What Exactly Were You Applauding?
I am angry.
Not disappointed. Not troubled. Not “concerned.”
Angry.
I am angry at distortions. I am angry at slogans repeated so often that people stop asking whether they are true. I am angry at extraordinarily serious accusations being delivered as settled facts by people who seem to believe that a microphone, a movie screen or millions of followers somehow confer expertise.
And I am especially angry when Israelis themselves provide an international audience with exactly the validation it seems to have been waiting for.
Which brings me to NAZA.
Yuval Abraham and Rachel Szor’s documentary is built around testimony from 24 Israeli military and intelligence personnel whose identities are concealed from the public. It makes grave allegations about Israel’s conduct in Gaza. Abraham and Szor defend their reporting; Israeli officials and the IDF have strongly disputed the film’s portrayal.
Anonymous sources can, of course, be legitimate and sometimes essential.
But anonymity also means that the public cannot independently assess who these people are, what positions they held, precisely what each personally witnessed and where firsthand knowledge ends and interpretation begins.
Those are not unreasonable questions.
They are the questions journalism is supposed to ask.
Then NAZA premiered at the Venice Film Festival.
The audience stood.
And stood.
And stood.
For twenty-four and a half minutes.
The film received what was widely reported as a record 24.5-minute standing ovation at Venice and later won the Special Jury Prize.
Twenty-four and a half minutes.
And I cannot get past one question:
What exactly were you applauding?
The filmmaking?
The allegations?
Were you applauding because two Israelis had seemingly handed you something you desperately wanted — Israelis you could point toward and say, See? Even they say it. Even Israelis confirm what we have been saying all along.
Is that what deserved twenty-four and a half minutes?
I do not know what was in the minds of every person in that room. I do not know Abraham and Szor’s motives, and I am not going to manufacture intentions for them.
Frankly, their intentions are no longer what interests me most.
Consequences do.
Were the people cheering asking who these 24 anonymous sources were?
Were they wondering which allegations were based on firsthand knowledge?
Were they asking how the most serious claims had been corroborated?
Were they distinguishing evidence from testimony, testimony from interpretation and allegation from established fact?
Or was hearing it from Israelis enough?
That is what feels like betrayal to me.
Not criticism.
Not investigation.
Not holding Israel accountable.
Israel is not above scrutiny. No country and no military should be.
If soldiers committed crimes, investigate them.
If commanders violated the law, investigate them.
If policies were unlawful, expose them.
Accountability is not betrayal.
But accusation is not automatically truth either.
And an accusation does not become more truthful because people stand and applaud it for twenty-four and a half minutes.
Perhaps Abraham and Szor believe they performed an act of conscience. Perhaps they believe exposing what they see as wrongdoing represents loyalty rather than betrayal.
They are entitled to believe that.
I am entitled to look at the consequences and feel something very different.
Their twenty-four and a half minutes of fame came as their country was once again placed on trial before an international cultural audience.
Was it worth it?
To me, those twenty-four and a half minutes came at far too high a price.
When a Legal Accusation Becomes a Slogan
Nowhere does this problem bother me more than with the word genocide.
Genocide is not simply another word for terrible suffering.
It is not another word for a devastating war.
It is an extraordinarily serious legal accusation with a specific definition, including an intent requirement.
There are organizations and international bodies that have concluded Israel’s conduct amounts to genocide, while Israel categorically rejects that accusation. South Africa’s genocide case against Israel remains before the International Court of Justice; the Court has issued provisional measures, but the case has not produced a final merits judgment declaring that Israel committed genocide.
That distinction matters.
You would not know it from listening to certain celebrities.
Javier Bardem has publicly declared that what is happening in Gaza is genocide. Mark Ruffalo has repeatedly used the term as well.
They are entitled to their views.
What bothers me is the certainty.
An extraordinarily serious legal accusation becomes a slogan, delivered from a red carpet, a stage or an Instagram account as though there is nothing left to examine.
And then there is Guy Pearce.
Pearce spent considerable time publicly advocating for Palestinians. Then he acknowledged that some of the material he had reposted contained “misinformation and falsehoods” and apologized, saying he needed to become more diligent about verifying what he shared.
There, in one example, is exactly what infuriates me.
Share first.
Condemn first.
Research later.
By the time the correction arrives, the original claim has already travelled around the world.
Facts matter.
Words matter.
Evidence matters.
And apparently something else needs to be said again:
October 7 matters.
It happened.
People were murdered.
Families were attacked in their homes.
People were hunted at a music festival.
Homes were burned.
People were burned.
People were kidnapped and dragged into Gaza.
And sexual violence was not some Israeli public-relations invention.
A United Nations mission found reasonable grounds to believe that rape and gang rape occurred in multiple locations during the October 7 attacks. It also found clear and convincing information that some hostages had been subjected to sexual violence, including rape and sexualized torture. Importantly, that same mission identified allegations it could not verify and others it determined were unfounded.
That last part matters too.
Because that is what serious investigation looks like.
Examine.
Verify.
Say what the evidence supports.
Say what it does not.
Do not turn everything into a slogan.
And Then Along Came Fauda
Something unexpected happened this month.
Season Five of Fauda arrived on Netflix.
It is important to say clearly that Fauda is a drama, not documentary footage. But the new season incorporates October 7 into its story, placing fictional characters into situations inspired by what Israelis experienced that day.
And people watched.
During the week of September 7–13, Season Five reached No. 4 globally among Netflix’s non-English television shows, with 2.1 million views.
But what struck me more than the ranking were the reactions.
People were crying.
People were shaken.
People were writing about how difficult the October 7 episodes were to watch.
And I found myself thinking:
There.
There is the human response I have been waiting for.
Not: Now you must support every decision Israel has made.
Not: Palestinian suffering does not matter.
It does matter.
But for one moment, people were simply looking at what happened to human beings.
We had actual footage.
We had survivors.
We had videos.
We had testimony.
And somehow, for some people, even all of that never seemed to penetrate.
Maybe that is the strange power of storytelling.
News footage can become politics almost instantaneously. People put up their ideological defenses before they even finish watching.
But a story can sometimes slip underneath those defenses.
Suddenly you are not debating Israel.
You are watching a family hide.
You are watching terror.
You are watching people desperately trying to survive.
And I cannot ignore the contrast.
At Venice:
Twenty-four and a half minutes on your feet applauding NAZA.
In living rooms around the world:
People watching Fauda, crying and asking themselves what happened to humanity that allowed October 7 to happen.
One response makes me ask:
What exactly were you applauding?
The other makes me ask:
What took the world so long to feel this?
October 7 should never have needed a Netflix series to become human.
But if storytelling is finally making some people stop and feel even a fraction of what happened that morning, then perhaps that is an example of what entertainment can accomplish when it reminds us of our humanity instead of simply reinforcing our political camps.
When Entertainers Understood Restraint
There was once another instinct in entertainment that I find myself missing terribly.
Not silence imposed on artists.
Not censorship.
Restraint.
The understanding that having a microphone did not mean every personal political opinion needed to be delivered through it.
In 1972, Elvis Presley was asked directly about politics and war protesters.
He declined to give his personal views.
His answer was simple: he would rather keep those views to himself because he was “just an entertainer.”
There was a humility in that.
I have opinions. But the fact that millions of people know my name does not mean they need to hear every one of them.
Dolly Parton understood something similar.
She certainly had opinions. She supported causes. She used her enormous influence for literacy, health and philanthropy.
But partisan politics?
She repeatedly stayed away.
And her explanation was remarkably straightforward: she had Democrats and Republicans among her fans, and she did not want to alienate people simply because they disagreed politically.
“I’ve got as many Democrats as I do Republicans as fans,” she once explained, adding that she cared about all of them.
I miss that instinct.
Call it old-fashioned.
Call it the golden age of entertainment.
And yes, I know entertainers have expressed political views throughout history. I am not pretending Hollywood was ever universally apolitical.
That is not my point.
What I miss is the acceptance of restraint.
The understanding that choosing not to preach was not cowardice.
It could actually be respect for the audience.
Your audience does not belong to one political party.
They do not share one religion.
They do not share one ideology.
They did not buy a ticket because they wanted instructions about what to believe.
They came because you could sing.
Because you could act.
Because you could make them laugh.
Because for two hours you could let them disappear into another world.
And that is already an extraordinary gift.
A Concert Ticket Is Not a Political Loyalty Test
Which brings me to Macklemore.
During his opening slot on Ed Sheeran’s U.S. tour, Macklemore used the stage to advocate for Palestinians and say “Free Palestine.” After controversy over those remarks, multiple venues objected to having him perform and tour promoter Messina Touring Group removed him from the remaining U.S. dates. Robert Kraft, whose company owns Gillette Stadium, was among those who publicly objected.
Then came the reaction.
Lukas Graham withdrew.
Finneas withdrew.
Aaron Rowe withdrew.
Beoga withdrew.
They did so in solidarity with Macklemore and Palestinians.
And suddenly the argument became about free speech.
Of course Macklemore has free speech.
That is not the point.
The question is whether every stage has to become a political rally simply because there happens to be a microphone on it.
Those are two different things.
People come to concerts and movies partly to get away from life.
They work.
They worry.
They raise families.
They deal with illness.
Bills.
Relationships.
Wars unfolding on their phones.
Political arguments.
Horrific headlines.
They carry grief and stress that nobody else in the stadium knows anything about.
And then, for two or three hours, they buy a ticket.
The lights go down.
The music begins.
And for a moment there is magic.
That is one of the gifts entertainment has always given us.
Escape.
Not ignorance.
Not indifference.
A pause.
A chance to sing.
To laugh.
To cry.
To dance.
To disappear into another story before we return to our own lives.
Why are entertainers so determined to take even that away from us?
Why does every microphone need to become a political megaphone?
Why does every stage have to become another battlefield?
A concert ticket should not come with a political loyalty test.
The person sitting beside you may be Jewish.
Muslim.
Israeli.
Palestinian.
Republican.
Democrat.
Conservative.
Liberal.
Or perhaps she has had the worst month of her life and simply wants to hear the song she loves without being asked to declare which geopolitical camp she belongs to.
She paid for music.
Why must she also be drafted into your rally?
And this is one place where Ed Sheeran’s response mattered to me.
Sheeran made clear that removing Macklemore was the promoter’s decision, not his. But he also explained that he deliberately avoids using his professional platform for politics because his audiences are diverse and because he wants his shows to bring people together.
What happened to that idea?
My audience does not have to think like me.
Why has that become controversial?
Somewhere along the way, too many celebrities seem to have confused having a platform with having an obligation to turn that platform into a pulpit.
And the message to the audience increasingly feels like this:
You are welcome here — as long as you believe what I believe.
That is where you lose me.
Because entertainers possess something incredibly rare.
They can reach millions of people who would never enter the same political meeting.
Who would never attend the same protest.
Who might never enter the same synagogue, mosque or church.
They can put people who disagree about almost everything into one stadium.
And then something remarkable happens.
They all know the words to the same song.
Think about the power in that.
For those few minutes, nobody has to ask who voted for whom.
Nobody has to know which flag is in somebody’s social-media biography.
Nobody needs to know what the person beside them thinks about Israel, Gaza, Trump or anything else.
They sing together.
That is power.
Real power.
Film can make us recognize ourselves in a stranger.
Music can make two people who disagree about almost everything put their arms around each other and sing.
Storytelling can make someone halfway around the world cry for people he has never met.
Entertainment can make us feel another human being’s humanity.
So imagine possessing that extraordinary ability — and choosing instead to make your audience more divided than when it arrived.
That is what I find so incredibly sad about this moment.
Back to Venice
And that brings me back to where I started.
Yuval Abraham.
Rachel Szor.
NAZA.
Twenty-four anonymous Israeli military and intelligence sources.
And twenty-four and a half minutes of applause.
Everything I have written here — about Hollywood, about Fauda, about Elvis and Dolly Parton, about Macklemore and Ed Sheeran — comes back to the same question:
What do you do with the enormous power of a stage?
Do you use it carefully?
Do you recognize the responsibility that comes with having millions of people listening?
Do you leave room for complexity, uncertainty and facts that may not fit comfortably into the story you want to tell?
Or do you give an already divided audience exactly what it wants to hear and watch as it rises to its feet?
I do not know what Abraham and Szor wanted from NAZA.
Perhaps they wanted accountability.
Perhaps they wanted Israelis to confront things they believe happened in Gaza.
Perhaps they believed their film was an act of conscience.
But the result was also this:
An international audience stood for twenty-four and a half minutes and celebrated a film making some of the most devastating allegations possible against Israel, based heavily on testimony from people whose identities that audience could not know.
And that is the image I cannot shake.
Twenty-four and a half minutes.
Applause.
Cheers.
Validation.
And two Israeli filmmakers standing in the middle of it.
Maybe they saw courage.
Maybe they saw vindication.
I saw something else.
I saw the extraordinary power of storytelling being used in a way that, to me, deepened an already enormous divide.
And that is why I return to the question that started this entire piece:
What exactly were you applauding?
Because Yuval Abraham and Rachel Szor were given something incredibly powerful: the ability to tell a story that millions of people might hear.
With that comes responsibility.
Not responsibility to protect Israel from criticism.
Responsibility to truth.
Responsibility to evidence.
Responsibility to context.
Responsibility to understand what happens when an accusation leaves your hands and enters a world already desperate to turn complexity into slogans.
And responsibility to recognize that once those twenty-four and a half minutes of applause begin, you no longer control what the crowd believes it is applauding.
That is what makes all of this so painful to me.
These entertainers, filmmakers and artists have extraordinary influence. They can reach across borders, religions, cultures and political beliefs in a way almost no politician could ever dream of doing.
What an incredible privilege.
What an incredible responsibility.
What an incredible opportunity.
And Yuval Abraham and Rachel Szor, whether you intended it or not, you became part of that question too.
You were given the rare power to unite millions of strangers.
What a terrible waste to use it to divide them.