In one of our conversations, my brother and I found ourselves in a long debate about why some people reject technological progress altogether, treating it as the direct cause of moral decline, wasted time, and the corruption of younger generations. Some even attempt to prove their ability to live without social media, as though doing so grants them a kind of moral superiority. To me, this attitude has always seemed puzzling, because technology, at its core, is nothing more than a tool. Tools are not inherently guilty; they are judged by the way human beings choose to use them. Reducing the problems of an entire generation to the existence of technology is an oversimplification that ignores the deeper structure of the crisis itself: How do we use these tools? And what values and standards guide that use?
The argument that social media or technological advancement is directly responsible for the fragmentation of generations feels incomplete, because it focuses on the outcome rather than examining the mechanisms behind it. After all, how can the problems of any era be addressed by rejecting the very tools that define it? It is like trying to understand the world without learning its language.
The same logic can be applied to society’s relationship with cinema. The problem was never cinema itself, because cinema is art. Rather, the issue lay in the social image associated with it in certain communities, including Libya. At certain points in time, movie theaters became linked with behaviors or environments that parts of society considered unacceptable. As a result, the rejection expanded to include the medium itself: the traditional form of cinema represented simply by a hall with seats, a screen, and a ticket booth.
This is where what might be called cultural stigma emerges: a sweeping judgment placed upon an entire medium because of a limited social context. The distinction between the content being shown and the place in which it was shown disappeared, as did the distinction between the artistic experience itself and the unrelated practices surrounding it.
This confusion is not merely a social misunderstanding; it is also a silent confiscation of a cultural right guaranteed under Article 27 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. What makes it even more dangerous is that this deprivation was never imposed through a clear decision that could be challenged. Instead, it slipped quietly into society through cultural stigma until the absence of cinema itself became normalized.
Over time, this separation deepened. When movie theaters disappear for long enough, their absence is no longer questioned or mourned; it simply becomes the norm. Entire generations grow up without ever entering a cinema hall or experiencing the collective ritual that forms an essential part of cultural awareness in many other societies.
This generation does not necessarily reject cinema. Rather, cinema no longer exists within its daily choices. It no longer feels like something important enough to fight for. In this case, absence does not create opposition; it creates emptiness.
Yet the striking paradox is that this absence coexists with an enormous consumption of films online. People watch, follow, and are deeply influenced by cinema. They even develop cinematic taste and awareness, but outside the traditional framework of movie theaters. This clearly reveals that the issue was never the acceptance of art itself, but rather the form through which it was presented.
Cinema did not disappear entirely from people’s lives; it simply changed its medium. Here, cinema on digital platforms and in open spaces emerges not merely as a temporary substitute, but as a fundamental transformation that reshapes the relationship between filmmaker and audience.
In my view, although this shift may seem tragic because the disappearance of cinema halls also means the disappearance of a unique and essential human experience, it has nonetheless liberated cinema from being confined to dark theaters and giant screens. It has transformed cinema into a flexible experience, both personal and collective at once, accessible from anywhere.
When I began imagining this transformation, I decided to explore its possible impact on filmmaking in Libya. I discovered that cinema through platforms and open spaces does not simply compensate for the absence of movie theaters; it addresses the problem at its roots. The crisis in Libya was never merely the absence of cinema halls as physical places, but rather the absence of the cinematic experience itself. With theaters closed for decades, we lost not only spaces for screening films, but also the audience’s relationship with cinema, the accumulation of experience, and the continuity of production.
For the Libyan filmmaker, this transformation means no longer needing to revive an outdated model that no longer truly exists in Libya, nor having to fight an entire social structure that views cinema only as a threat to its cohesion. Instead, filmmakers can begin from an entirely new starting point. Rather than waiting for the return of movie theaters in order to create films under traditional conditions, they can work within an open and flexible environment that allows them to gradually reshape their artistic experience. In this way, life can return to cinema even in the absence of its institutions.
Filmmakers can begin with what is genuinely available, rather than what is idealized. A phone camera or a simple setup can become a real point of departure rather than an obstacle. Moreover, nontraditional spaces such as social media platforms are no longer just methods of distribution; they have become spaces for experimentation, audience-building, and the formation of artistic identity for those willing to use them consciously and consistently.
This transformation offers Libyan filmmakers more than practical solutions. It has the potential to fundamentally reshape the way they think creatively. More importantly, it cultivates a mindset of continuity, a willingness to create beginnings instead of waiting for ideal circumstances. The filmmaker shifts from being merely someone who waits for opportunities to someone who creates them.
And in the absence of a clear institutional cinematic archive, this environment allows for the gradual accumulation of a Libyan visual memory born from the details of everyday life. This strengthens the presence of local stories that had long remained marginalized. In this context, local specificity can transform from a perceived weakness into a genuine source of distinction.
At this precise moment, the absence of support no longer becomes a reason to stop; instead, it becomes a motivation to redefine the meaning of production itself. A film can now be born, evolve, and spread without waiting for official recognition or massive funding.
In the end, it becomes clear that the problem was never technology, nor cinema itself, but rather the way we choose to engage with them. Absolute rejection, fear of experimentation, and waiting for the perfect beginning do not solve crises; they merely postpone understanding them. Conscious engagement, however, opens the door to repurposing these tools for our own benefit and achieving what we have always sought.
Between a cinema whose theaters disappeared and whose seats people have forgotten, and another cinema born on small screens within a different environment, there stands an important moment that offers us the opportunity to rethink not what we reject, but how we use what we already possess.
