Mar 19, 2026
Mohammed Al-Qasir’s entry into the world of cinema was not the result of a traditional academic path or a pre-planned career strategy. Instead, it stemmed from a simple passion that began with a camera and the hobby of photography. Over time, this passion evolved into a deeper interest in telling and documenting human stories visually, gradually placing him at the heart of the documentary filmmaking experience.
In his conversation with the Libya Film Institute, Al-Qasir explained that his relationship with the camera began as a hobby about 12 years ago, before his passion gradually shifted toward documentary filmmaking, which he formally entered around five years ago, driven by his desire to listen to people’s stories and convey them honestly.
1- How did your interest in human stories begin before entering documentary filmmaking?
This interest began years before I started working in documentary films. In 2013, I was in Egypt with a group of friends, running a page inspired by the Humans of New York project called Humans of Cairo. We would film people on the street, conduct short interviews, and then publish their stories as they were, without interference. This experience deepened my love for listening to people’s stories and conveying them truthfully. I have always believed that every person has a story worth telling, which later motivated me to pursue documentary filmmaking.
2- How do documentaries contribute to raising social awareness of humanitarian and social issues in Libya?
Documentaries play an important role in raising Libyan society’s awareness of humanitarian and social issues. They often focus on a specific topic and present it truthfully and realistically, away from acting or dramatization, which makes their impact deeper on viewers. They also help shed light on marginalized or invisible groups and open the space for societal discussion about these issues.
However, many people in Libya still view documentaries in a traditional style, similar to National Geographic films, with voiceover narration, interviews, and archival materials.
Documentaries come in various types, including the kind I am most interested in: free cinema. This style does not rely on a pre-written script or a fully detailed plan before filming. This type, in particular, can be more influential in society because it brings the audience closer to reality as it is, allowing them to experience it directly, creating deeper empathy and a more authentic understanding of the issues presented.
3- How do you choose the topics for your films? How do you determine whether a subject is suitable or appealing?
Many people have a traditional view of documentaries, but when they watch modern documentary works, they engage with them more because they contain a dramatic element, what is known as Creative Documentaries. This engagement helps change the audience’s perspective, prompting them to think about issues differently and even motivating them to take positions or initiatives.
For example, my collaborator, director Mohammed Masli, and I filmed a documentary called Champion, which highlights the story of Souad, a weightlifting champion with a disability, and her struggle to achieve her global dream. Another film, Melody of Dunes, explores human stories in a desert environment, reflecting everyday life and local experiences.
When Champion was screened in Tripoli, it had a clear impact. I was responsible for directing, cinematography, and editing. The film highlighted real problems faced by the subject, such as her daily commute between the cities of Tawergha and Misrata and her struggle with the state to reclaim her monthly allowance.
After the screening, the Social Security Fund provided weekly transportation, and the coach dedicated private time for free training. This change encouraged two other athletes from Tawergha to join her, forming the nucleus of a women’s team of people with disabilities preparing for local and international competitions.
This demonstrates the power of documentary films—they do not require acting or artificial plotlines because the story is real, and the person we see is the one actually experiencing these hardships. This is the core of their importance in raising awareness: they reflect reality without distortion and give a voice to the voiceless.
As for choosing topics, ideas often come spontaneously. For instance, the film Mountain Friends came about because one of my friends was part of that environment, and I was close to the experience.
In other words, the environment and society you live in greatly influence your choices. Ideas emerge from your surroundings, friends, and daily experiences. Being close to these stories gives them greater authenticity, which in turn reflects in their impact on the audience.
4- What are the main challenges facing Libyan filmmakers today?
The challenges are large and complex. The first problem is the lack of screening venues. In Egypt, for example, there are festivals and independent cinemas that allow young directors to show their work, even if the budgets are limited. There is an audience ready to watch these films, giving creators the chance to gain experience and reach viewers.
In Libya, the situation is different. There are no cinemas, and most films are shown via social media. This disadvantages the film because it loses the communal viewing experience that cinema provides.
5- And what about funding? Do Libyan filmmakers receive adequate support?
Funding is a major challenge. External support exists but is limited and comes with strict conditions. Even if you receive a large amount, such as $50,000, there is no guarantee you can produce the film as planned. There have been previous experiences where we submitted projects to foreign institutions and either received no response or were rejected without clear reasons. Sometimes, the reason is political, organizational, or due to the funding entities’ concerns about the country’s political and social stability.
6- How does the political and economic situation affect cinema in Libya?
Cinema is not just art; it is linked to political, economic, and social conditions. The absence of funding, few screening venues, and the monopoly of some producers over TV screens, especially during Ramadan, make it difficult to develop a true cinematic scene. TV seasons are limited, with only four or five series broadcast each year, preventing the emergence of new voices or independent projects. Even producing a short or music film comes with high costs, and there is no sufficient local support to realize it.
7- Are there solutions or proposals to overcome these obstacles?
Solutions exist but require time and planning. There must be political and economic stability, the opening of independent screening venues, direct financial support for young directors, and the development of a television scene that allows production diversity. Without these, Libyan directors remain constrained and often have to present their work on social media, where the film does not receive full viewing or communal interaction.
Despite all difficulties, I believe that producers, cinema enthusiasts, and directors must continue. Continuing production is what drives the cycle and allows everyone to participate.
8- Even if this is not your original field, how do you maintain motivation to continue?
My motivation comes from the stories themselves. In every corner of Libya, there is life and characters waiting to be told, and every film is a window into a reality that has never been seen before. For me, filming is not just about capturing images; it is about creating a space for people to have their voices heard and for viewers to experience their moments with them.
Mar 12, 2026
1
I have often hesitated to publish selections from my memoirs on this blog. Perhaps I feared confronting the memories that shaped my identity as a filmmaker in an environment that views cinema only as a luxury or a waste of time. I discovered early on that cinema in our country is not a luxury. In my view, it is an urgent human need. It is the mirror in which we see both our flaws and our beauty, and it is the most powerful tool for educating people about their rights.
My decision to enter the world of cinema was not just a career choice. It was an early confrontation with a social system that glorifies the colleges of medicine and engineering. I remember that critical moment vividly when I was trying to choose my university major. As soon as news spread of my desire to study cinema, specifically directing and screenwriting, my family went on high alert. Some relatives even visited our home specifically to try and stop me, as if I were about to destroy my future with my own hands.
Yet, despite the pressure I felt, I remember a single response from my late father that settled everything and silenced those present. He said with a confident tone, “I will not interfere in your choice of study, but I will hold you accountable only if you fail.” His words gave me the right and sufficient support to pursue my passion without fear of the reactions around me. He placed me in a challenge with myself to prove to everyone that my choice was not an act of recklessness.
2
My true perspective on films was not formed inside lecture halls or cinemas, which were mostly unavailable. Instead, it was born behind a counter at a film store on Gamal Abdel Nasser Street in Tripoli. There, in 2010, I had a priceless opportunity: the right to watch hundreds of titles for free. Amidst that passion, my father strengthened his support with an unforgettable gesture. He bought me my first professional camera in secret, without my mother’s knowledge, to be the first tool of my dream and the primary motivation to study cinema academically.
I entered The Advanced Institute of Art Techniques in Tripoli with big dreams and a desire to learn everything about the industry. However, I was struck by the reality of weak curricula that failed to keep pace with the development of the field. The focus was excessively on outdated theoretical methods. Despite this, there were bright moments. I remember our immersion in Italian Neorealism, which touched me with its honesty, and the enchanting worlds of director Federico Fellini.
Even with the overall poor teaching standards, I cannot forget the professor of the Viewing and Analysis course. Although his teaching abilities were modest, his absolute love for the cinema of Alfred Hitchcock was my only benefit. He would simply turn off the lights, screen the films in total silence, and leave the hall until the screening ended. He would then return and say, “You may leave, the lesson is over.” This gave us an instinctive ability to analyze the language of suspense without formal instruction.
I was one of the lucky ones. In the period following the revolution, specifically between 2012 and 2014, I received intensive training with international institutions, most notably the Scottish Documentary Institute. This experience sharpened my tools before the security situation collapsed following the “Operation Libya’s Dawn” events. Opportunities stopped, and international training disappeared completely. Searching for any new horizon for self-development required traveling abroad.
The biggest shock came after graduating in 2015 when I faced a job market that did not recognize the title of filmmaker. I was forced to work hard personally to stay in the field. Because independent filmmaking did not generate an income, I spent my years working as a photojournalist with local and international agencies, a photographer for events, and in television programs and channels to ensure a source of income. This work was merely a means of professional survival for me until the moment of real transformation arrived.
3
This transformation happened during the COVID-19 pandemic. I was part of a group of creators and activists in a voluntary movement to face the crisis. During our activity, the idea arose to cooperate with an institution to produce awareness films. However, we were surprised to find during our search that there was no non-profit organization in Libya at that time dedicated exclusively to cinema and filmmaking operating from within the country.
From this institutional vacuum and out of the heart of field work, the idea for the Libya Film Institute (LFI) was born in 2021 as an independent initiative to bridge this gap. We wanted to create a specialized environment that the country lacked. We began by organizing film screenings and workshops and producing films that touch our reality, believing that cinema is the mirror that reflects our identity and makes our voices heard.
Today, despite everything, I find myself facing a new chapter. Since moving to the Netherlands two years ago, I felt as if everything I had started had returned to square one. The competition here is much higher, and the challenges are completely different. However, I hope to develop my skills and benefit from the expertise available here.
My ambition is not to stay away, but to return to Libya one day, carrying more tools and greater professionalism to make better films that are worthy of our stories and contribute to building a collective consciousness that rejects marginalization. My sense of responsibility toward my country and toward the effort we started at LFI is stronger than any feeling of exile.
May God have mercy on my father, because of him, this journey began, and it continues wherever I am.
Mar 5, 2026
In the heart of Tripoli, Libya, where the lights would dim to signal the start of a show and silence would descend upon an audience facing a large screen open to the world, a visual memory was formed for generations of Libyans throughout the last century, through American, Indian, Italian, and Arab films.
Today, Cinema Al-Rashid returns as a name echoing in the city’s collective memory. It was a building that witnessed Tripoli’s transformations, its shifting artistic and cultural tastes, and the fleeting conversations held outside the theater about influential actors and scenes. It transformed the cinema from a mere venue for amusement into a vibrant social and cultural space of knowledge.
The story of Cinema Al-Rashid built on the 9th of August Square, later renamed Al-Suwayhli Square is not an isolated case. Cinema in Libya has undergone drastic shifts, from changes in the institutions managing theaters to nationalization, eventually leading Libya from a pioneering cinematic nation to one of total closure. Cinema Al-Rashid was demolished in April 2021.
Film critic Ramadan Salim explains that one reason for Al-Rashid’s fame was its prime geographical location in the heart of Tripoli, alongside ticket prices that were affordable for a wide segment of the public. “It was a modest theater with no windows, a roof made of corrugated metal sheets (zinco), and fans that ran constantly but were weak and ineffective,” Salim recalls. “Yet, even with its dim lighting and dirty walls, the theater saw a huge turnout. It was almost the sole outlet for weekly entertainment and pleasure.”
He adds: “In this theater, I watched black-and-white Arab films that were repeated due to popular demand films starring Ismail Yassin, Farid al-Atrash, Anwar Wagdi, Umm Kulthum, Farid Shawqi, Mohamed Abdel Wahab, and others. I still clearly remember the first film I watched, Afritat Ismail Yassin. Perhaps it stuck in my memory because it contained simple special effects that seemed strange to us at the time, especially the way the genie—played by the dancer Kitty would appear.”
When personal memory intertwines with collective memory, the cinema transforms from a public building into a private space of first experiences and wonder. Ramadan Salim notes: “I remember well that the reason I entered Cinema Al-Rashid for the first time was my uncle’s desire for me to accompany him, as he was a weekly regular. Without that, it would have been difficult to convince my family to agree to this step, even though it was considered simple and normal at the time. After that, going to the cinema became a weekly habit. On its screen, I watched many films, including Ismail Yassin in the Army, Ismail Yasin Police Harby, Ismail Yassin in the Wax Museum, and Ismail Yassin Malek Al Betrol. I watched Farid al-Atrash’s musical films like Immortal Song (Lahn al-Khuloud), films by Abdel Halim Hafez, and Umm Kulthum’s movies like A Kiss in the Desert, Fatima, and Salama. I also saw Mohamed Abdel Wahab’s films, such as Forbidden Love, which was presented in a poor copy I believe due to repeated screenings, and perhaps because we were viewed as a third-class audience.
Summer and Winter Cinemas
Cinema houses in Libya were not merely silent buildings; they were standing appointments with knowledge and wonder. On those seats, in darkened halls, the audience of art and literature learned how a film strip could open a window into the details of other peoples’ lives and cultures.
Even with the absence of precise official documentation regarding the construction date of Cinema Al-Rashid, limited available sources suggest it was likely built in the mid-1950s. This was a period when the capital, Tripoli, was catching its breath after World War II and preparing for a new phase of stability and reconstruction during the era of Governor Italo Balbo.
Until February 5, 1959, Cinema Al-Rashid was known as Cinema “A.B.A.”
During that era, the cinematic activity in the city was dominated by the Al-Nasr Company, owned by Palestinian businessman Khalil Al-Jaouni. The company owned several prominent theaters, including Cinema Al-Nasr in Souq Al-Turk (known as the Politeama Theater before 1943), Cinema Al-Rashid, Cinema Al-Cursal (opened on July 17, 1958), and Cinema “A.B.T.”
Tripoli’s cinemas were divided into winter and summer venues. Among the winter theaters was Cinema Al-Hamra, which reopened after renovations in a two-story building on November 18, 1950. The list also included Cinema Al-Nasr, established in 1943 in Souq Al-Turk, and Cinema Al-Ghazala, known as Union after its new building opened on September 27, 1947, before being renamed Adriano in April 1951, and later acquired by the Libya Cinema Company in early 1954.
Winter cinemas also included Cinema Lux on Amr Ibn Al-Aas Street, Cinema Al-Rashid in 9th of August Square, and Cinemas Lapi and Gabi on Al-Sarim Street, both owned by the Italian Liverani. Additionally, there was Cinema Waddan on Adrian Pelt Street, Cinema Metropole on Kuwait Street, and Cinema Odeon on Al-Magharba Street (formerly Ricardo Street). The Odeon opened on January 29, 1947, in a two-story building with about 800 seats (later known as Al-Zahra); it featured a theater stage, a café, and a dance hall, and was the first cinema to use a gold curtain.
The list further included Cinema Royal on Mizda Street, Cinema “A.B.T” on Haiti Street, and Cinema Al-Cursal in the Dhahra Al-Kabira area.
As for the summer cinemas, the most prominent were Arena Giardino on Hassouna Pasha Street, Cinema “A.B.A” in 9th of August Square, Cinema Al-Corso on Beirut Street, Cinema Rivoli on Omar Al-Mukhtar Avenue, and Cinema Astra on Ibn Rushd Street.
Furthermore, the Wheelus Air Base (Al-Malaha) contained a cinema hall with a capacity of about 5,000 people. It screened a film every two days but was dedicated exclusively to the American community within the base.
Italian Films and Art Magazines
Ramadan Salim explains that one of the features of Al-Rashid Theater was how it announced films: a frame on the left of the entrance displayed the current film, while a frame on the right announced the coming attraction. Schedule changes were extremely rare. This also applied to the posters inside the lobby, which were hung in a disorganized manner, teasing future screenings that weren’t imminent, except during holidays.
The tickets were small, ejected by a small machine, and were not torn by hand upon purchase but rather at the door. Entry, as was customary in most theaters, was allowed at any time since screenings ran continuously. Some patrons would watch a film more than once—not just for enjoyment, but to kill time, especially in winter, when the sound of light rain on the roof could be heard, though it never drowned out the actors’ voices.
According to Salim, Cinema Al-Rashid was mentally associated with Egyptian Arab films; foreign films were rarely shown there, a change that only happened in relatively later years. However, historical Italian films had a wide audience, particularly movies featuring Hercules, Maciste, The Ten Gladiators, Ursus, and Spartacus.
He continues: “Cinema Al-Rashid in Tripoli was a meeting place for friends. This meeting might be linked to a walk through the city streets or a trip to another theater, but it usually settled on watching the film at Al-Rashid. This was due to the ease of returning home no matter how late it got, and the availability of many amenities in the nearby alleys and streets—especially kiosks selling magazines, particularly art magazines.”
Salim adds: “In later times, Cinema Al-Rashid witnessed diversity in its films, ranging from Arab comedies and musicals to dramas adapted from Arab and international novels. This had a profound impact on comparing the world of cinematic viewing with literary reading, especially novels by Ihsan Abdel Quddous, Yusuf al-Sibai, and Naguib Mahfouz that were adapted into films.
On another note, Al-Rashid screened some films that could be described as ‘orphans’ (rare classics), such as Jungle Book (1942) directed by Zoltan Korda, The Thief of Bagdad (1940), and Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.
Films of Samira Tawfik and Leila Mourad
Leaving the cinema was an extension of another story, creating small memories that lasted long among film lovers. Salim recalls: “In the sixties, Cinema Al-Rashid did not screen American films; the offerings were mostly Arab and Italian, especially adventure films. It also dedicated significant space to musical films due to their popularity. I remember well that films of the singer Samira Tawfik were shown in this hall successively, such as A Bedu Girl in Love, A Bedu Girl in Paris, and A Bedu Girl in Rome. And I cannot forget the Leila Mourad film series, such as Leila Daughter of the Poor, Leila Daughter of the Rich, Leila Daughter of the Shore, and Leila Daughter of Schools, as well as Antar bin Shaddad in both its black-and-white and colored versions.”
He adds: “No other theater had the distinct popular character of Al-Rashid except for Cinema Al-Ghazala, located in Al-Ghazala Square, which specialized in foreign films, particularly Italian westerns. Cinema Al-Rashid was a transitional stage leading to other theaters later on, such as Cinema Al-Shaab (formerly Royal), Cinema Al-Khadra (formerly Al-Hamra), and Cinema Al-Fatah (formerly Lux), in addition to Cinema Al-Nasr, which rivaled Al-Rashid in the type of old films it screened and its location in the Old City (Souq Al-Turk).”
In Conclusion What does it mean for a cinema to be demolished? Is it merely the fall of a building? Or is it the erasure of a part of a city’s memory? Cinema Al-Rashid was more than a screen and seats; it was an entire era of social, cultural, political, economic, and artistic transformations.
Feb 27, 2026
Osama Al-Fitouri is a Libyan journalist and documentary filmmaker. He began his career in journalism in 2011 before transitioning into the world of documentary filmmaking in 2014. For the past four years, he has specialized in covering the migration file.
He has directed and participated in the production of numerous documentaries, most notably Europe: The Fatal Migration Policy, an investigative film examining the deadly humanitarian consequences of EU migration management in North Africa, which won the Prix Europa 2025. His other works have garnered seven prestigious global awards, including the CIVIS Medienpreis and the Robert Geisendörfer Preis, alongside nominations for the Grimme Preis and Stern Preis.
In a conversation with the Libya Film Institute, Osama shared his insights on the filmmaking industry and the reality of Libya today.
1. How many documentary films have you worked on, and what roles did you take on?
I have participated in the making of 11 documentary films. My role varied from one project to another; sometimes I served as the director, other times as the director of photography, or I handled research and filming, depending on the nature of the film and production requirements.
For three of these films, I handled everything research, direction, and execution entirely on my own. The remaining projects were collaborations with major networks and production companies such as HBO, Vice, and the BBC.
2. Based on your experience, how can documentary films contribute to raising societal awareness of humanitarian and social issues in Libya?
In my opinion, documentaries can raise societal awareness through several key mechanisms:
Documenting Reality: When I convey real stories about displacement, reconciliation, or human rights, these narratives reveal the human dimension and break the silence or fear people have regarding these topics.
Generating Empathy: Visual storytelling helps create empathy among different parties in society, opening the door for constructive dialogue away from polarization.
Amplifying Voices: While media networks in Libya often cater to specific, supportive demographics, documentaries provide a platform for marginalized groups to be heard, enhancing their participation and demanding accountability.
Influencing Policy: Fact-based documentaries can capture the attention of decision-makers as well as legal and international organizations.
3. Do you believe the films you make can actually change society’s view or policies regarding migration?
Yes, I do. By presenting honest human stories, I work to dismantle prevailing stereotypes and build deeper empathy for migrants and victims. This creates moral and media pressure that can push decision-makers to adopt more humane policies, especially when these works reach civil society and international bodies.
4. In your opinion, what is the real impact of years of conflict on the film industry in Libya? What are the biggest challenges facing filmmakers today?
Wars have certainly halted artistic expression in the country. However, contrary to what some might think, the problem isn’t solely linked to conflict. The biggest challenge is dealing with society itself. Many people view cinema as something potentially harmful or contrary to traditional values. This makes it difficult for filmmakers to present bold work or address sensitive issues without facing significant rejection or reservation.
Additionally, there are regulatory challenges, such as weak protection for filmmakers’ rights and the absence of strong unions or bodies to defend them.
5. How can these challenges be overcome, or at least minimized?
I believe the solution lies in a form of “shock theory” excessive exposure to a topic reduces the stigma surrounding it. Society needs this exposure to make the idea of cinema gradually more acceptable, normalizing it so it is viewed objectively rather than as a threat.
It is also essential to establish legal protection for filmmakers through supportive unions and to ensure the presence of professional administration focused on nurturing talent and creativity.
6. How do you evaluate your filmmaking experience inside Libya compared to working in other environments?
It might surprise some, but every job I did inside Libya was more enjoyable than elsewhere because it was more challenging. In Libya, possessing a camera is often treated with the same suspicion as possessing contraband, and obtaining a filming permit requires double the effort.
However, the result was always more valuable to me, perhaps because it wasn’t easy. Succeeding despite the obstacles gives me great satisfaction and has taught me how to adapt to any circumstance to serve my work. Because it is my country, I cannot help but love it, even if life there is hard. I always hope to contribute to change through the films I make.
7. Finally, what message do you have for young people wanting to enter the world of documentary filmmaking?
My message to the youth entering this field is to focus on the story above all else. You don’t need expensive equipment as much as you need deep investigation and a strong core for your story.
Take the time to listen to all sides and don’t rush production. Works that might seem controversial often carry the strongest messages. Don’t worry about easily pleasing the audience; in my opinion, a good story is the foundation of the documentary world.
Feb 12, 2026
For decades, Libya has been absent from global cinema as a normal place for life or a complete human space. Instead, it has predominantly appeared as a dark backdrop for violence, or an open arena for terrorism and chaos.
This image was not formed by chance, nor was it merely an innocent artistic choice. Rather, it is the product of political and media narratives that found in cinema an effective tool to reproduce fear and cement stereotypes in the global collective consciousness.
In contrast, the Libyan cinematic voice has remained absent, or silenced, opening the door for the “Other” to speak about us, rather than to us, and to draw our features as they wish, not as we are.
Libya Through the Foreign Lens
When tracing Libya’s presence in foreign films, a nearly fixed pattern emerges:
Libya = Desert.
Libya = Armed camps.
Libya = Extremist groups.
Libya = A state without civil features.
In the film Rules of Engagement (2000), although Libya is not explicitly the setting, the Arab world as a whole is presented as a monolithic block of chaos and violence, an image that later appeared in works where Libya was used as a synonym for “danger.”
However, 13 Hours: The Secret Soldiers of Benghazi (2016) stands as the clearest example of reducing Libya to a single security event. Presented from a purely American perspective, the film focused on military heroism while completely neglecting the Libyan human and social context.
The film was less a historical document and more a reformatting of reality to serve a specific political discourse. In most scenes, Libyans appeared without names, without backgrounds, and without motives, simply as a permanent visual threat.
A frame from the film 13 Hours: The Secret Soldiers of Benghazi (2016)
The Problem of Narrative: Who Owns the Story?
The fundamental issue is not that foreign films are produced about Libya, but that these films are the almost exclusive source for painting Libya’s image in the global consciousness. Cinema, as a language that transcends borders, does not merely display events; it manufactures impressions, establishes memory, and defines who is the victim and who is the perpetrator.
When we do not possess our own cinematic narrative, the “Other” becomes the narrator. Their vision, no matter how fragmented or biased, becomes the only circulated truth.
The absence of a Libyan cinema capable of international competition has left a dangerous void, one filled by works that know Libya only through the angle of a gun sight or a news bulletin.
Between “Lion of the Desert” and the Aftermath: A Missed Opportunity
Lion of the Desert (1981) was a rare exception. It presented Libya as a nation of resistance, with a history, a cause, and human faces. Yet, it remained a singular case, an orphaned achievement not followed by a cinematic wave that built upon it.
After that, Libyan cinema retreated to the margins, whether due to political conditions, the lack of production infrastructure, or the absence of sustainable institutional support. Thus, while other nations were rewriting their images through cinema, Libya remained captive to a single image recycled without resistance.
A frame from the film Lion of the Desert (1981).
Counter-Cinema: A Necessity, Not a Luxury
Speaking of “counter-cinema” does not mean producing propaganda or apologetic films. It means producing honest, human cinema that acknowledges the complexities of Libyan reality without surrendering it to distortion. It is a cinema that sees the Libyan human in their daily life, in their cities, in their contradictions, and in their dreams, not just in the moment they hold a weapon.
Counter-cinema is that which wrests the right to speak, redefining the place outside the binary of “Terrorism or Desert,” and presenting Libya as a living society, not a fleeting news segment.
The Role of the Libya Film Institute: From Sponsorship to Vision
In this context, the importance of an institution dedicated to cinema becomes clear, not merely as an artistic activity, but as a strategic cultural project. Supporting independent films, encouraging young voices, providing local and international exhibition platforms, and building a Libyan visual archive are all necessary steps to restore balance to the image.
Film institutions do not just make movies; they create the climate that allows for the birth of a national visual discourse capable of addressing the world in its own language.
This is from the Khutwa Project – Libya Film Institute (2021).
Towards a Cinema That Defines Us, Not Speaks For Us
Libya does not need its image “polished”; it needs its image reclaimed. It needs a cinema that says: “We are here, telling our story ourselves, with all its pain and hope.”
When we make films about our cities, our women, our youth, and our near and distant history, we break the monopoly on the image. We force our existence into the global scene as “makers of meaning,” not merely background extras in the events of others.
Libya’s continued cinematic absence means the continued distortion of its image without resistance. Cinema, as history has proven, is not a neutral mirror. It is a tool of soft power; whoever holds it holds the ability to influence memory and conscience.
The bet today is not on a single film, but on an integrated project that restores the Libyan camera to its natural role: to be a witness to life, not a tool for falsifying it.
When we succeed in that, we will not only change the world’s view of Libya, but we will also change our view of ourselves, and that is the true victory of cinema.
Writer:
Muhammad Ben Saoud
Feb 5, 2026
For the second time I trace the path of “Diaspora Cinema” and its concerns, its proximity and distance from the question of identity. Here I chat with Sara Ben-Saud, the Libyan-Tunisian-Canadian, about these three countries in relation to cinema and her life story that clung to her films. Sara speaks a little Tunisian dialect, but we chose to conduct the conversation in English, so I translated some of what was said.
Q: Except for 5:1, I haven’t seen any of your previous films before À toi Jeddi, which, as far as I know, are short films. Tell us a little about the beginnings.
A: I started as a photographer from a young age, so I approached photography when I joined university. I chose cinema and discovered documentary filmmaking at that time. The competition among students was fierce, they were constantly playing with light and shadow, so I pitched both a documentary and a fiction film. I was annoyed when the teacher preferred the documentary and I objected to his decision. Our main concern then was playing with the aesthetics of the image, but one of the professors explained to me that in documentary I could do whatever I wanted, that it wasn’t limited to boring interviews. I was convinced by the argument and fully immersed myself in the world of documentary film. I was lucky when the film was screened at a student festival, which encouraged me to continue.
Around the age of nineteen, I asked my father if he had kept anything about his father. He told me that my grandfather had given him his memoirs decades earlier, and I was astonished to find that document hidden in our basement. Given my young age, I didn’t understand much of what my grandfather had written about politics in Libya, a country I knew nothing about. After years of reading the memoirs, I decided at university to make a documentary about my grandfather, through which I would tell him my story. In the midst of serious thought about filming, I encountered again things I didn’t understand, but I also found an album of photographs he had taken, and I thought to visit the places he had photographed and see how they had become, to trace his footsteps.
Q: What difficulty did you face in reading the memoirs; was language the main reason? We know he wrote them in Arabic, English, Italian, and other languages.
A: It wasn’t about language, but about the complexity of political topics. For example, he wrote about his conversation with someone and about that person’s corruption, and many other entanglements of names and events, so I didn’t fully grasp his intentions in that regard.
Q: This reminds me of Marcus Aurelius’s digressions in Meditations. Scholars believe those texts were his diaries, not intended for publication. In the documentary, we see that your grandfather dreamt of publishing his memoirs. Do you think these details were written to be published? Perhaps he wrote them for himself, which is why they became obscure.
A: Perhaps. That’s why I wondered for years how to use these memoirs. That’s how I began thinking, as I told you, about working on the photo album and becoming part of the documentary myself, echoing his experiences. I pitched the idea to a producer who was interested, but he told me filming in Libya wasn’t possible because the insurance company wouldn’t cover production costs there. It was a production company in Quebec that didn’t specialise in documentaries in war zones and the like. Moreover, the film was my first work, so I listened to the guidance.
Q: They would have allowed filming without taking responsibility if anything went wrong.
A: Yes. We had a filming crew, so an insurance company had to be present, which is why we filmed in Tunisia instead of Libya, the country the film is about.
Q: What about the films before À toi Jeddi?
A: I directed series written by other artists. À toi Jeddi was my first project, from proposal to grants, preparation, and direction. The only personal film that preceded it I shot in the midst of the project. Covid happened and I didn’t leave Canada. I then filmed 5:1, a short documentary about my family. We had been apart for years, and during lockdown we gathered for nearly two years. The title refers to my family members; I have a brother and a sister. Our relationship in the early days was tense, so we worked hard to understand each other as a family and as individuals, to coexist in one space and be honest. That’s how I wanted to capture this evolution by interviewing each family member and being present myself in each interview through a plexiglass, as the DOP suggested. Through the interviews I questioned my relationship with my family in nine minutes. What intrigued me about the film was that it was shot before À toi Jeddi, because it was about family and about my father in particular.
Q: It’s fair to say À toi Jeddi is a film about identity, since you are Canadian, your father is Libyan-Tunisian but also Canadian, and your mother is Canadian-Canadian, whatever that means. As for your grandfather, he was Libyan who spent the last part of his life in Tunisia, married to a Tunisian. To what extent does identity matter to you as a filmmaker? The film answers, but let’s consider, for example, that Tunisians see you as Canadian, Libyans see you as Tunisian, and in Canada, I don’t know what they consider you.
A: The concept of identity never leaves me. It’s worth noting that it began with my work on other documentary series about Indigenous peoples in their attempts to revive their culture, so the work extended to my own identity. The matter became more complicated with my distance from Libya and Tunisia. So, I had to force my father to teach me so I could understand who I am. That’s why I explored it myself without relying entirely on my father’s stories.
Q: Did the film change your father’s perspective, do you think he asked himself whether he should have been “Libyan”/“Tunisian” with his daughter? Or do you think things went as they should?
A: Perhaps he now feels some regret. But he also told me that as soon as he arrived in Canada, he was keen on integrating into society and didn’t care much about connecting his heritage with his children. I think things have changed now, as we see migrants more at ease in passing on their language and culture to their children, which perhaps wasn’t available to my father’s generation, where integration was the priority.
Q: Or perhaps the reason was political, to protect the family from persecution by the regime, since he was the son of a political dissident. I may be mistaken.
A: I think he couldn’t do anything about that, as we had no relatives here. Perhaps if my grandmother had been present, I would have learnt some things, but he was alone. This was unlike my mother’s family.
Q: Were you involved in the editing?
A: Yes, I was present with the editor two or three days a week, and the editing took about eight months.
Q: I felt the one-hour length was suitable for the screening. You didn’t stick to the ninety-minute or two-hour format, or the short film format. I felt the film length came naturally and you didn’t regret cutting any scene. Am I right?
A: What made it difficult was that the producer’s vision didn’t match mine. He wanted the film to be shown on television, between 50 and 52 minutes, while I wanted to show the longer version, and producing two versions was costly. So, I decided with the editor to cut out an entire chunk for the television version, instead of trimming each scene.
Q: So, you’re satisfied with the cinematic version you shared with LFI, which is 61 minutes long.
A: Yes, that’s the longer version. There were difficult choices in removing certain parts, but I don’t remember any of them.
Q: How did the audience receive the film?
A: It was fascinating. I loved the comments from viewers from countries other than Canada, and I recall the response of a Moroccan-Canadian father, if I remember correctly, who told me the film encouraged him to encourage his children to explore their identity and that it was fine to embrace more than one identity. On the other hand, Canadians (non-migrants) loved the exploration experience, and were drawn to my father’s character in particular, especially his conversations with me online.
Q: It’s wonderful to see a film that touches people from different cultures, moving away from narrow identity politics. In this context, do you have future projects you find difficult? You know that in Libya even the simplest projects become difficult. Is it the same in Montreal?
A: Yes, yesterday I received a grant to produce a short narrative film, and I often feel that obtaining grants is harder elsewhere. I always want to film in Tunisia and the best opportunities for grants are here. For example, this film was initially rejected because it was a migrant story and nothing new, but for me it wasn’t simply a migrant story, rather that’s the label they attach to such stories. So, I decided to submit the project in other provinces. For example, Toronto is a more inclusive city but may view Montreal projects differently. But yesterday my project was accepted from Ontario (Toronto province).
In À toi Jeddi, I made a film about my grandfather. This time, I want to make a fiction film about my grandmother, inspired by my visit to Tunisia and the time I spent with her as a child. But it’s a narrative film that adds a great deal of fiction to reality, in the course of a week or two that the granddaughter spends with the grandmother and then returns home.
