BUENOS AIRES — Ariel Feldman is an audiovisual filmmaker, lecturer in film and philosophy, and photographer who supports Palestine and denounces Israel’s colonial and genocidal policies. Drawing from his life experience in Israel and his Jewish identity, Feldman calls for ethical awareness in the face of the Israeli occupation and the suffering of the Palestinian people.

He stresses that raising one’s voice against the genocide in Gaza is an ethical and political obligation and that resistance is a moral duty, defending what little remains of humanity in the world. Argentine journalist Silvina Pachelo interviewed Feldman for the Tehran Times.

Here is an excerpt from the interview:

How was your experience living in Israel, and what contradictions did you begin to notice there from your Jewish identity?

I’ve always been connected to Israeli life: I was born in Israel to Argentine parents, and we returned to Argentina when I was seven. I grew up immersed in my Israeli and Jewish identity in a household where my parents were active in leftist Zionist youth movements. In Israel, I was “the son of Argentines,” and in Argentina, I was “the Israeli”: that tension of identities shaped me from an early age. My childhood in a kibbutz was wonderful, but at 14 I began to develop politically, and the first contradictions arose regarding colonial violence, which at that time I associated only with the territories occupied in 1967. By 17, I realized the problem was not just the government, but a societal issue: the army is the backbone of the country and a rite of passage that integrates citizens. The definitive turning point came in 2009 with Operation “Cast Lead” in Gaza: I understood that the problem wasn’t circumstantial, but the very ideology of Zionism—an exclusivist and supremacist nationalism. Since then, I have reflected on the contradictions between Judaism and Zionism. In short, my evolution had three stages: first, political awareness of the occupation; second, understanding it as a societal problem; and third, recognizing that the root lies in the founding ideology of the State, which clashes with the values of Judaism as I understand it.

Tell us about your experience in the kibbutzim.
I have two distinct experiences with the kibbutz: my childhood and my visits as an adult. I return to Israel periodically, and the experiences are very different. My childhood experience was wonderful. My mother was the kibbutz doctor; it was a beautiful place with socialist and humanist values within the community. At that time, Israeli politics still maintained some progressive elements. I grew up in a very nurturing environment, which left a deep mark on me. But over time, during my returns, I began asking historical and political questions. Then, my relationship with the people there became more difficult. I had been a beloved child—the kibbutz doctor’s son—but my questions and comments started creating tension and discomfort.

Were you part of any political group denouncing the colonial and genocidal nature of the State of Israel?
Yes. In 2009, in the context of Operation “Cast Lead,” we founded a group of critical Jews in Argentina called NOT IN OUR NAME. This operation began after the breakdown of a six-month truce between Israel and Hamas at the end of 2008. In that context, I wrote a first article that circulated widely. Through the discussions arising from it—though I was not yet consciously anti-Zionist—I solidified my anti-Zionist stance. In April 2009, in Buenos Aires, this small group became the first significant collective of militant anti-Zionist Jews in Argentina. There is an important non-Zionist Jewish tradition in the country, but historically it did not intervene actively in general political debates. This tradition comes from the ICUF and the European Bundist movement, a labor and political movement of workers from Russia, Lithuania, and Poland, which historically held an anti-Zionist policy focused on the liberation of Jews within their countries of origin in Europe. Our activism was stronger during and shortly after Operation “Cast Lead,” but later waned due to other political responsibilities in a turbulent Argentina. In 2014, during another brutal Israeli operation in Gaza, I resumed activism from an intellectual and individual perspective, which gained some traction. In October 2023, I wrote an article a few days after October 7. That article received wide attention, and since then I have continued to campaign against the occupation and genocide in Gaza and the West Bank, as well as against the social inequalities faced by Palestinians living within the 1948 borders in Israel.

What does raising your voice against the genocide in Gaza mean today?
It is an ethical and political obligation. In the face of what is happening in Gaza, a lack of commitment is not an option. I find it especially serious that a large part of the Jewish community—children of Holocaust survivors—does not rise up against a genocide committed in their name. John Berger said that one can declare oneself innocent of a conspiracy both by ignoring it and by resisting it. Today, there are no excuses: no one can ignore what is happening. One is complicit if one does not intervene—by denouncing Israel through public statements, political activism, micropolitics, or any action that contributes to stopping this genocide. Therefore, I believe resistance is a moral duty. It is about defending what little remains of humanity in this world.

How do you interpret Israel’s current offensive against Gaza since October 2023?
The Israeli offensive continues the economic and social dispossession of the Palestinian population, initiated with the colonization of Palestine by the Zionist movement. One could debate the starting point—whether it was the massive land purchases that displaced former tenants or the explicit terrorism of groups like Irgun and the Lehi in the 1930s and 40s—but the Zionist project, with its crimes against humanity, is the problem. It is complex because it was also a particular national liberation project: a people liberating themselves from European oppression through the colonization of another people. It was a colonialism without a metropolis, the liberation dream of a people. After the occupation of the West Bank, Gaza, Sinai, and the Golan Heights in 1967, Israel consolidated itself as a classic colonial power. On October 7, I believe Israel’s most recalcitrant Zionist forces saw an opportunity to advance toward a “Greater Israel,” seeking a Jewish majority from the River to the Sea. Today, in historical Palestine, the population is almost evenly divided: roughly seven million of Jewish origin and seven million of Palestinian origin (Arab, Bedouin, Christian, etc.). What we see since October 7 is a continuation of the Nakba, a more cruel and tragic version than that of 1948. Israel aims to make Gaza unlivable, and in the West Bank, settlers and militias, protected by the army, progressively displace Palestinians from their lands. The explicit idea is to annex Gaza and the West Bank, leaving only a small Palestinian population with limited rights, similar to the status of “Israeli Arabs” within the 1948 borders: second-class citizens with political rights, but fewer economic and civil rights. Israel saw a window of opportunity to realize this project, and that is what we are witnessing.

What role do mainstream media play in legitimizing the genocide?
Mainstream media play a fundamental, lamentable, and complicit role. Israel and these media share interests and values: they are anti-popular, oligarchic, racist, and deeply anti-democratic. The State of Israel is a continuation of European supremacism against the “Orient” that must be civilized. This is why anti-Jewish leaders and movements, like Orbán or supremacist groups in the U.S. and Germany, support Israel: they represent the same racist and authoritarian values reflected by Western imperialist media.

How do you differentiate Judaism from Zionism when Israel tries to appropriate the representation of all Jewish people?
Differentiating Zionism from Judaism shouldn’t be difficult. Zionism is a recent political current, less than 200 years old, that hijacks Jewish identity to present itself as its representative. Judaism, on the other hand, is a culture and people with over 2,000 years of history, whose modern identity was forged as resistance to imperial, racist, and Catholic Europe—a tradition based on cultural practices of resistance, deep reflection, and the experience of exile, forming a resilient identity against imperial and racist reality. Zionism rejects that tradition, despises diasporic culture, and promotes a “new Jew” who is nationalist, assertive, and a European-style colonizer. Therefore, an anti-Zionist Jewish movement must reclaim this Judaism of resistance—humanist, committed to equality, justice, and repairing the world (tikkun olam)—as a denial of oppressive powers and a defense of minorities.

What role do art, cinema, and photography play in making the situation in Gaza visible?
This is a complex question. For me, images alone do not generate political awareness or shock; they are always accompanied by text and the ideology with which one approaches them. For example, a photo of a hungry child can be interpreted as a generic reality of all armed conflicts or as the result of Israel’s oppression, which has blocked food and bombed Gaza for decades. As Susan Sontag noted, the political impact of images from the Vietnam War was linked to a prior political awareness in the U.S.: the photo of a girl burned by napalm or a soldier’s coffin contributed to public opposition to the war, unlike other countless U.S. interventions. Israel tries to block images and limit journalists’ work precisely because there is a dialectical relationship between image and ideology; one does not determine the other unilaterally. Images are powerful and help shape political awareness. In Gaza, photos of hungry children have radically changed many consciences and even forced media and human rights organizations in Argentina, which had remained silent until then, to acknowledge that a genocide was occurring. That is why I consider images highly significant, although they always depend on context and a society’s political consciousness, which is influenced by many factors.

How do you see solidarity with Palestine in our continent, particularly in Argentina?
In Argentina, the situation is particular: there is a very small Palestinian community and a very large Jewish community. Unlike in the U.S., where Jews who move to Israel are often militant Zionists, in Argentina, it is different: there is a close link to Israel, not only symbolically but also familially. It is rare for an Argentine Jewish family not to have a relative living or who has lived in Israel. This kinship is the result of Argentina’s political and economic crises, such as the military dictatorship, the crises of the 1990s and 2001-2002, which drove Jewish Argentine migration to Israel. Also, the attacks on the Israeli embassy in Argentina in 1992 and the AMIA bombing in 1994 generated a strong identification with Israel as a victim of the same conflict. This reinforced a strong identity hijacking by Israel over Judaism and possibly made the Argentine Jewish community one of the most Zionist outside Israel. As a result, there is excessive self-censorship and caution in non-Jewish media and political movements, so as not to contradict a community that mostly defends the State of Israel. This permeates Palestinian solidarity in Argentina, which has historically been much weaker than in other countries. In Buenos Aires, there are no massive demonstrations in support of Palestine as in other major cities like London, New York, or Paris. However, the current genocide is undeniable and increasingly makes it difficult to maintain rigid ideological positions in the face of the evidence.

What message would you like to leave to those who still hesitate to speak out against the genocide?
Self-censorship causes anguish. Outside, everything feels more vital and real. The fear that comes from speaking is not bad: it is a sign that something matters to you, that something still beats in your chest. The problem is confusing that fear with anguish, which arises from denying or ignoring it. We have a responsibility to ourselves and to the humanity within us. We are not isolated beings: many people die of hunger and malnutrition; a people is being massacred. The suffering of the Palestinian people, which did not begin on October 8, has escalated sinisterly, and that is why it is up to us to raise our voices and do everything in our power to stop this genocide.