On a remote mountain in Samaria, where a state-recognized settlement backed by state power, and a radical anarchist outpost, determined to dismantle that very system, are locked in uneasy proximity, Terra Nullius (Latin for “Nobody‘s Land”) unfolds as a slow-burn thriller about land, faith, and buried crimes.
After her mother’s sudden death, Ivriya, daughter of a Peruvian convert from the forgotten “Inca Jews” (a unique community of indigenous Christian Peruvians from the Amazon who converted to Judaism and immigrated to Israel, yet remain eternal outsiders within the closed settler society), arrives to reclaim her mother’s land and is pulled into the mountain’s hidden war: religion vs. ideology and tradition vs. truth.
Like her, Amir (30), an Arab-Israeli construction manager from Haifa, unwanted by both settlers and Palestinians, finds himself stranded between worlds. Their unlikely friendship reveals a shared terrain between erased identities, both yearning for roots, voice, and history.
As Ivriya’s quest to uncover her mother’s injustice slips toward revenge, the series echoes prophet Ezekiel’s warning; “The fathers ate sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge”. Terra Nullius is a story of generational wounds, fragile identities, and the price demanded by sacred land.

WRITER'S STATEMENT

Terra Nullius unfolds in a raw, biblical landscape, inside a charged religious-political reality. But this is not only a political series. At its core, it is an intimate story about inheritance. About what we receive from our parents, from our land, from our faith, and what it costs to refuse it.
I grew up within the religious-national world the series portrays. The language of redemption, sacrifice, and destiny shaped my childhood. I know its beauty. I also know its silence. That tension, between belonging and doubt - is the emotional engine of this series.
Like the works of Mare of Easttown, True Detective, The Returned, and Unbelievable, atmosphere and inner landscapes are as central as plot. Here too, an investigation slowly becomes a crime. A buried secret mirrors the heroine’s deeper search for repair, not only of her mother’s past, but of herself.
The visual language draws from filmmakers such as Tarkovsky and Malick, who treat landscape not as backdrop but as memory. On this mountain, nature is not passive; it absorbs history. The wind carries accusation. The silence holds guilt. The terrain remembers what the characters try to forget.
This series emerges from a place I know from within, not as accusation, not as propaganda, but as confrontation. In Israel today, the struggle over land is inseparable from the struggle over truth, and both are passed from generation to generation like an heirloom no one dares to question.
Through Ivriya, I wanted to ask a simple, painful question:
If you inherit violence, are you destined to repeat it, or can you end it without burning everything down?

ABOUT THE WRITER