As horrifying images and videos of Israel’s forced displacement and ethnic-cleansing in Gaza, now supported with even more tenacity on the part of the United States regime, become the principal media representation of Palestinian lives, the importance of showing a more comprehensive picture of a lifestyle now in crisis is all the more vital. For her self-reflexive directorial debut Yalla Parkour, filmmaker Areeb Zuaiter––who was born in Palestine, raised in Saudi Arabia, and now resides in Washington, D.C.––pieces together the story of risk-taking youths who find both distraction and hopeful freedom in the daredevil sport of parkour. What emerges amidst footage of perilous stunts is a testament to the resilience of community and drive to put one’s life in their own hands rather than let outside forces define existence.
While there’s a loose, not-quite-successful structural conceit wherein Zuaiter desires tell this tale to honor her mother, based on a trip they took to Gaza when she was four, the documentary’s primary through line (and its most engaging passages) are across phone conversations between the director and Ahmed Matar, a member of the parkour group PK Gaza. As Matar shares videos starting in 2015, he walks Zuaiter through their training at bombed-out malls, abandoned beaches, and cemeteries. “Our videos are the only way for the world to see us,” Matar reflects as the entire group is inspired by two of their members who were able to get out of Gaza due to their parkour skills gaining attention. For Matar and his entire community, the border only opens once or twice a year, and even if you get through the bureaucratic stranglehold that is the visa process, your chances of escape are slim. While Zuaiter presents a suffocating lack of freedom beyond borders, she also shows the everyday Gazan spirit as we witness bustling communities of mothers pushing strollers and onlooking children excited to see the parkour group’s next stunt.
The stunts become more and more intense, and a key part of Yalla Parkour is showing repeated failures, which range from dusting one’s shelf off to minor concussions to, in one shocking video, a life-altering fall from many flights. Not only does the film become about the inner fatalistic drive to test the limits and forge your own destiny in a life when bombs could drop from anywhere, but also the ways in which the group comes together to assuage any suffering. “I see experts in turning pain into happiness,” comments Zuaiter, noticing a skill that will only become more prevalent after October 7, 2023––a period that is only briefly touched upon, particularly in the chilling end credits.
The jarring juxtapositions between Zuaiter’s sterile, tranquil life in snow-covered suburbs and the immersive, shaky handheld footage from the parkour group (albeit with some breathtaking drone shots) are clearly intentional. Yet Yalla Parkour never quite finds a satisfying editing rhythm; the director’s personal reckoning with a sense of identity and connection to her own history is rendered undeveloped and scattered, especially compared with the life-or-death plights of Matar and co. Whatever this lack of cohesiveness in both structure and approaches to form, Yalla Parkour is a bittersweet portrait of yearning for a better life while still carrying the guilt that even if personal freedom is found, it can’t be guaranteed for those closest to you.
Yalla Parkour screened at the 2025 Berlinale.