Throughout Five Broken Cameras, the film doesn’t just document Palestinian resistance; it quietly but powerfully urges the viewer to take a stand. Not through force or rhetoric, but through the emotional gravity of what Burnat captures. The fragmented footage from his five broken cameras is more than enough to move you.

By Jian Zharese Joeis Sanz 
Bulatlat.com

MANILA – The longstanding genocide in Palestine rages on. Since the ceasefire was lifted on March 15, the death toll has surged past 58,000. Bombings, along with the blockade of humanitarian aid, continue to kill innocent civilians—slowly or instantly. Even international supporters face repression, as seen in the case of the Madleen 12,  a group of activists arrested while trying to deliver aid.

And yet, resistance persists. Despite the arrest of the 12 Freedom Flotilla activists and the halting of their mission, new flotillas continue to emerge. Among them is Handala, named after the iconic 1960s cartoon character created by Palestinian artist Naji al-Ali, who has become a symbol of unwavering resistance. Global protests and solidarity forums have also gained momentum, particularly as U.S.-backed Israeli aggression now extends into Iran.

This very same resistance had long existed even before the news learned to deliver the bloody truth. From armed struggle to the historic Palestinian Intifada, from progressive journalism to the soft power of Palestinian art, resistance thrives in many forms.

Part of the artistic resistance is Emad Burnat’s 5 Broken Cameras, a 94-minute documentary film he co-directed with Israeli Guy Davidi. It served as a first-hand account of protests in Bil’in, a West Bank village affected by the Israeli West Bank barrier. The multi-awarded film was shown at film festivals in 2011 and went into general release with Kino Lorber in 2012. 

It bagged the 2012 Sundance Film Festival award, the Golden Apricot at the 2012 Yerevan International Film Festival, Armenia, for Best Documentary Film, the 2013 International Emmy Award, and was nominated for a 2013 Academy Award.

Reality beyond broken lenses

As protests erupt against the construction of the separation wall, Burnat documents not just the political resistance but the emotional and personal toll it takes on his family and community. Burnat captured how resistance becomes a way of life. His brothers are arrested one by one. Children, if not killed, are unjustly detained. Protesters on the frontlines like Aldeeb suffer injuries but remain unyielding. The film showcases how villagers respond to land theft not with retreat, but with creative acts of defiance, like laying concrete structures to block the military. Even as violence escalates, the people of Bil’in adapt, protest, and persist.

Throughout this journey, Burnat’s camera becomes both a shield and a weapon. His cameras suffer destruction in numerous ways, symbolizing the worsening situation and the danger it poses for journalists like him. A gas grenade destroys the first; bullets and beatings shatter others. One even saves his life by stopping a bullet meant for him. 

The film is humanistic in all its forms. It depicts the face of resistance for normal people, and their radical choice to peacefully resist and persist. Just like Burnat’s choice to continue filming despite being placed under house arrest or put face-to-face with death. It not only allowed the viewers to witness the resistance but also the loss and grief that comes with it. This can be reflected through scenes like when his friend Phil is killed, and his son Gibreel begins to question violence with a child’s anger.

The film reveals harsh truths that resonate with current Filipino realities. For instance, when Burnat was hospitalized, he faced not only a lack of nearby healthcare facilities but also the burden of high hospital bills. This issue faced by Burnat also burdens us Filipinos, therefore building a culture of check-up avoidance and secrecy regarding health conditions. 

Burnat, the persistent truth-teller

One of Burnat’s words that marked my heart in the film was, “?Forgotten wounds can’t be healed. So I film to heal.” The phrase, beyond its simplicity and directness, radiates strength and courage. 

Another trait that I have noticed in Burnat throughout the film is though the documentary unveils his perspective, he barely films himself. This reflects his duty as a loyal truth-bearer, documenting how his family and community move despite their situation, and more importantly, march with them on the frontlines. 

As of January 2025, information on Emad Burnat says that he continues to reside in his hometown of Bil’in, a village in the West Bank, Palestine. He remains a self?taught documentary filmmaker and olive farmer, and maintains deep ties to his community and the ongoing non?violent protests he has long documented.

He continues to film the village’s resistance, recording protests and developments even after victories such as the Israeli court’s rerouting of the West Bank barrier, which returned some villagers’ land. 

Five cameras, one longstanding truth

Throughout Five Broken Cameras, the film doesn’t just document Palestinian resistance; it quietly but powerfully urges the viewer to take a stand. Not through force or rhetoric, but through the emotional gravity of what Burnat captures. The fragmented footage from his five broken cameras is more than enough to move you. I remember watching it at Kusina sa Balangay, fists clenched, my chest tight with anger. The room was tense, silent at first, until someone couldn’t hold it in and cursed under their breath. That moment said everything.

The film doesn’t present statistics or polished commentary. Instead, it offers raw moments: a grieving village mourning a child killed by military forces, or an Israeli soldier ordering Burnat to stop filming despite knowing he’s part of the press. These scenes hit harder than numbers ever could. They expose not just the violence of occupation, but the deliberate silencing of those who dare to document it. For Filipinos, this hits close to home. It echoes the red-tagging of journalists, the weaponization of libel, and the chilling atmosphere for press freedom in our own country.

Burnat’s film, in its rawness, is just a fraction of the whole truth. But that piece is enough to shake you. It’s triggering because it reminds us that the genocide must end. And it’s empowering because it proves that even broken lenses can light fires. That resistance lives not only in Bil’in but in small community spaces like Kusina sa Balangay, in moments of shared outrage, and words like these.

Five Broken Cameras continues to resist. It stands for the more than 58,000 Palestinians killed. For journalists like 23-year-old Hossam Shabat, a correspondent for Al Jazeera Mubasher, who was killed in an Israeli airstrike in Beit Lahiya on March 24, 2025. And for every Palestinian who continues to live, resist, and tell their story despite the silence the world keeps trying to impose.

Film as resistance

Film has always had the power to speak the truth, directly or indirectly. Even a fictitious form of art depicts unspoken parts of what’s true. 

In the case of Palestinians, film is an essential part of their struggle. Film educates in a way that goes beyond clearing the misconceptions of the mind. Film opens the eyes to finally see, and plants a fire in the audience’s heart to understand what they’ve always known but disregarded due to systemic lies. 

Burnat’s Five Broken Cameras excels in this regard. It brings the Palestinian struggle into intimate focus by centering on family, children, and everyday life under occupation. These deeply human elements make the film hit close to home, not just as a political statement, but as a lived reality. Its raw, unfiltered truth ignites something within; the realization that, in Burnat’s place, under the same violence and uncertainty, perhaps the only way to speak would be through a camera — when lenses shatter, and even the body might fail. (RVO)