The film has scenes that convey strong feelings of character traits leaking between the intertwined bodies. The choice of twins as a pivotal image stows the militancy away. How can one come close to the locus of evil without legitimizing it? How can one understand in depth, without generating stuttering or confusion that someone, say a brother-in-blood, might perceive as accord? It is very difficult, perhaps even impossible to do so, but in a sense, time and art lead us to the place of weighing and doubt and the opinion that oscillates like scales, and we owe it to ourselves not only to reopen the wounds, but to go deep underneath. It is a maturation film of farewell to the short way; not a farewell from the right path, but from the lightness with which we take sides.

Obviously, we are us and our brothers are the Palestinians, but the analogy has yet another analogy that renders it an allegory: the image of the Siamese twins prompts us to seek a decision within our own body. First we must explore the fact that we are brothers-in-blood to the settlers and their rabbis, and then each of us must ask himself: where, along my right half does the fascist and the racist and the avenger within me, the simplistic and the cowardly as well as the lenient and the compromiser hide, demand and bully? How, if at all possible, can I kill the racist within me, without killing myself?

Like zoom-in and zoom-out, the film deals with the micro and the macro, the private and the national, the local and the global. With mature cruelty that is not one-dimensional, it allows the viewer to cling, for one moment, to his principles, beliefs and truths, and the next minute, based on the evidence and news information, say: “This is how everyone acts; this is the way of the world. We don’t know how to be better than others,” and adorn this entire jumble with thoughts about no-alternative and no-other-way. And after resting, one can and ought to return to the exacerbation, the accusation asserting that not everything is symmetrical: one is strong and one is weak, one shoots and the other falls, one is an occupant and the other – occupied. As much as introspection holds one back and confuses, it is nevertheless the heart of political criticism: first of all self-criticism. Perhaps this is all we can do to refine the torments of criticism, although in the lack of self-love, it is dubious whether any measure of compassion toward the other can be obtained at all. […]

Excerpts from an essay by Yair Garbuz in the exhibition catalogue

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