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I watched the documentary, expecting to see a full, balanced account of the events. But what I saw was a one-sided story - told neatly, emotionally, even powerfully - but from just one perspective. It followed the pain, confusion, and aftermath experienced by a group whose voices are often centered in global narratives. Their heartbreak was real. Their fear was genuine. Their tears were raw and human. And yet, the entire time, I couldn't stop thinking: what about the other side? What about those whose lives were shattered long before this story began? Whose daily suffering is rarely documented, let alone acknowledged?

As the film played, I kept waiting for a pivot - a moment where the camera might shift, just briefly, to those living on the other side of the fence, the wall, the checkpoint. But that moment never came. I kept waiting to hear about the families who have lost generations, the children who wake up to the sound of drones, the mothers who bury sons and daughters every week, the voices that are constantly silenced, labeled, or ignored. I wanted the documentary to be honest enough to say: yes, pain exists here - but it also exists there, perhaps even more deeply and consistently. But the story remained one-dimensional. Clean. Focused. Sanitized in a way that made it digestible to a mainstream audience - and convenient to ignore the larger context.

This omission wasn't accidental. It felt intentional. Because to tell the full story would require facing uncomfortable truths: truths about oppression, displacement, historical injustice, and decades of silent suffering. It would require acknowledging power dynamics, not just moments of grief. And maybe that's too much to ask from a single film. But if the intention was to educate, to humanize, to invite empathy - then empathy should not be selective. You don't get to center one group's fear while erasing another's trauma.