Our Articles section offers behind-the-scenes insights, filmmaker interviews, cultural reflections, and updates on LFI’s programs and events. Discover how Libyan storytellers are using cinema to challenge narratives, preserve identity, and inspire change—from Tripoli to the global stage. Whether you’re a filmmaker, artist, or advocate for social justice, you’ll find stories here that inform, uplift, and connect.
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.
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 KhutwaProject – 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.
For the second time I trace the path of “DiasporaCinema” 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.
Countries of Production: Canada Year of Production: 2023 Running Time: 61 minutes Genre: Documentary Written and Directed by: Sara Ben-Saud Evaluation: A must see
Stories of ancestors often revolve within the orbit of veneration, where the image of the grandfather appears polished with wisdom and sayings meant to illuminate the path and strengthen resolve, accompanied by the image of the grandmother, the weaver of tales and icon of chastity. The features of Libyan identity have long been confined to these two icons: the courage of the grandfathers sharply embodied in the image of resistance fighters against the Italian coloniser and the chastity and sacrifices of the grandmothers in the same era. Literature and theatre perpetuated these constants. Since then, every voice diverging from the principles of courage and chastity has been marginalised in youth literature. In cinema too, “preserving identity” remains a loose concept that never truly discovers the essence of identity.
On the frozen shores of a lake in Quebec, Canada, Sara Ben-Saud captures an image of a duck carving its way forward. Through another camera we see her as a child, and hear her narrating the story of her birth in the summer of 1996. She says she was born in Quebec to a Libyan-Tunisian father and a Canadian mother, raised within Canadian Christian culture without any presence of Libya or even Islamic holidays, since her father had severed ties entirely with his homeland. Thus, the film opens its path, as the “protagonist” follows the traces of absent footsteps: what it means to be being Libyan, to be Tunisian, and in a way not directly confessed to be Canadian. The latter itself is divided between French-speaking Quebec and the other nine “English” provinces, as well as the three territories where Indigenous peoples (the First Nations) form the majority in some and the minority in others.
With this Canadian complexity, Ben-Saud turns to another identity-based complexity (is there any identity not wrapped in complexities!), oscillating between Libya and Tunisia two countries once unseparated by borders, as the dust of the Sahara refused to divide its inhabitants. Here Ben-Saud touches upon one aspect of Libya’s ethnic diversity, where her Libyan grandfather married her Tunisian grandmother. The first and last points of contact are the memoirs of the grandfather, Ahmed Ben-Saud, which he left in the 1970s to his son, Sara’s father. Browsing the memoirs with her father, Sara reads a line in which her grandfather speaks of the marginalised, writing: “those to whom the author belongs.” His story, then, is the story of “those without a voice.”
Thus, the narrative identity of the film takes shape: Sara recounts a letter she wrote to her grandfather, absent in body yet present in words buried for decades. If we mentioned at the outset the veneration of ancestors, here the discovery of ancestors comes through Sara’s discovery of herself, via monologue and dialogue, affirming an old phenomenon: biography is nothing but autobiography. Nor should we forget in this context the awe of writing and its power to create a presence that cancels veneration. Writing is present in those memoirs in several languages composed by Ahmed Ben-Saud, who mastered and translated many tongues including English, Italian, French, and Spanish, in addition to Arabic texts most likely predominant which he left as a legacy to his son.
Sara travels to Tunisia to investigate (she could not visit Libya “for security reasons,” naturally). There lies the house of her grandparents and the remaining family in Tunis. There her cousin sketches a family tree, and they recall that their grandfather died a year or two before the outbreak of the 17 February uprising, having left the country in opposition. In one scene that seems to stray yet draws close to the subject, Sara accompanies a relative on a tour of her great-grandmother’s house (the protruding part of her Tunisian identity), who speaks of the importance of the “spirit of family” found in shared memories, and of the family house empty in body yet full in spirit, and what it means to her uncles and aunts “Hoshe el-Eila” in Libyan parlance.
Returning to the memoirs, Ahmed Ben-Saud portrays himself as a Don Quixote, an image from which we draw a dreamy spirit in which identity splinters only to return to a beginning that never began. Therefore, Sara says she is not merely Canadian when she spends four months in Tunisia, learning the Tunisian dialect and falling in love with a Tunisian young man. Yet this statement does not negate her Canadian-ness but enriches it, just as her grandfather’s Tunisian-ness enriched his Libyan-ness.
Of that Libya, and of that Tripoli in particular, Ahmed Ben-Saud writes of a world that vanished after 1969, when he speaks of “la dolce vita” — the sweet life — as he roamed the city’s streets, visited its bars and nightclubs, and became entangled in its politics, running four times for office only to fail each time for seemingly tribal reasons. Consequently, he was among the optimists about the coup/uprising of 1969, having lost hope in the monarchy, only to lose hope again in the republic and the Jamahiriya, and to be imprisoned in 1979 for two years. We shall return to this shortly.
Sara finally celebrates Eid al-Adha, telling her relatives it is the first time she has celebrated any Islamic holiday. Her uncles share her joy, telling her that the spirit of Eid lies in giving rather than in eating meat, though they admit that this spirit has faded, as celebrants wallow in indulgence and luxury, and they include themselves in that category.
In one of her final letters to her grandfather, she tells him that all his children have left Libya: his three sons settled in Canada and England, and his daughter in Egypt. Yet they now gather for the first time in decades in the family house in Tunis. Her aunt/the daughter brings photos and documents of her father, the amateur writer. In the film’s most powerful scene, Sara sits with her father, uncle, and aunt, hearing them speak of his dream to publish his experiences in a book, but also of his two years in prison the first time candour confronts the darkness of the past. What is easily revealed through grandchildren becomes difficult for sons and daughters who endured the torment of deprivation and absence. She perceives suppressed emotions in their voices and faces. The strength lies also in capturing this harshness without anticipation, with no prelude to the scene. Perhaps this development suggests that the story of exile in Libya remains essentially the story of the prisons of the Jamahiriya, after the prisons of the monarchy and before those of today’s rulers.
In his memoirs, Ahmed Ben-Saud writes of leaving prison in body without spirit (and Sara remembers him as an old man at the beginning of the film, when she was a child seeing him in a wheelchair, defeated and silent). Yet at the end of the narrative, he says he “raises the glass to every Don Quixote in the astute world,” acknowledging to the viewer that prison and his futile struggle do not represent him, but are part of a “sweet life” sometimes tinged with bitterness, so that its sweetness is not trivialised nor its bitterness overwhelming.
I had previously reviewed Khalid Shamis’s filmThe Colonel’s Stray Dogs about the outcomes of political repression through the living father who speaks to us directly. Khalid told me that one of his motives for producing the film lay in his attempt to draw closer to his father, and Sara expresses the same motive in her film. True, Khalid’s subject became alive and speaking, while Sara’s subject became alive through words gathered from scattered papers. Yet it is also true that both sought, and perhaps still seek, the present absentee, in all places and at all times.
The first scene was painful and filled with sorrow. One morning in March 2023, I woke up to a Facebook post advertising the sale of seats from a cinema hall specifically, Cinema Berenice. The items were being sold at one of Benghazi’s popular markets, known as “Souq Jinaheen.”
The question immediately arose: What happened?
The Berenice Theater and Cinema had been demolished, bringing down the curtain on nearly a century of film screenings and concerts featuring Arab and European music.
According to Libyan historians, the Berenice stage hosted numerous Italian musical performances before parts of it were destroyed following the outbreak of World War II. It was later converted into a cinema. This same stage welcomed legendary Arab singers, including the “Star of the East” Umm Kulthum in 1969 and Warda Al-Jazairia in 1977. It also screened the iconic film The Message in 1976 and Empire of Ghawar in 1983, along with countless Egyptian, Indian, and Western cowboy films that formed a core part of the city’s cinematic memory.
What Happened?
The Berenice building suffered multiple waves of destruction and ruin. The first occurred in the 1970s, and the second in 1984, when a massive fire ravaged the structure, leaving it abandoned for years. In 2016, during the Libyan conflicts, a significant portion of it was destroyed. Finally, in March 2023, it was completely demolished.
Official authorities in Benghazi state that the decision to demolish the Berenice Theater and Cinema was part of a campaign to remove damaged buildings in the city center. Engineering reports confirmed that the structure sustained extensive damage during the 2014–2017 war, losing much of its structural integrity, which rendered it unsafe for use or restoration.
The municipality also included the building within the scope of the downtown redevelopment project, asserting that its dilapidated condition hindered reconstruction and infrastructure efforts. With no official plans or funding available for restoration or cultural investment, the decision to remove it entirely was solidified in March 2023, viewing it as a structural hazard and an obstacle to urban development.
Interior shot of the Berenice Theater and Cinema; Designed by architect Saja Al-Jatlawi, and visualized by Motasim Salama
Remnants of an Ottoman Fortress
According to the book Urban Development of Benghazi: 1911–1940 by Abdul Sattar Mohamed Al-Faqih, the Berenice Cinema and Theater was one of the most significant architectural landmarks on Corso Italia Street (now Independence Street). It was a true Italian masterpiece, considered unique by the standards of the late 1920s.
The theater, later known as the Benghazi Cinema House, was located at the intersection of Rome Street (now Omar Al-Mukhtar Street) and Corso Italia. Built on a large section of the old Turkish fortress grounds, construction began in 1927, and it officially opened on October 28, 1932.
The project started with the removal of the remains of the Ottoman fortress overlooking the Public Garden and Salt Square. Governor Attilio Teruzzi commissioned architects Piacentini and Piccinato to design the detailed plans, while the Fontana company executed the construction.
Why Was It an Italian Masterpiece?
The theater featured a grand hall with 700 seats arranged in a semi-circle, sloping down toward the orchestra pit. It included two main balconies and six smaller box balconies flanking the stage.
Above the hall was a large dome that could be opened for ventilation, featuring a 68-square-meter opening. The theater was equipped with advanced electrical and mechanical systems for the time, and its floors were paved with Slovenian Rovere marble.
Together, the main hall and balconies could accommodate over 1,300 people. The stage itself covered 400 square meters, with a depth of 14 meters and a curtain height of 18 meters. Several small rooms connected to the stage were dedicated to theatrical performances.
To offset the high construction costs and secure additional revenue, a building containing luxury apartments and offices was added to the east of the theater. Another building was added to the west, featuring a café on the ground floor and luxury apartments and offices on the first floor.
The Berenice Theater and Cinema was established in 1928 and demolished in 2023
Where Are You Going This Evening?
Researcher Abd al-Salam al-Zughaibi recalls: “People loved going to the cinema. They would find out about films through daily newspapers in Benghazi, which dedicated a page titled ‘Where Are You Going This Evening?’. The halls were always packed to capacity. A worker sat at the door leading to the screening hall—known as the ‘Ticket Cutter’—who would check your ticket and tear it, giving you back half.”
He continues: “Outside, vendors would call out their wares: ‘Gaz… Gaz,’ distributing Sinalco, pineapple soda, and Portello drinks. Seeds, peanuts, ‘Seven’ gum, and ‘two cents’ chocolate were also sold outside, along with Khalifa Al-Ghariani’s sandwiches from a kiosk next to Cinema Al-Huriya.”
The Flashlight Keeper
Al-Zughaibi adds: “For us kids, we didn’t have the money to buy a ticket, or ‘Billet.’ So we had to resort to waiting for an older man and using the trick known as ‘Get me in with you, uncle’.”
“We used to seize the opportunity of Eid to go to the cinema, where they showed films like Tarzan, cowboy movies, and Charlie Chaplin films starring famous actors. Going to the cinema was usually a group activity involving two or more people; rarely did anyone go alone.
The seats were arranged according to aisles usually two or three and the chairs were fixed to the floor in rows. There was an usher carrying a flashlight whose job was to guide latecomers quietly to empty seats.”
“Spartacus Film”
Short story writer Fathi Naseeb shares his memories: “My father worked the afternoon and evening shifts at the Berenice and Rex cinemas, where he was responsible for operating the projector. Through the small openings in the projection room, I would watch him change the reels. I learned from him how to manually rethread the film, pass it through the machine’s gears, and splice it when it broke.
Berenice and Rex owned by Suleiman Al-Zunni were among the finest cinemas in Benghazi in terms of order, organization, and cleanliness, featuring padded seats and velvet curtains that opened slowly.”
Naseeb speaks of cinema-going as a widespread social habit, with halls crowded with individuals, groups, and families. He elaborates: “Among the films that influenced me as a child was Spartacus, which taught me that freedom is the most precious thing in existence. There were also the Italian neorealist films of Pasolini and Rossellini, the works of Costa-Gavras, and French cinema weeks.”
He continues: “There were many sources of cultural and literary knowledge that shaped the generation of the sixties and seventies in Libya. These included schools, sports clubs like Al-Hilal Club which hosted evenings featuring poets and writers like Talib Al-Ruwaie, Mohammed Zughbiya, Ali Al-Fazzani, Khalifa Al-Fakhri, Hussein Makhlouf, Nizar Qabbani, Abdul Wahab Al-Bayati, and others.
Then there was theater, cinema, and Libyan newspapers and magazines like Al-Haqiqa, Al-Ra’id, Al-Balagh, Reportage, Al-Basha’ir, Illustrated Libya, Cyrene, Al-Umma, and Al-Raqib, alongside the Egyptian and Lebanese press. We also had radio, television, public libraries, Arab and foreign cultural centers, mobile cinema vans, and cafés most notably Al-Aroudi, Al-Tarhuni, Souq Al-Hout cafés, Al-Ummal, Al-Riyadi, Damascus, Shams, Akram, and Tika.”
He adds: “In schools, from primary to high school, the library was an essential part of the educational process. We would borrow a book every week and be tasked with presenting a summary to the Arabic teacher. We also produced weekly wall newspapers; my colleagues and I published one called ‘Free Thought,’ handling both writing and layout, in addition to contributing to school radio.”
The seats of the Berenice Theater and Cinema being sold in a popular market after its demolition
Theater and Cinema
Naseeb points out that theater also played a crucial role by presenting Libyan masterpieces in writing and direction, alongside Arab and international works by Tawfiq Al-Hakim, Mouin Bseiso, Alfred Farag, Saadallah Wannous, Samir Sarhan, and Dürrenmatt. These were performed in Benghazi, Tripoli, Misrata, Sabratha, Derna, Al-Bayda, and Al-Marj on stages like the Popular, Modern, Arab, National, and Scout theaters.
Egyptian professors also contributed to energizing the theatrical movement, including El-Sayed Rady, Abdel Ghani Qamar, Zain El-Ashmawi, Omar El-Hariri, and Mohamed Tawfik.
He adds: “Regarding cinema, I believe it played an important role in spreading awareness and was not merely a means of entertainment. Through it, like many others, I gained knowledge of other peoples and cultures. We watched Egyptian, American, Italian, French, and Indian films, among others, with all their varying themes and techniques.”
He continues: “If we limit the discussion to Benghazi since that is where I lived my childhood and youth there were several cinema halls, including: 9 August, Al-Nahda, Al-Huriya, Berenice, Rex, Haiti, Al-Wahda, Libya, Al-Hilal, Al-Zahra, Al-Firdaws, and Al-Najma.
I also remember that all cinema halls offered free screenings on Children’s Day, and students had the right to enter any cinema for half price.”
He concludes: “Unfortunately, neglect and marginalization befell the cinemas. In the eighties, some were turned into police stations, and most were demolished in Benghazi, Tripoli, and other cities.”
In recent years, despite the absence of a real cinematic scene and significant financial and regulatory hurdles, a number of young names have emerged, attempting to carve out a space within the Libyan cinematic scene. Among them is producer and director Abdulaziz Lamlum. His journey began as a hobby during the revolution years before he moved to the UK to formally study filmmaking and digital media. He returned with practical experience that allows him to view the Libyan cinematic reality from a distinct perspective.
In this interview, Lamlum speaks candidly about his first production experience inside Libya, the lessons learned, and what young filmmakers need to establish their presence. The conversation poses a fundamental question: Is passion enough to make a film, or does the road begin with the persistence to endure the process?
1- How does Abdulaziz Lamlum introduce himself to the Libyan audience?
I am a film producer and director. It started merely as a hobby during the revolution, after which I worked in television between Libya and Egypt. When I moved to the UK, I decided not to complete my engineering degree. Instead, I pivoted to the film industry and digital media, earning my bachelor’s degree after learning every stage of production, from scriptwriting to execution.
2- What are your most notable works?
In terms of production, I produced the film The Debate (Monathara), directed by Mohamed Al-Triki and written by Siraj Al-Huwaidi. I also executed several programs for the “Waw Libya” platform. During my time in the UK, most of my work was in television advertising. Regarding cinema inside Libya, my sole production so far is The Debate.
3- What logistical or technical challenges did you face while filming in Libya?
Truthfully, I hadn’t planned to shoot a film inside Libya. However, when the opportunity and budget became available, I decided to take the risk. The core problem is that producing high-quality cinema here is incredibly difficult because it requires a large number of professionals with genuine cinematic experience.
There is a vast difference between television and cinematic production, and the Libyan market for the latter is still very small. Even the actors whether from theater or TV are unaccustomed to the cinematic workflow, which demands time, precision, and high quality.
We had to hire people who had never worked in cinema and train them from scratch; that in itself was a challenge. Even during casting, we auditioned non-actors, some of whom took on lead roles. We had to teach them how to interact with the camera in a cinematic style, something entirely foreign to them.
As for location shooting, the state still lacks a clear permit system. Sometimes we would get approval to shoot in a location, only to have it revoked later. Large filming equipment creates anxiety among the public, especially in open spaces, as they are not used to seeing cinema cameras or heavy lighting rigs outside of studios. It was a difficult experience, but a true learning curve. I hope things improve with time.
4- As a producer, how do you see the role of Libyan filmmaking in addressing humanitarian issues?
I believe the Libyan film industry is critical in this context. It humanizes complex issues that are often reduced to statistics or news headlines. When we address topics like human rights or social divisions through character-driven stories, it creates a safe space for dialogue without being confrontational or aggressive.
Cinema allows us to highlight the resilience of our people and the strength of our social fabric. It helps us process collective experiences and shared pain. It isn’t about pointing fingers; it’s about shedding light on the human condition and encouraging a deeper understanding of the societal challenges we face daily.
5- In your opinion, to what extent can Libyan cinema influence societal awareness given the political and production challenges?
Cinema is not just entertainment or art; it expresses our collective identity and preserves our cultural heritage. In our society, cinema is a potent form of “soft power” capable of shaping public opinion and bridging gaps between generations and regions. Furthermore, it enables us to present our own narrative to the world through our own lens, rather than relying on external perspectives.
Ultimately, the industry contributes to sparking necessary debates, fostering empathy, and documenting our history for future generations in a way that history books alone cannot achieve.
6- Based on your experience, what are the main problems facing a Libyan producer?
The biggest obstacle today is political interference. It directly hinders artistic work, with various entities trying to impose their own vision, making the production process complex and unstable. Furthermore, the sector lacks clear protocols: there are no fixed procedures for permits, nor a clear mechanism for importing equipment. Everything often relies on personal connections.
Additionally, the production sector in Libya is unregulated politically, economically, and technically and lacks real support from official institutions. Even media graduates struggle to find employment, as perhaps only one series or seasonal program is produced per year, which is insufficient to create a real market.
However, some young people are making efforts to create their own content without waiting for opportunities. This is promising, provided they eventually receive support and the sector becomes better organized.
7- Finally, what is your advice to young producers in Libya?
Don’t try to run before you can walk. Start with small projects where the risks are limited and use them to master the craft. Most importantly, become passionate about pre-production.
Since the film industry in Libya is in its infancy, we lack the robust infrastructure found in other countries like rental houses or clear permit regulations. This means you are forced to plan your work in the most minute detail.
You must also be realistic; the environment in Libya can be unpredictable. You need to leave a large margin for error in your calculations. If Plan A fails, you must be calm enough to immediately switch to Plan B. In our field, a producer’s creativity isn’t just in the script; it’s in finding smart, innovative logistical solutions when the unexpected happens.
Conditions may seem hard, but this is the right time to learn everything yourself. My advice is not to stop and not to wait for a ready-made market, but to forge your own path. If you can produce a film in Libya, you can produce it anywhere in the world.
