Set in 2007, Once Upon a Time in Gaza chronicles the unlikely bond between Yahya, a thoughtful student, and Osama, a falafel vendor who also deals drugs on the side. Their friendship is tested by a crooked police officer and the suffocating pressures of a society in crisis. But this is no ordinary crime tale, it’s a vibrant, melancholic, and genre-bending portrait of Gaza: a place that, as the directors say, “has everything, but is deprived of everything.”
The title itself is a provocation. “We chose Once Upon a Time because it captures the nature of life in Gaza: one that lacks stability, continuity, and safety,” explain Tarzan and Arab. “Yesterday’s events, whether joyful or painful, can become mere memories—or transform into deeper suffering. Our entire history could be erased in an instant.”
The film opens with jarring fragments: war footage, a test pattern, and a faux action trailer. This was no stylistic accident. “We weren’t just trying to surprise viewers,” they say. “We wanted to mirror life in Gaza, which often feels like a fragmented series of contradictions. Bombings and death coexist with life and resistance. Occupation coexists with the will to survive.”
The brothers resist both exoticism and victimhood. “We’re humans, first and foremost,” they state. “Yes, Gaza is experiencing war, but that isn’t all there is. We also have lives, and mundane, everyday stories.”
Through this meta-cinematic device, the Nassers question the very notion of heroism. “For us, heroism isn’t always about dramatic external demonstrations,” they say. “Sometimes, it’s found in patience, in dreaming, in endurance, and in the simple act of surviving.”
Despite being shot in Jordan, Once Upon a Time in Gaza is rich in detail and authenticity. “Being from Gaza ourselves, we carry it within us wherever we go,” the directors explain. “Its neighborhoods, its stories, its shape, and its spirit. What we’re doing with our films is a way to release this overwhelming reservoir of nostalgia and longing we carry.”
Every visual decision was made with purpose and love, including the casting. Yahya, played by Nader Abdelhay, “had the sadness and helplessness” the role demanded. Osama, portrayed by Majd Eid, brought “a sense of toughness and authenticity.” Ramzi Maqdisi as the corrupt cop had “eyes that perfectly embodied the sinister essence of the role.”
The brothers describe their work as an act of preservation: “We’re not just making a film—we’re building a true cinematic archive of Gaza. The Gaza that the world has grown weary of seeing only as breaking news.”
And yet, despite the acclaim and the artistry, they ask difficult questions about the limits of cinema. “What good is a film or films if the actual footage and videos coming out of Gaza every day haven’t changed how the world sees things?” they ask. “What good is a manufactured film if the naked truth—in all its pain and brutality—hasn’t managed to stir the world’s conscience?”
Their answer is devastatingly honest: “We make films because we love it, and because it’s a part of who we are. But the only thing that can truly save Gaza is the end of the occupation and granting the Palestinian people their full right to live and determine their own destiny.”