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.
Production Year: 1976
Runtime: 178 minutes
Genre: Historical / Religious / Biography
Director: Moustapha Akkad
Evaluation: Worth Watching.
It is impossible to discuss cinema with a civilizational dimension in the Arab and Islamic world without pausing at the legacy of Moustapha Akkad. He was a filmmaker who transcended local markets and identity politics, striving instead to present a universal human discourse through the language of film.
While Lion of the Desert represented the peak of artistic expression regarding national resistance, The Message remains Akkad’s most daring project. It carried immense religious weight, historical sensitivity, and presented artistic challenges that were unprecedented at the time. In The Message, Akkad sought to present Islam not merely as a historical timeline or a display of rituals, but as a universal humanitarian message, relying on a cinematic vision that respected the sanctity of the subject without compromising artistic integrity.
Between Holiness and Cinema
The film deals with the beginnings of the Islamic call, from the first revelation to the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) until the conquest of Mecca. Crucially, it avoids any physical depiction of the Prophet, adhering to Islamic consensus and respecting the sensibilities of the Muslim audience.
This directorial choice, which some viewed as a technical restriction, was transformed by Akkad into an ingenious aesthetic solution. The camera became the “eye” of the message, the audio served as the echo of the call, and movement expressed meaning rather than personhood.
The film adopted a traditional linear narrative, tracking the evolution of the call from vulnerability to empowerment without resorting to complex time-jumps or deconstruction. While this gave the work a dignified, documentary-like quality, it admittedly slowed the pacing during certain dialogue-heavy sections, particularly in the middle of the film.
Characters and Performance
Anthony Quinn delivered a powerhouse performance as Hamza ibn Abd al-Muttalib, combining physical ruggedness with deep humanity. He portrayed Hamza not just as an epic warrior, but as a symbol of courage coupled with faith. In the Arabic version, Abdullah Gaith also gave a remarkable performance in the same role, preserving the character’s prestige and spiritual depth.
Conversely, some secondary characters—particularly in the Quraish camp—suffered from limited dramatic development, appearing more as symbolic archetypes than complex psychological beings.
Notably, Libyan actor Ali Ahmed Salem recorded an honorable presence in the film through his portrayal of Bilal ibn Rabah. He delivered the role with profound human sincerity, showcasing the character’s suffering and steadfast adherence to principle. His performance stood as a testament to the ability of Libyan artists to integrate seamlessly into major historical works and contribute to immortalizing Islamic icons through high-caliber art.
Directorial Vision and Technical Mastery
To Akkad’s credit, he produced a religious film with world-class production standards at a time when Arab cinema lacked such technical capabilities. Filmed across Morocco and Libya, the production utilized thousands of extras to reconstruct the historical environment, granting the viewer distinct visual credibility.
Technically, the musical score was pivotal in building the film’s emotional landscape. The melodies were a blend of spiritual solemnity and historical epicness, supporting the narrative without overpowering it. The camera work was largely calm and balanced, fitting for the subject, with calculated intensity during scenes of conflict.
The artistic excellence of the film reached a global level, and its soundtrack received widespread critical acclaim during the Academy Awards season, as one of the most prominent cinematic musical works of that period.
Between Historical Accuracy and Advocacy
Since its premiere, The Message sparked wide debate—less about its historical accuracy and more about the representation of Islam in Western cinema. Akkad was meticulous in adhering to approved Islamic sources, consulting committees from Al-Azhar and other Islamic bodies to ensure the integrity of the content.
However, the film is not devoid of simplifying certain historical complexities. This simplification is understandable given the desire to address a non-specialist global audience; the film does not claim academic comprehensiveness but seeks to present the essence of the message: monotheism, justice, and human dignity.
Premiere and Reaction
Released in the mid-1970s amidst a politically and religiously tense atmosphere, the film faced bans and objections in several countries on both religious and political grounds. Despite this, it eventually received a warm reception across the Islamic world and is considered a precedent-setting step in introducing the West to Islam through the “Seventh Art.”
A Balanced Critical Reading
While The Message holds high intellectual and artistic value, it is not a flawless work. The pacing drags in certain chapters, and the dialogue is occasionally declarative and direct, serving the idea more than the drama. Furthermore, the focus on the educational aspect sometimes diluted the psychological depth of certain characters.
Yet, these observations do not diminish the film’s value; rather, they place it in its natural context. It was a foundational work that opened a door never before knocked upon, succeeding in combining the sanctity of the subject with the demands of cinematic imagery.
It must be emphasized that any artistic reading of the film does not touch the sanctity of the religious text nor the truth of the Prophetic biography, but rather addresses the cinematic work as a visual medium.
Legacy and Importance
Today, The Message is an indispensable cinematic reference for Islamic history. It has transcended its status as a mere movie to become a cultural document, broadcast during religious occasions and studied in media and film departments. Following Moustapha Akkad’s death in 2005, interest in the film was renewed as the pinnacle of his intellectual and artistic project.
Akkad succeeded in making cinema an ethical platform and the camera a tool for “soft advocacy.” The Message remains an exceptional work in the history of cinema because it did not content itself with narrating an event, but presented a value. It did not display religion as the past, but as an ethical project valid for all times.
If Akkad believed that a camera could be a message, his film proved that honest cinema is capable of being a bridge for connection, not a battleground.
In this exclusive interview, we explore the cinematic journey of Libyan director Faraj Mayouf. We discuss his beginnings, his vision for cinema in Libya, and the obstacles he has navigated to produce local films capable of competing on an international level.
1- Let’s start by congratulating you on your career. We are familiar with some of your early work, but we would love to hear from you: What were your very first experiences in filmmaking?
Thank you. My first true experience was in 2011 with a documentary titled Child Revolution (Thawrat Tifl). The film explored the role of Libyan children during the revolution and how they interacted with the events with a mixture of innocence and maturity.
After that, I transitioned into narrative fiction with the short film Memories of the Past, which marked Libya’s first participation in the Alexandria Film Festival for Mediterranean Countries in 2012. I then directed Lost Hope, which addressed the tragedy of children infected with HIV during the Gaddafi era; this film won an award at the Libya Film Festival in Tripoli. Later, I completed 205, a film telling the story of students conscripted from their schools to fight during the Libyan-Chadian war in the 1980s. My most recent work is the short film Trace.
2- Starting with documentaries shows courage in tackling sensitive issues. Was this choice driven by a specific methodology, or did the Libyan reality dictate these themes?
Reality has always inspired me. To me, cinema is not a luxury; it is a mirror of the people. The issues we lived through in Libya – children, disease, and conflict – held stories that deserved to be told on screen. Cinema was the only platform available to address these wounds, so I sought to transform our suffering into a visual narrative that awakens the conscience.
3- You mentioned your film Trace, which won an award for Best Original Score with an entirely Libyan crew. What does this say about the potential of the film industry in Libya?
The score was designed by the late Libyan sound engineer Sami Elsheikhi, may he rest in peace, who played a pivotal role in the work. But importantly, we were an all-Libyan team, from cinematography to production and editing.
The film didn’t just stay local; it participated internationally in nearly 45 events. It screened at the Annaba Mediterranean Film Festival, won the music award at the Libya International Festival in Tripoli, took second place at the Wasit Festival in Iraq, and received honorable mentions in Egypt, the US, and at the Nouakchott Festival. It also won second place at the Benghazi Film Festival and participated in the Luxor African Film Festival and the Bahrain International Festival.
This experience confirms that Libyan talent is capable. However, it requires institutional support – such as training institutes, funding funds, and local cinemas – to give the Libyan film industry true continuity.
4- How do you view the role of the State and institutions in supporting the Libyan film industry?
I believe the State must realize that cinema is part of the cultural architecture of society. There is a need to establish film institutes, provide grants for new talent, and open screening halls.
Without institutional support, passion alone is insufficient. We are currently working with self-funded efforts or minimal support, which limits our potential. Furthermore, the absence of movie theaters prevents the Libyan public from engaging with local productions. If a clear, consistent strategy were implemented over several years, we could witness a genuine renaissance in Libyan cinema.
5- Many consider 205 to be one of your greatest challenges. What difficulties did you face during its production?
205 was a massive project logistically. It required a location with specific historical details, period costumes, and set design, all of which demand a high budget. We relied on personal resources and trained a young team with limited experience.
The challenge was also in conveying the message to the audience, as the story was human rather than political. Ultimately, we succeeded in delivering the film, and I believe it stands as an example of what we can achieve even under difficult circumstances.
6- Last year saw the launch of the Libya Short Film Festival, but unfortunately, it did not return this year. What is your take on this?
It is regrettable that this happened. Festivals require continuity; they cannot be just a single edition. Without a clear multi-year plan, we cannot build a permanent platform for young filmmakers. Continuity plays a huge role in encouraging production and giving hope. I believe we need a national strategy that supports festivals so they can become a permanent pillar of Libyan cinema.
7- Today, we see a new generation of Libyan filmmakers entering Arab and international festivals. Is there a bond between you all?
Yes, there is a genuine connection among the young generation of filmmakers. We meet at various festivals and cinematic events. What unites us is a passion for cinema and a desire to build a strong industry in Libya.
8- Problems like lack of funding and cinemas are often discussed, but solutions are rarely asked for. How can civil society or intellectuals contribute to fixing this reality?
Civil society can contribute, but it cannot build a complete industry on its own. Real support must come from the State through a clear strategy and funding bodies.
By blending the efforts of national institutions, funding, cinemas, and youth training, we can build an independent and sustainable film industry. Additionally, providing grants to creatives and organizing local and smaller festivals that remain active can inject vitality back into the cinematic scene.
9- We’ve heard recently that you are preparing for a new drama series, as well as new films. What does the future hold for your work?
Yes, I have three film projects currently on hold. I am working on starting the filming of a project that was long delayed due to funding. There is also a feature film script that was written some time ago but remains stuck on paper due to the difficulty of securing production. However, I remain optimistic: if support is found, I believe these experiences will soon find life on screen.
10- Some directors switch between TV drama and cinema. Is this your choice, or do circumstances dictate this shift?
Moving between drama and cinema is often dictated by the reality of production. TV drama is sometimes easier financially and offers a faster way to connect with the local audience, whereas cinema requires greater resources and deeper effort. However, I see opportunity in both: Drama allows us to get closer to the Libyan public, while cinema allows us to deliver deeper messages and document our reality.
11- In conclusion, I would like to thank you for this open and transparent dialogue. Do you have any final words you would like to add?
Thank you for this opportunity. I would like to commend the efforts of the Libya Film Institute in providing spaces for dialogue and cinematic production. Today, we have talented directors and noteworthy experiences on both local and international levels. This gives me hope that Libyan cinema can be a true voice for our issues.
I hope that relevant authorities continue to support these talents, and that the world looks at Libyan cinema not as a supplementary participant in festivals, but as a key guest offering deep and honest narratives\
Although Libya was historically a pioneer in cinema, with origins tracing back to 1908, the past few decades have been affected by political, social, cultural, and economic volatility. These obstacles effectively stalled the art form, leading to its absence for many years.
However, in recent years, specifically since 2011, a new generation of young filmmakers has emerged. They are striving to revive cinema in a country that lacks a comprehensive infrastructure: there are no major production companies, no institutes for film or drama education, and a distinct lack of cinemas, theaters, and established local or international festivals.
Despite these odds, these creatives continue to work. They produce films at their own expense and showcase them at international documentary and narrative film festivals, often winning awards. In this report, we highlight the origins of these young filmmakers: How did their relationship with the camera begin? What difficulties do they face? And how have they used modern technology to reach a wider audience?
Director Mohamed Masli says:“The political and social shifts Libya has witnessed in the past years have created a significant gap in the cultural landscape, clearly impacting cinema. Years of ceased production have led to the loss of a ‘collective viewing culture’ among the public. With the disappearance of theater pioneers and the closure of screening halls, real cinematic production ceased to exist. When the industry disappears, so does the environment that nurtures a new generation of filmmakers. Every field requires continuity to create an incubator. As long as there is no infrastructure or a supportive cinematic and societal culture, this industry will not evolve. Consequently, the number of filmmakers remains limited, and their attempts are largely individual and independent. In reality, we are carving a path through stone, trying to establish a new foundation for this industry so that the next generation has something to build upon. We are still at step one, but we believe that the beginning, no matter how modest, is essential for the journey to continue.”
The Complexities of Film Marketing
The creator of the film Champion (Batala) notes that he has not yet released his work on social media. “I work within the framework of independent cinema,” he explains. “My goal is to market films to television channels to at least recoup the production capital, which enables me to produce new work.”
He adds, “I used social media solely to distribute the trailer, share behind-the-scenes photos, and post news about the film’s participation in regional and international festivals. To some extent, this has helped shine a light on an industry trying to make a comeback and has introduced society to issues that deserve discussion.”
According to the creator of Lost Rights (Huquq Ta’iha), one of the most difficult challenges facing the new cinema industry is funding and the absence of specialized production entities. Most companies focus on Ramadan season productions or commercials because they guarantee a quick financial return.
“For films, the marketing plan is long and complex,” he notes. “A film might tour festivals for a full year if it is a narrative, or two years if it is a documentary, before commercial marketing begins. While some documentaries are produced specifically for TV channels, every channel has its own contracting policies. Therefore, funding remains our biggest challenge. What we are doing today is mostly independent work relying on personal effort, not organized production institutions.”
Personal Experience Leading to the Camera
Director Malek Elmaghrebi launched his documentary filmmaking project through volunteer work with displaced people from Tawergha in 2011, specifically at the camp on the Airport Road in Tripoli. Being close to them and feeling their suffering, he sought a way to transmit their voices beyond the camp.
“The idea of visual documentation began to form there,” Al-Mughairbi recalls. “I later had the opportunity for practical training in filmmaking. I worked on eight documentary films within a project aimed at achieving peace, stability, and peaceful coexistence between communities. That experience was my true launchpad in this field.”
The creator of The Way Back (Tariq Al-Awda) noted that he benefited greatly from modern technology, particularly during the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020. When a planned film festival shifted to a virtual space on social media, it gave the filmmakers a chance to reach a broader audience, engaging not just with cinephiles, but with everyday viewers.
“The most beautiful moments were when the audience started asking questions about the behind-the-scenes process and the fate of the characters we featured,” he says. “This interaction reveals the true impact of documentary filmmaking and makes us feel that the story made a difference in society.”
A Hostile Local Environment
The filmmaker behind Khtawat – steps – says: “The difficulties are numerous, starting with the lack of financial support. I worked completely independently, covered all expenses from my own pocket, and traveled at my own expense. I received no support from the entities that trained me or anyone else. I feel I’ve put myself on the track, but I still need someone to stand with me to complete the journey.”
When asked if the local environment offers enough opportunities for new talent, he replies: “Unfortunately, opportunities in our society are extremely limited and confined to a specific class that holds power and money. The controlling elite is content with a limited number of known names and often treats any newcomer as a competitor that must be ‘stopped.’ This makes work difficult, especially for those trying to start from zero.”
He adds, “I tried applying for grants outside Libya after failing to find local support, but that wasn’t easy either. There is a lack of trust in Libyan creatives, almost as if Libya is not a priority for international film institutions. I reached advanced stages in grant applications only to be rejected in the end under the pretext that ‘other stories were better.’ This recurring rejection makes the next attempt psychologically harder. I believe my story needs to be told now, because delaying it means it might never be told. That is what gives me the drive to continue despite the difficulties.”
A Challenging Landscape
Director Osama Al-Fitori points out that more than a decade after Libya’s changes, the cinematic and media scene is still suffering from the aftershocks of political and social transformation. Long years of interruption have eroded the culture of collective viewing. He explains that he doesn’t actively follow films (narrative or documentary) produced in Libya, making it hard for him to objectively judge their quality.
“Most filmmaking attempts in Libya tend to focus on technical aspects like cameras, lighting, and makeup, while neglecting the essence of the film: the story and how to connect with the audience,” Al-Fitouri observes. He emphasizes that good preparation requires a long time for research and gathering material, whereas filming and editing represent the shorter part of the process.
Al-Fitouri describes the filmmaking and media environment in Libya as “extremely difficult,” especially for those coming from abroad. The lack of acceptance of criticism, political division, and security fluctuations between the East and West make fieldwork fraught with risk. This is compounded by bureaucratic complexities; photographers need multiple permits for airports, cameras, and locations. Furthermore, journalists and directors face widespread hesitation from the public regarding sharing information or speaking on camera, necessitating the building of strong trust and relationships before work can begin.
He notes that while the post-2011 media landscape saw unprecedented openness in freedom of expression, breaking the “One Channel” era and allowing for independent channels and production companies, the subsequent security and political regression weakened this continuity, returning the scene to a state of caution and hesitation.
Technology as a New Tool of Expression
The creator of The Deminer of Benghazi believes technology plays a major role in reshaping the media landscape. With smartphones, filming and production capabilities have become accessible to everyone at a low cost.
He adds: “This shift represents a new form of filmmaking. Phones allowed individuals to tell their stories freely during the Arab Spring events; indeed, some of the most powerful images shown on global channels were shot by ordinary citizens. Today, any young person can start their career with simple equipment and editing software available on the phone itself. The biggest challenge remains the nurturing environment, not the tools.”
Meanwhile, the filmmaker behind Was the NATO intervention in Libya a mistake? mentions that his work today is more journalistic than artistic. He benefits from being outside Libya, as his work is showcased on global platforms. However, he admits to a fear of conducting critical or investigative work inside the country, dreading political or security repercussions.
A New Cinematic Consciousness
Director Muhannad Lamin champions the camera and the image, which have always been part of his family memory. “My father was passionate about photography and drawing, trained with the cartoonist Mohamed Al-Zawawi, and worked at Al-Amal magazine before dedicating himself to engineering,” Lamin recalls. “In my childhood, the camera was always present at home, documenting small family moments. Through it, I began to understand that an image is not just a souvenir, but a way to see the world differently.”
Lamin continues: “Over time, the camera turned into my means of understanding reality and expressing things I couldn’t say with words. It is a tool for research, for questioning, and for reconstructing personal and collective memory. For me, the image is an honest space between what is real and what is internal, between what I see and what I feel.”
When asked if these new cinematic experiences can be considered the start of a Libyan film industry or merely individual attempts, he says: “I believe it is the beginning of an industry, even if it looks like scattered individual attempts right now. Every industry goes through a phase like this, where early experiences are built on the passion of people working despite the lack of infrastructure or support. What is happening in Libya today is a slow but real birth of a new cinematic consciousness; a generation trying to tell its stories with simple means but with an honest and conscious vision.”
He adds, “Beginnings don’t have to be perfect or fast. What matters is that they continue, that the habit is created, and that the dream turns into consistent practice. With time, these attempts will turn into a foundation, from which an actual industry can form.”
Cinema is Not a Luxury
The creator of the film Donga believes the biggest challenge facing filmmakers in Libya is the absence of cinematic infrastructure, no production institutions, no funding bodies, and not even theaters to connect with an audience. Every project is an independent adventure relying on personal effort and the support of friends and partners who believe in the idea.
“The difficulty isn’t just funding,” he continues. “It extends to the absence of an environment that respects artistic work as a career path and understands it. Sometimes the biggest challenge is convincing people that cinema is not a luxury, but a means for understanding, documenting, and expressing reality in a deeper way.”
The filmmaker behind The Prisoner and the Jailernotes that after 2011, a new window for expression opened, and many began to see cinema as a tool to document and analyze their surroundings. However, a collective suspicion of the camera also emerged. “Its presence in the street became associated with ideological press or social media, creating a kind of fear toward it, as if it were a tool for surveillance rather than expression.”
He concludes: “This suspicion coincided with a general climate of rejection toward culture and art. Yet, a new generation of directors and photographers has appeared, trying to overcome this fear and carve out a free space within the chaos. I think this paradox between openness and fear, between the desire to express and the dread of it, is what has shaped the new cinematic consciousness in Libya. It has made cinema, for us, not just an art, but a necessity.”
In conclusion, we believe that these individual attempts are but the first step toward reclaiming the cinematic scene from its long absence. This step will be followed by others that will tell our stories as they are, with all their transformations, conflicts, and big dreams.
In a previous article, I reviewed a documentary on the former Libyan dissident, Ashour Shamis. The director of the film discussed here is his son, Khalid Shamis, who graciously shared his film with the Libya Film Institute blog. After watching it, I asked Khalid to share his previous film, The Imam and I (2011), so that I could include a private link and showcase his directorial filmography.
From this rare generosity, I gathered threads to begin a conversation about his artistic and personal biography, two paths that blend together as a documentation of his own condition and that of his family. We spoke for an hour and a half about Libyan cinema abroad and the process of cinematic documentation between the personal and the public. Khalid does not speak Arabic, and we touched upon that in the dialogue. Here, I have translated and condensed some of what was said.
Our chat ended, yet many questions remained unasked. I did not wish to exploit Khalid’s generosity, as he had given his time without a set end-point, so I preferred to leave the remaining questions for the reader to ask themselves. This is some of the dialogue—the details are many and complex—and the rest remains in the audio recording for those interested.
I believe that the most suitable biographies are autobiographies. Could you summarize your upbringing for the reader?
I was born in London in 1975. My father is Libyan, from Gharyan, and my mother is from Cape Town, South Africa. She belongs to the Cape Malay community in Cape Town, which was racially classified as the Muslim community there. Most of them were descendants of slaves, indentured laborers, and prisoners brought by colonialists from Indonesia. My Libyan father and South African mother met in London, and I was born there with my siblings.
I visited Libya for the first time very late, in 2012. I did not consider myself a Libyan filmmaker until I filmed my father. My cinematic career began when I left London and started working on the continent; starting from South Africa, I consider myself an African filmmaker more than a Libyan or South African one.
We might say, then, that you are not a “Libyan filmmaker” in the traditional sense, because you did not grow up in Libya, where the role of cinema—and cinema itself—was absent. Let’s talk a little about cinematic influences; how did you move from being a viewer to a maker?
I grew up in London in the eighties, where popular culture was dominated by American and English cinema. We had no other options, not even documentaries, with the exception of some David Attenborough programs and Panorama. I favored discovering other worlds, so I studied film theory at university and learned what a narrative is. However, the content of the studies revolved around classical Western narratives and schools and did not touch upon the “how-to” of the film industry.
In the period between graduating in 1997 and emigrating to Cape Town, I worked in television in Soho, London, in production and editing. It was there that I studied the inner workings of production and acquired the necessary confidence for filming and montage. It was there that I became a documentary filmmaker concerning my grandfather (The Imam and I). Everything I have in my pocket—intention, idea, and relationships—enabled the filming. Since then, I became a filmmaker. I started by collecting information and archives to discover the life of my grandfather first, then the life of my father second.
In The Imam and I, there wasn’t a pre-determined direction in your opinion, or you didn’t want to clarify it beforehand; the filming itself determined the path of the film, especially since your grandfather wasn’t honored by the state until recently, in 2014.
Imam Haron was a dominant icon in the Muslim imagination in South Africa. People referred to him as “The Imam.” The Muslim community at the time felt safe relative to the Apartheid system, and thus no opposition arose from the notables of the community. However, Apartheid was one of the worst entities of the twentieth century, and the Muslim community did not align with the teachings of Islam which aim to uphold the word of truth and revolution in the face of the usurper. Even if the Imam went against the current, he did not find a welcome among his fellow Imams. He sacrificed his life back then, and the notables added that what they were warning about had come to pass.
At some stage in your life, you realized that your father had been an opponent of Gaddafi since the eighties, and that your mother’s father was killed in prison during Apartheid. How did this realization impact your consciousness as a filmmaker later on?
I learned about my father in the mid-eighties, when I was ten. After the events at the Libyan Embassy in London, we lived in hiding under police protection, and from there I became certain of my father’s opposition to the Gaddafi regime. With my simple understanding, I knew that Gaddafi was the reason my father could not return to Libya. Yet, he did not remain the sole reference for Libya; I learned about my grandmother through her tattoos, Bazin, Couscous, and how to say Ga’amiz (sit down) and similar words, but a Libyan identity was not fully formed for me.
As for my grandfather, we used to travel to Cape Town constantly since the seventies to visit my grandmother and the rest of the family. Aside from the book mentioned in the film, photos of my grandfather filled our house, so his presence overwhelmed my consciousness early on. When I visit Cape Town, everyone knows me as the Imam’s grandson.
After completing the documentary about my grandfather, I thought about undertaking the experience of investigating my father’s past… the theme of the struggling spy who lived a double life. But I did not think about filming until after the revolution because the opportunity then became available.
Most Libyans know what the phrase “Stray Dogs” means. In your film The Colonel’s Stray Dogs, do you think your interview with your mother was the most appropriate way to reveal your father’s past?
Perhaps. I would like to talk a little about my mother, Shamela Haron, and her role in the two documentaries.
The documentary was the medium for sitting with my father in my capacity as his son, you know the character of the Libyan man. I believe I subconsciously filmed this to connect with my father.
I also believe that without my mother, I would not have filmed the film to communicate with my father.
My mother plays a pivotal role in the film, as I filmed her in the kitchen, which represents her private space, and she appeared in the middle of the film. I did not plan for that, but I discovered it in editing. All the specific symbols appearing in the film point to her and the kitchen. She is also the “guardian of secrets” just as she was the daughter of her father, a guardian of secrets. She contained the secrets of her father for long years, so she became the entrance to my film about my grandfather and the entrance to my second film about my father.
Let us talk a little about filmmaking in Libya. Fortunately, you did not grow up as a filmmaker in Libya. For the filmmaker in Libya, the scene appears as chaos, and the challenges repeat themselves in the Jamahiriya era. I do not favor this question, but do you have free tips for those struggling in filmmaking inside the country? Even simple documentary films have become difficult.
I believe the beginning lies in letting your naivety and curiosity guide you. I believe the matter is the same between documentary and fiction, especially from my work as an editor. In a documentary, it depends on gathering materials, so the moment of filming a bird perched on a branch might become part of your film. Gathering materials ends with the decision to stop searching and start editing.
Amidst this curious momentum, one must acquire the principles of production: “Cut and Paste,” and what accompanies that in blending sounds and music. All of that is available in free programs. The rest depends on your understanding of the world and your intuition… capturing the stories of grandmothers while they are present, even with a mobile camera. In the moment where the “engineering of the story” begins, you produce a third meaning, and the meaning branches out by adding music and sounds. A voice inside you will become clear later, and then you proceed to think about the complexities of the narrative; that only comes at a later stage. What matters fundamentally is the composition of the story in your mind.
That is impossible without reading and watching the world’s films.
Of course.
In fiction films, there is an ongoing debate regarding the “author’s intent”… what he means by that shot or that dialogue… Do you think the director’s intent is important in a documentary film?
Yes and no. If you respect the subject of the film and are honest, but without sanctifying the subject, I believe the viewer will respect your film. But if you do not care about the viewer’s reaction, why produce films at all? Respect for the viewer comes from respecting their intelligence; so ask yourself, “Is what I am installing in the montage logical? Am I satisfied with this composition?” These are questions that cross the mind of the filmmaker during editing. The questions become more complex in fiction films. Fiction filmmakers suffer more in the issue of accepting their visions. In documentary film, the shot often comes to you without intention during the editing phase. As an editor, I see no difference between documentary and fiction, because the elements of composition are the same, and thus I prefer working as an editor because it carries fewer burdensome responsibilities than preparation and directing.
In your two films, there is a political orientation; you are loyal to the February revolution and loyal to the organized struggle against Apartheid. How do you present your subject without insulting your opponents?
The trick lies in making a personal film; you reveal a statement related to you personally and to your family. These are all tools that help you in making a personal film.
Meaning you do not work as a journalist…
Yes, you can say what you like. But the matter has consequences. The film was to be screened at the Luxor African Film Festival, for example, but the government banned the film. The Egyptians loved the film, but their government didn’t.
I did not favor the question about your advice to filmmakers in Libya because the society does not welcome the idea to begin with, or let us say is not eager for a “Libyan cinema.”
For this reason, Muhannad Lamin produces his films outside Libya, as does Naziha Arebi. I am also outside Libya.
Is it possible to say that there is a Libyan “new wave” abroad?
Yes, why not?
The common factor between you, Muhannad Lamin, Naziha Arebi, and others, is making documentaries… Fiction remains a mirage even in the conditions available outside Libya. Perhaps the wave begins with documentaries abroad, then fiction abroad, then documentaries inside Libya, and finally fiction inside Libya…
Yes. Stories do not end, and we do not know what tomorrow hides in terms of films and directors.
Countries of Production: Libya – South Africa – Qatar. Year of Production: 2021. Running Time: 73 minutes. Genre: Documentary. Written and Directed by: Khalid Shamis. Awards: Best Director in the Documentary Category, South African Film and Television Awards (the South African Oscars). Evaluation: Worth Watching.
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It is almost unnecessary to remind the reader of the diverse spectrum of the Libyan resistance, which began weakly in 1969 and grew stronger as Gaddafi consolidated his power following the Zuwara speech in 1973. The newbie republic transformed from a liberator of the poor into an authoritarian power that, as the speech’s opening declared, “suspended all existing laws.” It remained a republic in name only until it revealed its true face with the declaration of the “people’s authority” in 1977.
Thus, in the 1980s, Gaddafi’s Jamahiriya coined the term “stray dogs” (al-kilab al-dalla): the resistance fighters whom his regime had hunted since the early 1970s. This suspension of laws included a ban on political parties, turning every liberal, communist, and Muslim Brotherhood member into a “stray dog” to be imprisoned by military courts or forced into exile.
It is from this starting point that the Libyan-British-South African filmmaker, Khalid Shamis, begins his excavation into the history of his father, Ashour Shamis, an opposition figure who joined the National Front for the Salvation of Libya in the early 1980s. It may be said, moreover, that the term spread among Libyans with the appearance of Faraj Elasha on Al Jazeera at the dawn of the new millennium. Elasha, too, was a “stray dog,” drawing from a political orientation opposed to that of Shamis. Yet the orientation opposing both of them was the Jamahiriya, which unified their “strayness.”
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The sound of the sea is not so different from the echoes of war—or so it seems in our imagination, which has been fused to the front lines since they first ignited in 2011. Perhaps the metaphor is cemented by the Arabic phonetic resemblance between bahr (sea) and harb (war). Whatever the case, Shamis begins his film with the sea and the sound of its waves, seen from a moving car. The sound of the waves is accompanied by a recorded child’s voice, reminding his uncle of the sea and of better times.
The camera’s movement on the road then shifts to the opposite direction: here, the vehicle transports soldiers on a battlefront. The sound is no longer an accompaniment but an integral part of the image of war—the military advance of the “rebels” during the armed uprising.
This is a conventional opening, one we often see in narratives that intend to investigate the line between peace and war, seriousness and play. When we first hear the news of Gaddafi’s death announced in English, and then see a gleeful Hillary Clinton reading it on her phone, we understand that the film is presenting its subject to the world, not just to Libyans. The third narrative layer comes from Khalid Shamis himself, who comments that his father fought against Gaddafi’s rule to an extent that surpassed his concern for his own family.
The film officially begins with its title card: The Colonel’s Stray Dogs, juxtaposed with the visual paradox of a rose. (Flowers are a recurring visual motif in the film, accompanying the journey between Libya and Britain).
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We are in London, specifically in the south. The camera is on the road again, recalling the film’s opening, but this time, the peace of the sea is replaced by trees and the tranquility of the English suburbs. From here, Khalid narrates his father’s brief biography through the lens of his own. His dissident father is a son of the Nafusa Mountains, south of Tripoli; he, however, is a son of Croydon, south of London. Just as he reminds us of the mountain’s central role in the resistance against the Italian occupation in western Libya, he notes his own, entirely different upbringing, born far from any Libyan violence, whether against the Italians or against Gaddafi.
Through the camera, we enter Ashour Shamis’s home and realize that the child’s voice from the beginning of the film belongs to a collection of cassette tapes recorded in the 1970s, sent to him by his family, as was the custom back then. In one of his sessions with his inquisitive son, Ashour doesn’t hide his mockery of the Jamahiriya’s intelligence services, revealing his own file, which he obtained after the 2011 uprising. In the file, which classifies him as a stray dog, we read that he teaches “heresy” in the “city of Manchester United”—which, by the way, is located in London. The foolishness is twofold.
But the foolishness of the Jamahiriya’s intelligence, completely ignorant of world geography, resulted in the murder of dissidents who had spread across the globe, with a concentrated presence in Europe, especially Britain. The assassinations began in the early 1980s, with the killing of Yvonne Fletcher becoming the spark for a diplomatic war with the West. This was followed by the Berlin bombing, the predictable American airstrikes in 1986, and finally, the Lockerbie incident in 1988. It was a decade of violence, crowned by the Chad war, in which the Salvation Front participated against Gaddafi. The documentary reveals the details of the Front’s operations through archives and interviews. As we understand from Ashour’s reflections on those events, that decade may have marked the end of the organized Libyan opposition as a viable alternative.
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Documentaries about political struggle—at least in mainstream cinema—often navigate the space between the personal and the public. They either start from the director’s own perspective or present their subject “objectively.” We also know that many critics believe that the act of writing or presenting a biography is inherently an expression of the creator’s own autobiography.
Between these two poles, we see the subject alive in the person of Ashour Shamis, unlike filmmakers who must probe the depths of a subject who is no longer living. Here, Ashour himself tells us about the consequences of his choices, as well as facts and testimonies. He clearly states his early affiliation with a political orientation hostile to Nasserism, meaning he opposed the “Al-Fateh Revolution” from its inception. He also doesn’t hide his Islamist political leanings, while emphasizing a constitutional-democratic framework.
On the other side, Khalid’s investigative vision emerges from cinema’s audacity in uncovering a person’s hidden depths. He even resolves to sit with his mother and ask her: “Was my father a terrorist?” He poses this question in defiance of the Western media’s official definition of terrorism, which once saw the fighters against the Soviet invasion as legitimate “mujahideen” and “freedom fighters” (a term for which I have found no official Arabic translation), only to later see them as terrorists. This led to the collapse of any coherent definition, culminating in the “condemnation of Hamas.” Khalid stresses to his mother that he is only questioning whether his father was a terrorist or a freedom fighter. She rejects the question, because terrorism means killing innocent people.
Woven into this courageous exploration is Khalid’s own voiceover, which shifts between poetry and prose. Neither serves to clarify his own opinion on the Libyan issue, but rather to observe the mental reflections created in the far north, with his small family, distant from his extended family in the deep south. He muses on his father’s way of making tea, his snoring naps in the living room of their quiet home, in a second exile—far from the Libya that we, the Libyans imprisoned within it, know.
When I was a teenager, I desperately wanted to silence everyone who mockingly asked me about the point of watching movies. I wanted a convincing answer that would clear me of the crime of wasting my time on pointless trivialities. But I couldn’t do it. All I had was the enjoyment that was the entire purpose of that “wasted” time. I even hid my interest in cinema out of a sense of shame, trying to avoid a stigma I didn’t know how to refute.
But I thought to myself back then: even if I couldn’t justify my carelessness, I felt that every creative work I consumed was making me a better person.
I didn’t have the ability to answer their sarcastic questions, nor could I explain why I considered the world of cinema a place that always made me better than I was before. It wasn’t until later that I realized the question about the “usefulness” of cinema is, at its core, a question about the meaning of culture itself.
How is a Conversation About Cinema a Conversation About Culture?
Four years ago, I heard the Kuwaiti writer Buthaina Al-Essa describe culture as a huge house with many rooms. In one room, we find cinema; in another, the novel; in a third, music; in a fourth, theater; and in the rest, all other forms of creative work. Language, however, is not one of these rooms. Instead, it is the light that illuminates the entire house, because it is the tool we use to shape and transmit everything cultural.
This description made me realize that culture is not just a collection of facts that one memorizes to show off. It is a blend of concepts produced by those who came before us. It is not something static, but a comprehensive climate in which we live. It begins with ideas and beliefs and ends with the simplest details of our lives: what we wear, how we speak, how we think and act. Are we as capable of analyzing, connecting, critiquing, and expressing ourselves as we are of eating and drinking?
For this reason, and from this point forward, we will talk about cinema as a vital part of the concept of culture.
How Does Cinema Create a Cultured Individual?
Most would agree that films are one of the most important cultural outputs of humanity. This means they are a direct product of our collective mind, values, and imagination. Cinema records historical and social moments not from the perspective of a historian, but from that of an ordinary person. This is why historians can study societies through their films, because they preserve a visual and emotional memory of the times, expressing how people then saw themselves and the world around them. But have any of us ever considered the real impact of cinema on the formation of the individual?
A person who engages with cultural products like cinema is not just influenced by the content; their entire cognitive and emotional structure is rewired.
Every viewing adds a new layer to a person’s consciousness, making them see the world from multiple, different angles. They come to understand that truth is not absolute but relative. From here, the capacity for critical thinking is born. They no longer see things just as they are presented, but as they could be. Because every film is a new perceptual experience, the viewer learns to see details and hidden cues. Over time, their mind is trained to read reality the way it reads a cinematic scene—with analysis and connection.
Furthermore, watching different cultures fosters an ability to understand and empathize with the “other,” even if one cannot adopt their views. Art trains the mind to connect unexpected things, and with time, a faculty for creativity develops, one that sees the hidden relationships between different ideas. Eventually, the person becomes capable of creating and expressing these connections themselves.
Most importantly, they may, over time, acquire an intense desire to express all the images, ideas, feelings, and arts that have accumulated in their mind. This desire grows until it turns into small attempts, then real experiments, until they discover they have begun to translate themselves into their own work. They start to create something new in the house of culture. At that stage, they transform from a consumer into a producer.
What Happens to an Individual Who Ignores the Value of Cultural Outputs (Like Cinema), Seeing Them as an Unnecessary Luxury?
They become an uncultured individual! Before you object to that description, let’s imagine a person who lacks the faculty for critical and creative thinking, the ability to connect, plan, analyze, and express themselves. What is left of this person? Nothing.
These faculties are what create a cultured individual. When we talk about culture here, we don’t mean the information one possesses from studying dry sciences, but the skills that enable a person to understand and change reality. Culture is the climate that nurtures all our practices, the framework within which a society’s values, behaviors, and worldview are formed. It determines how we understand work and authority, how we view women and the law, and how we build the concepts of good and evil within our collective consciousness.
Therefore, an uncultured individual is not just someone uninterested in the arts; they are an element that threatens the cohesion of society, because they lack the awareness that organizes their behavior within the human and social fabric.
Looking at it practically, when the cinemas in Libya were turned into drab warehouses and all cultural expression was exiled on the grounds that it was a luxury the people didn’t need, the fabric of society began to actually collapse. The absence of cultural expression doesn’t just produce an artistic void; it creates an individual who is internally fragile, dry in their behavior, and lacking the tools for thought and expression. When consciousness is deprived of culture, it weakens. Societies transform into entities that are quick to anger, poor in imagination, and incapable of dialogue. This is precisely the state of our Libyan society today.
For this reason, we can say with confidence: an uncultured individual is a ticking time bomb that destroys the fabric of society.
So, How Does Cinema Contribute to the Survival of Society?
We have agreed that cinema is one of the most important cultural outputs, that culture is the nurturing climate for all our practices, and that our problems are always, first and foremost, cultural problems. To solve them, we will need a cultured individual who holds important tools in their hands: the ability to analyze, connect, and plan; to think critically and creatively.
When we face a problem in an institution, we might think it is technical or administrative, when in reality it is a cultural problem. For example, when an employee sees their job as a worthless burden, the issue is not with their ability but with their culture of work. When states impose stifling censorship on thought and shut down cinemas and all artistic venues, the issue is not legal but a culture of control. Culture is what creates our way of understanding the world. Unless it changes, the same mistakes will be repeated, no matter how many people or laws we change.
When we realize that every crisis in society is, at its core, a crisis of culture, we understand that the remedy is not found in laws or dry speeches, but in the formation of the cultured individual. And that individual is not made through theoretical lectures, but through continuous exposure to cultural outputs. This means: they must read, they must watch, they must listen, and they must taste art.
Every interaction with a creative work is indirect training in critical and creative thinking, in analysis and connection, in sensing beauty and meaning. Only then do societies begin to transform from chaos to consciousness, from consumption to production, and from randomness to creativity. Because culture, quite simply, is what restores humanity into humans.
