The Palestinian village of Khan al-Ahmar lies on a dusty stretch of Highway 1, nestled between Jerusalem and Jericho in the Israeli-occupied West Bank. At its heart is a makeshift school, often called the "school of tires," built from tires, wood, and adobe. Around 300 Bedouin children attend this fragile structure, which has operated without an official building permit for years. Israeli authorities have declared the entire settlement illegal, and the school has been under constant threat of demolition for the past eight years. It has become a powerful symbol of resistance against settler violence and the broader occupation. Veteran Israeli filmmaker Amos Gitai notes that international pressure has played a key role in keeping the school standing. He calls it a "litmus paper" for how far the global community is willing to go in protecting the rights of Khan al-Ahmar’s residents. “For once, on this issue, Europe stood up and said no,” Gitai says. Gitai’s documentary, The Road to Jericho, explores the complex history of the occupied West Bank through a poetic and reflective lens. The film interweaves recent events with archival footage from the past 40 years, including clips from Gitai’s 2001 drama Eden, featuring playwright Arthur Miller, and interviews with Israeli politicians like Shimon Peres and Yitzhak Rabin from the hopeful days of the Oslo accords in the 1990s. Gitai reflects on how the optimism of that era was shattered by the assassination of Rabin in 1995, a pivotal moment that halted peace efforts. “Rabin was very simple, very sober,” Gitai recalls. “He wanted an agreement and was ready to put all the questions on the table.” He believes that spirit has since disappeared, replaced by a climate of instability driven by extreme-right settlers and groups like Hamas. He describes this as the worst time he has ever witnessed in Israel, marked by shocking levels of violence. The Road to Jericho is one of several films at this year’s Venice Film Festival that focus on the Middle East. Another entry, NAZA, produced in partnership with the Guardian, highlights the Israeli military’s role in the deaths of Palestinian civilians. Raj’in (We Shall Return), a VR documentary about ethnic cleansing in the West Bank, is also a standout in the festival’s immersive section. However, Gitai’s film stands apart for its emotional depth and subtle storytelling. He avoids overt political messaging, preferring instead to create a “tone poem” that evokes feeling rather than argument. Gitai describes his work as a civic act, made when he feels moved or disturbed by an issue. He first visited Khan al-Ahmar a decade ago while filming another project and was deeply impressed by the resilience of the village’s people. He wanted to use his camera to defend the school but remains cautious of films that present clear-cut agendas. “I don’t believe art changes reality,” he says, “but it can scratch a memory, which is important.” Gitai’s earlier documentary, Field Diary, from 1982, captured life in Gaza on the eve of the Lebanon War. In it, he interviewed Bassam Shakaa, then-mayor of Nablus, who had lost a leg in an attack by Israeli settlers. When Gitai asked whether he considered himself an optimist or a pessimist, Shakaa replied, “Pessimism is a luxury we cannot afford.” More than four decades later, those words still resonate. Gitai admits he is unsure whether he is an optimist, noting that such a stance would be naive given the current turmoil. However, he draws parallels to Europe 80 years ago, when the world was scarred by war but eventually found ways to rebuild. He believes hope and ideas remain powerful forces for change, even in the darkest of times. “Hope and ideas are the great motors for change,” he concludes.