in jeopardy and supporting his students to make choices that will give them more control over their future. When Yacoub is killed by an Israeli settler, however, Basem feels a growing sense of powerlessness. In the meantime, Lisa, who he is in a sexual relationship with, has reached out to her NGO contacts. They have recommended Aret Feldman (Einat Weizmann), an Israeli lawyer who is known to support Palestinian rights. Feldman warns Basem and Yacoub’s mother and brother that the court may not rule in their favor, and the accused will likely be acquitted.

Basem unable to temper his desire for political resistance, reluctantly agrees to hide the kidnapped American Israeli soldier, Nathaniel Cohen, in his house. The resistance is holding Cohen hostage to secure the release of 1,200 Palestinian political prisoners. In a dual storyline, the American parents of the soldier—Simon (Stanley Townsend) and Rachel (Andrea Irvine) Cohen—are undergoing their own emotional distress and doing everything they can to rescue their son from captivity, largely because Director Lieberman (Paul Herzberg), the head of Israeli security in the West Bank, has proved largely ineffective. At the same time, Basem ends his relationship with Lisa to protect her, but he’s unable to protect Adam, who through simple misfortune has become complicit in his transgression.

The Teacher begins with Basem’s car gliding along the winding road through the hills of the West Bank. Nabulsi transitions from the picturesque landscape that evokes a feeling of freedom and openness that is eroded by the image of the West Bank barrier, a towering concrete structure with watch towers that slices its way through Palestinian territory. And as Basem drives into the city, he passes Israeli military vehicles and soldiers. The way Nabulsi, her cinematographer Gilles Porte and editor Mike Pike construct the scene, it’s as if the camera is both Basem and the audience. The Israeli soldiers appear to sense our gaze and lock eyes with us. This on-screen–off-screen interaction stirs in us a disquieting feeling that morphs into fear, while Basem’s eyes and body language quietly express his own unease.

The simple yet effective opening scene is layered with the winding road as a metaphor for Basem’s reluctant narrative journey, and from the beginning, Nabulsi is creating an emotional space for the audience to enter the film. She offers us a feeling of freedom and openness that is ripped away as she immerses us in the narrative tensions and tries to convey something about the Palestinian experience.  

Nabulsi describes The Teacher as a fiction film that is heavily rooted in truth, reality, and the injustices that are taking place. While she draws inspiration from different real-life stories, there is one that she says was a notable influence—the story of Gilad Shalit, an Israeli soldier who was abducted in 2006 and held until 2011. His eventual release secured the safe return of over a thousand Palestinian political prisoners. Nabulsi tells me that many of these prisoners were women and children that were held without trial or charge in administrative detention. “I was thinking, what an insane imbalance in value for human life.”

The Teacher effectively penetrates the pseudo-complexity of the Palestinian and Israeli conflict by showing there's nothing complex about it. Mainstream news media and geopolitics have sought to create a myth of complexity, but Nabulsi takes us into the effects apartheid and forced occupation have on ordinary people. The Teacher is an important film because it gives a voice to the collective Palestinian trauma that is still denied by many in the international community.  

Nabulsi's feature debut is emotionally heartbreaking. We witness the lack of power that threatens to force people to choose political resistance and jeopardize their lives. The Teacher is a film that stirs emotions in us that we recognize as anger and sadness. The specificity of these emotions, however, are difficult to articulate in words because we've connected with and understood these characters on a deeply emotional and intellectual level—almost instinctively. In essence, Nabulsi effectively creates a space for her audience to enter the film and reckon with the cruel reality besieging her characters.  

In a recent conversation with Cineaste, Nabulsi discussed the relationship between the political and the personal and how she didn't set out to make a political film. She also reflected on the devastating truths her film explores, why Basem is a reluctant hero, the blurry line between political and activist cinema, how films can create change, and moving away from abstract filmmaking to tell this story the way it needed to be told—Paul Risker

Cineaste: Why filmmaking as a means of creative expression? Was there an inspirational or defining moment for you personally? 

Farah Nabulsi: I'm British-born, raised, and educated, but Palestinian by heritage. I went to militarily occupied and colonized Palestine for the first time as an adult, probably around ten years ago. And despite knowing about the reality on the ground there, having read the books and seen the news, from a humanitarian point of view, nothing prepared me for witnessing with my own eyes the discrimination and the injustice. Whether it was experiencing at first hand the illegal Israeli settlements, the separation wall plowing through Palestinian lands, villages, and towns, or the checkpoints and so on. That compelled me to start writing personally and therapeutically about what I had seen and felt.  

The endeavor into filmmaking grew out of feeling a compelling desire to express myself creatively and to tell these stories. So, I decided to adapt my private and therapeutic writings, initially, into short films, because I've always loved film, theatre, and drama. I did a lot of acting as a teenager and so, that’s why film was the medium of art in which I was most drawn to express myself creatively.

Cineaste: Thematically, The Teacher is about the relationship between the personal and the political. It explores how the personal can be overshadowed by the political and, at the same time, how the two are inseparable. It's worth noting that the film is also an echo of your own experience of this relationship.

Nabulsi: To be honest, I never set out to make a political film. What compelled me was the desire to tell a powerful, emotional human story; one that mattered to me personally, both as a Palestinian and as a human being witnessing profound and ongoing injustice. Of course, the sociopolitical reality is present and integral to the film—it’s not something I shy away from—and that reality, in many ways, becomes a kind of character in the film, shaping the world my other characters live in and the choices available to them.

What I was most interested in was the personal: the relationships, the daily struggles, the emotional weight of simply trying to live, love, learn, teach, and survive, all within an environment where so much is out of your control. That’s where the personal and the political become inseparable. When your very right to move freely, to provide for your family, to protect your children, to mourn, is governed by a system of occupation and apartheid, then politics is no longer abstract. It becomes intimate; it invades your home, your classroom, and your mind.

One of the most devastating truths, and one that sits at the heart of the film, is what the absence of justice does to a person, and to a people. When the very system you’re supposed to turn to for justice is the same one complicit in the crimes committed against you, that breaks something deep inside. It leaves you with nowhere to go, no institutional path toward dignity or accountability. That’s the tragedy Basem carries with him. And that’s what Adam inherits through the loss of his brother—not just grief, but the knowledge that justice is structurally impossible. That kind of reality doesn’t just shape lives, it corrodes them.

So yes, I understand and welcome the idea that the film explores the tension between the personal and the political. But for me, it’s about how human beings navigate that tension. It’s about love, the weight of responsibility, the pain of powerlessness and, ultimately, the inevitability of resistance when every other route to freedom and justice has been closed. 

Cineaste: One of the other thematic layers of The Teacher is the tension between the impulse to respond and stand up to oppression, discrimination, and violence, and the desire, if not a yearning, for peace. In this sense, the tension and suspense come from within the souls of the characters as much as the external conflict. Is The Teacher a story of a reluctant hero that’s complicated by human nature?  

Nabulsi: Absolutely, and Basem El-Saleh is a reluctant hero, but not in the traditional, cinematic, Hollywood sense. He’s not reluctant because he doubts what’s right, or because he needs to “find his courage.” He’s reluctant because he’s lived his entire life under oppression, discrimination, and violence. He’s tired. He has been broken in many ways, and like so many others, he carries deep scars and even open wounds. His struggle is not about discovering whether to resist; it’s about how to keep resisting when you’re exhausted, when the cost has been unbearable, and when you can see the world offers no justice. This is sadly very reflective of where Palestinians are on the ground in Gaza and the West Bank, today, more so than at any other time, I think. They are exhausted and have been tortured on an industrial level and yet forced to continue in their struggle. This appears extremely heroic to those of us on the outside. 

The film explores that inner tension, between the impulse to fight and the very human yearning for peace. But it's important to clarify that Basem isn’t looking for peace with his oppressor. He’s yearning for a deeper peace, the peace that comes with dignity, with freedom, with being able to live a full human life without fear, humiliation, or loss. The so-called “peace” that comes from surrender, or numbness, or resignation, that’s not peace at all. That’s spiritual death.

So, yes, the suspense in the film is as much internal as it is external. Basem’s soul is in conflict. He wants to protect the people he loves: Adam and Lisa, and at the same time, he cannot accept life on his knees. That tension is what makes him human. It’s not the will to resist that complicates his life, it’s what keeps him alive; what keeps him connected to his humanity. But, of course, he wishes it all wasn’t necessary in the first place.

 I think that’s what the film ultimately speaks to: the quiet, often invisible heroism of those who refuse to go quietly, even when it might be a lost cause. The alternative to resistance isn’t peace, it’s erasure. Again, Gaza comes to mind.  

Cineaste: In The Teacher, are you partly driven by an interest in exploring generational cycles of behavioral patterns and specific choices, and the responsibility the older generations have for the young?  

Nabulsi: To an extent, in the sense that, unless the oppression is ended, then it is inevitable that people will continue to resist regardless of age or generation.

Cineaste: Your films have transitioned from the abstract to a more traditional form. What effect does this have on the story you’re telling, and does a more traditional or formalistic approach benefit a film like The Teacher?

Nabulsi: When I first started, I had no formal or informal training in filmmaking. My early work came from a place of personal expression, often adapted from therapeutic writings or journaling I’d done before I even thought of becoming a filmmaker. Naturally, those early films took on a more abstract, experimental, or tone poem-like form, because that was what felt accessible to me at the time, creatively, technically and financially. I was learning, feeling my way forward, and expressing emotion and memory more than constructing a narrative.  

As I gained more confidence and experience and began to originate new work rather than adapt past writing, it made sense to step into the more traditional cinematic forms. I’ve grown into myself creatively, and I now feel capable of working within the fiction narrative form not just as a necessity, but as a space I actively enjoy. It gives me structure, reach, and most importantly, agency. It allows me to express myself creatively with audiences more directly and with greater emotional and narrative precision.

With a film like The Teacher, that traditional form is essential. It’s a character-driven story grounded in emotional realism, set against the very real sociopolitical backdrop of military occupation, colonization, and apartheid. The clarity and accessibility of traditional narrative cinema help create the space needed for the audience to fully enter the world; to connect with the characters, feel their tension, and understand what’s at stake. It becomes an immersive, human experience, not just an intellectual or artistic one.

And as much as I admire abstract or experimental cinema, and still hold space for those approaches, I don’t believe The Teacher could have been told that way. It needed to be clear, rooted, and emotionally legible. Fiction narratives give me the freedom to craft that, while still honoring my artistic expression and the complexity and truth of the lived reality in Palestine. To be clear though, I see cinema as one of the most powerful and beautiful forms of human communication and art forms the world has ever known. And for this story, the fiction narrative was exactly the right approach.

Cineaste: A friend who spends a lot of time on the festival circuit told me he regards festivals as being cowardly because they like political films, but they’re afraid of activist cinema. The Teacher is a deeply political film that takes us inside the reality of its characters’ lives and isn’t afraid to take a stance. Is there an important discussion to be had about the nuance that distinguishes political from activist cinema, and their exposure?  

Nabulsi: It’s an interesting question and, honestly, I’m still thinking through it myself. The line between political cinema and activist cinema can be blurry, and maybe it should be. I suppose the distinction some people make is that a political film explores, reveals, or reflects the structures and systems that shape people’s lives, while activist cinema is more directly aligned with a call to action, maybe? But I’m not convinced they need to be in opposition. Both are vital, both are valid, and both can be cinematic.  

What I can say is that The Teacher is deeply political by default, because the lived reality of its characters is, in the end, political. The conditions of military occupation, systemic injustice, the absence of freedom are the world my characters inhabit. But at the same time, the film is rooted in personal, emotional, and human storytelling. It’s not waving a banner, it’s opening a door to a reality that many people are often shielded or diverted from. If that’s considered activist, I welcome it. But what matters more to me are the questions: Is it truthful? Is it human? Is it meaningful?

I do think there’s sometimes a fear in the industry, especially among festival programmers, that films perceived as too “activist” might be labeled as propaganda or too confrontational. And that’s unfortunate, because cinema is a form of soft power. It has a unique ability to shape perspective, to expand empathy, to provoke thought and, amid such gross injustice around the world, it is necessary. So, if a festival claims to support bold, meaningful work, then films like The Teacher, and many others, need to be part of that space. Otherwise, what’s the point? Just entertainment?

There’s a quote from the Italian artist Davide Dormino that I love, and I keep it at the top of my production company website. He said: “True art always has a role and responsibility to take a stand, because the fundamental role of the artist is to help people shape their point of view in a way that liberates us. Otherwise, it just has an aesthetic function.” That resonates deeply with me. I’m not here to make noise for its own sake; I’m here to tell stories that matter. And I think we need to protect space, and festivals need to open space for those stories, whether they’re labeled political, activist, or anything in-between.

Cineaste: When we question the capacity of a film to change the world, and we cynically dismiss its value in this regard, we’re perhaps not considering it in the correct context. Cinema can change the perspective of an individual, which creates a gradual and less dramatic change by humanizing or familiarizing realities. It’s a trickle effect rather than the dramatic change we might want or imagine.

Nabulsi: I absolutely agree. We shouldn’t underestimate the capacity of cinema to effect change. It may not transform the world overnight, but it can shift hearts and perspectives, and that’s no small thing. In fact, it’s one of the reasons I became a filmmaker in the first place.  

Studies have shown that when people are presented with facts that contradict what they’ve been conditioned to believe, they often reject the information and cling even harder to their original views. But when you address those same people emotionally, when you speak to their hearts, not just their heads, you create space for change. Not sympathy, not pity, but empathy is what shifts people or even changes their minds. And the most powerful way to do that, in my opinion, is through storytelling. And cinema, with its immersive emotional reach, is one of the most effective storytelling tools we have.

I’ll give you a very real experience or example of this with one of my short films, The Present. It’s a twenty-four-minute fiction narrative set in the West Bank. [Available for viewing online] A simple story about a father and his daughter trying to buy a gift. When Human Rights Watch released a landmark report confirming that Israel is practicing apartheid, it wasn’t that report that generated the most public discussion in some circles. It was, in fact, The Present that moved someone like former CIA director John Brennan to write an Op-Ed in The New York Times titled, “Why Biden Must Watch This Palestinian Movie.” He didn’t write that because of statistics or an incredibly important report. He wrote it because he was moved by a human story told through fiction. And that led to more visibility, including a discussion on CNN. The film also had mentions in the U.K. Parliament and the U.S. Congress and was even used in educational settings around the world.

So, yes, cinema is a soft power, but let’s not forget that the operative word is “power.” Stories can shape empathy, that can shift public opinion. And public opinion, in turn, can influence policy. That may be a slower kind of change, but it’s no less real. And in some cases, it’s the only kind of change that lasts.  

Cineaste: Is the process of making a film transformational, where the person you were before is different to the person you are afterward?

Nabulsi: Every film transforms me. Each time, I come out the other side a different person. On one level, filmmaking is the hardest thing I do, physically, emotionally, and mentally. It’s exhausting, and yet, I’ve never felt more alive than when I’m making a film, because at the end of the day, I’m creating something. That act of creation, of bringing something meaningful into the world, is incredibly rewarding, even when it costs so much.

What I find most powerful is how much perspective and growth the process gives me. Every film challenges me, stretches me, and forces me to evolve. I come out not just as someone who’s made a piece of cinema, but as someone who’s grown as a human being. I always feel grateful—and frankly, privileged—to have been able to make it through and bring the story to life.  

But more deeply than that, it’s a kind of liberation and a way of healing. For me, filmmaking is a form of alchemy. It’s how I transform the injustice I’ve witnessed—the grief, the outrage, and the depression. If I couldn’t turn that into something creative, something that can be shared, that can resonate, and that might inspire, then I’d feel like my spirit was suffocating. So yes, the process changes me. It breaks me down and rebuilds me. For me, it’s both cathartic and spiritual.  

Paul Risker is a U.K.-based film critic and PopMatters contributing editor. He’s on the advisory board of Mise-en-scène: The Journal of Film & Visual Narration, the official film studies journal of Kwantien Polytechnic University, where he is the interview editor. He has also written for RogerEbert.com, Little White Lies, Quarterly Review of Film and Video, Film International, Filmmaker, Eye For Film, Dirty Movies, and VideoScope.

See also Paul’s interview with Karan Kandhari about his debut directorial feature Sister Midnight in the Fall 2025 print edition of Cineaste.

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Cineaste, Vol. L, No. 4