Israeli cinema, much like the country itself, is deeply entangled in the complexities of conflict, identity, memory, and moral reckoning. Among its most powerful contributions to global film is a notable strand of anti-war and self-critical works that dare to look inward—films that question the nation’s actions, interrogate its history, and expose the psychological cost of endless war, occupation, and militarization. These films stand in stark contrast to nationalist narratives, choosing instead to confront uncomfortable truths and challenge the official myths that shape collective consciousness.
In a country where military service is not only compulsory but culturally valorized, the very act of critiquing the military or the ideology of perpetual defense is itself radical. Yet filmmakers like Ari Folman, Samuel Maoz, Dror Moreh, and Avi Mograbi have done just that, crafting works that confront both the brutality inflicted upon others and the trauma inflicted upon Israelis themselves. These films do not excuse violence by victimhood; rather, they expose how nations, even when formed out of persecution, can perpetuate cycles of harm and delusion when unwilling to confront their own shadows.
Ari Folman’s Waltz with Bashir (2008) is perhaps the most internationally recognized example of this cinematic reckoning. Through haunting animation and fragmented memory, the film follows the director’s attempt to recover his role in the 1982 Lebanon War and the Sabra and Shatila massacre. What begins as a personal journey of remembrance becomes a searing indictment of collective amnesia and moral disengagement. The film does not shout its message; it whispers it through dreams, silences, and finally, the unflinching real footage of the aftermath. It forces its audience—especially Israeli viewers—to confront what has been repressed, and to acknowledge that forgetting is not healing.
Similarly, Samuel Maoz’s Lebanon (2009), set entirely inside a tank during the Lebanon War, traps the viewer in a claustrophobic nightmare. There are no heroes here, only terrified young men who barely understand the war they are participating in. The enemy is faceless, the orders are senseless, and the landscape outside the tank is glimpsed only through a gun sight—turning viewers into complicit voyeurs. It is a devastating metaphor for moral tunnel vision, for how war compresses humanity into fear and reflex.
Avi Mograbi has built a body of work that relentlessly questions Israeli policies, especially in regard to Palestine. His films are part essay, part performance, part documentary—and always uncomfortable. In works like Avenge But One of My Two Eyes (2005), he draws brutal parallels between biblical tales of Jewish heroism and modern-day narratives used to justify violence. He interrogates national myths with bitter irony, showing how ancient stories are weaponized to sustain a militarized state. Mograbi does not offer easy answers; his films are provocations, intentionally destabilizing.
Dror Moreh’s The Gatekeepers (2012) may be the most astonishing example of self-critique coming from within the very machinery of power. In this documentary, six former heads of Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security service, speak with unprecedented frankness about their roles in targeted killings, interrogations, and the broader policy of occupation. What makes the film extraordinary is not just its revelations, but the fact that these men—once guardians of the state—express deep regret, disillusionment, and a chilling awareness of the moral corrosion their work entailed. It is not an exposé from outside; it is a confession from within, and its impact is profound.
These films share an underlying philosophy: that patriotism does not mean obedience, that loving one’s country requires the courage to question it, and that the only way to prevent future violence is to first reckon honestly with the past. They are not made to please; they are made to disturb. They do not glorify Israel’s strength; they reveal its fragility, its contradictions, its haunted conscience.
In a world increasingly polarized by simplistic binaries—good versus evil, victims versus perpetrators—these Israeli filmmakers choose complexity. They insist that trauma does not justify cruelty, that history is not a shield, and that no nation is immune to moral failure. They create space for introspection in a culture too often silenced by fear, ideology, or political expedience.
Ultimately, anti-war and self-critical Israeli cinema is an act of resistance—not against the state per se, but against the narratives that sanctify war and dehumanize the other. These films invite viewers to see, to remember, to question. In doing so, they keep alive the most vital function of art: to reflect, to provoke, and perhaps, to heal.
