Back to the Fatherland

In a world where the bright promise of a homeland meets the quiet pull of distant histories, a new generation of Israelis quietly questions where belonging truly resides. The documentary opens on bustling streets and tranquil neighborhoods, contrasting the hectic pace of modern Israel with the lingering echoes of a century‑old trauma that still shapes families. Against a backdrop of contemporary doubts and the lingering weight of memory, young people contemplate a move to Europe—specifically Austria and Germany—not for escape, but for a search for identity that feels both forward‑looking and reverent of the past.

Gil Levanon and Katharina Maschek serve as the film’s compassionate guides. Their friendship, forged a decade ago in a New York classroom, is a study in contrast: Gil carries the lineage of a Holocaust survivor, while Katharina’s ancestry traces back to a Nazi officer. Their differing inheritances frame the documentary’s central tension, prompting a shared curiosity about what it means to live in places that hold both ancestral pain and the possibility of renewal. Through their lenses, the audience is invited to witness the uneasy dance between history and hope.

The story then turns to three Israeli grandchildren and the elders who raised them. Yochanan Tenzer, Gil’s own grandfather, embodies the lingering distrust that many feel toward Germany, his refusal echoing a generational ache. Dan Peled, a young sculptor who has already settled in Berlin, grapples with his grandmother Lea Ron Peled’s bewilderment and quiet resistance to his choice. Meanwhile, Guy Shahar follows a similar path, his own aspirations shadowed by the weight of his family’s narrative. Each relationship is presented with a tender intimacy, hinting at the delicate negotiations between personal desire and collective memory.

The film’s tone is contemplative and lyrical, weaving archival footage with present‑day portraits to create a visual tapestry that feels both documentary and poetic. It invites viewers to linger on moments of quiet reflection—sunlit cafés, whispered conversations, lingering glances at historic streets—while quietly probing the universal question: can the next generation rewrite the maps of their heritage without erasing the scars that shaped it?

Last Updated: August 10, 2025 at 01:49