Nov 6, 2025
When we look at the Arab world’s relationship with cinema, we realize that this art form has never been merely a means of entertainment; it has been a mirror for society and a tool for shaping public discourse. Egypt turned its cinema into a grand school for debating social and political issues. Algeria transformed it into an instrument for preserving the memory of its resistance. Tunisia and Morocco have used it to explore questions of freedom and modernity.
In contrast, Libya has remained distant from this path, which raises a critical and unavoidable question: What does it mean for an entire society to be deprived of a screen that reflects its own identity and helps it rethink its past and present?
The absence of cinema in Libya cannot be reduced to a lack of theaters or weak production. It extends to depriving society of a tool for collective analysis and a cultural medium capable of turning big questions into living images. This absence forces us to reconsider cinema’s place within a national project that seeks to rebuild both the individual and society, even if a robust local industry doesn’t exist at this moment.
Cinema: A Force for Shaping Consciousness
At its core, cinema is not entertainment; it is a medium for collective thinking. In Egypt, Salah Abu Seif tackled issues of poverty and social justice, while Youssef Chahine became famous for his philosophical vision of the individual’s relationship with power and society. These films weren’t confined to theaters; they shaped public discourse and reached broad segments of the population.
In Algeria, the film The Battle of Algiers was not just a work of art but a historical document that introduced the entire world to the experience of a people resisting colonialism. Meanwhile, Morocco and Tunisia have invested in cinema to spark bold conversations about society, the individual, and identity, making their films part of an ongoing societal dialogue.
These examples show that cinema is not a luxury but a popular school that opens people’s eyes to their own issues and pushes them to re-evaluate their positions.
A frame from the film The Battle of Algiers (1966)
Libya and the Visual Void
In the Libyan case, this role has never been fully realized. Libyan society has relied on alternative means to tell its stories: poetry, popular councils, and, more recently, traditional media and social networks. But these mediums, however important, lack the power of the cinematic image, which combines artistic creativity with the ability to document.
The absence of cinema has meant that Libyans consume the narratives of others. They watch foreign or other Arab films that express the concerns of different societies, while their own story remains without a visual archive to preserve it. This means the national memory is built on written texts and political speeches, but it lacks the powerful visual dimension that makes an experience more present in the consciousness of future generations.
Cinema as a Tool for Analyzing Reality
For decades, Libyan society has been living through overlapping crises: political divisions, conflicts, and cultural shifts. In such contexts, cinema can play a pivotal role in bringing these issues into the public sphere and helping to build a collective critical consciousness. A film can pose questions of identity in a way that reaches audiences that academic research or political speeches cannot. It allows people to see themselves within a larger picture and contemplate their problems from a new angle.
The absence of this medium has kept debates on crucial issues confined to political or academic elites, without finding their way to the general public. This explains why many Libyans feel that their biggest challenges are discussed in closed-off spaces that do not directly touch their daily lives.
From one of the film screenings at the Tanarout Collective, Benghazi (2018)
Inspiring Arab Examples
When we return to the Algerian experience, we find that the film Chronicle of the Years of Fire, by director Mohammed Lakhdar-Hamina – the first Arab and African artist to win the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival – was not just a cinematic work but a message to the world that Algeria possesses a living memory that cannot be erased.
In Tunisia, the Carthage Film Festival evolved into a space that expresses and enables discussion of the entire region’s issues. In Egypt, cinema has addressed undocumented migration, poverty, and illiteracy, reaching villages and working-class neighborhoods and opening up conversations among the people. These models confirm that cinema is capable of reaching deep into a society and stirring its consciousness, in my opinion surpassing the role of literature or journalism.
Libyan Examples: “Freedom Fields” and “Champion”
Recent experiences confirm that Libyan cinema is about more than entertainment. The film Freedom Fields (2018), by director Naziha Arebi, documents the journey of three female football players in post-revolution Libya over years of transformation, revealing the intersection of athletic dreams and social constraints. The film received significant international attention and screenings.
Similarly, the short documentary Champion (2024), by director Mohamed Musalli, follows the story of Suad, a weightlifter with a disability from Tawergha. It shows how a film can have a direct social impact — solving problems related to her government benefits and securing transportation for her training — turning the screen into a space for civic action, not just storytelling. The importance of these two works lies in their ability to broaden societal awareness of issues facing women, sports, and people with disabilities. Their message was not limited to artistic documentation; it evolved into a contribution to tangible change.
A frame from Champion (2024)
Thus, it can be said that depriving a society of cinema is, at its core, depriving it of a way to understand itself. Libya has lost more than just movie theaters; it has lost the opportunity to see itself in a unifying mirror that preserves its memory and debates its issues.
Cinema is not a luxury; it is a necessity for building awareness, documenting history, and shaping the future.
Perhaps future generations will keep asking: Why didn’t we have a visual archive to tell our story? Why was the screen that could have united us around a shared narrative so absent?
These are questions that carry the bitterness of our reality, but at the same time, they open the door to hope and reflection. They remind us that the absence of cinema in Libya was not inevitable, but the result of choices that could have been different, had we only believed in its power to build a collective consciousness.
Writer:
Muhammad Ben Saoud
Oct 30, 2025
In an interview with the Libya Film Institute, director Mohamed Masli confirmed that Libyan filmmakers today face numerous production and filming challenges amidst a near-total absence of financial support.
Masli discussed his beginnings in filmmaking and the vital role of documentaries in addressing human rights issues, exploring the Libyan audience’s appetite for the genre. The conversation also touched upon whether documentary cinema can truly impact Libyan society, his own future projects, and his assessment of the country’s cinematic landscape today.
1- How did you begin your journey in filmmaking?
Honestly, my journey began in the media field back in 2008. Then, in 2019, I received 10 months of training in documentary filmmaking from Germany’s Deutsche Welle Akademie, in addition to storytelling training with Zenith Magazine. From there, I launched my career in documentary filmmaking.
I currently have four short documentary films to my name. It started in 2021 with the film Tawergha’s Blacksmith, as part of the Libya Film Institute’s “Step” project.
In 2022, I made my second short documentary, To the Council, which was about the role of women in elections and society’s perception of women working in Libyan politics.
Then, in 2023, we collaborated with the Jusoor Organization to produce Lost Rights, a film that addresses the absence of the rule of law in Libya.
Finally, in 2024, we produced Champion, which deals with the rights of women with disabilities. I am currently working on several new projects.
2- Why did you start with documentaries rather than narrative films?
From my earliest days working in media and developing television programs, I was always searching for impactful and unique human stories. I truly enjoyed the time I spent speaking with participants to understand their lives and the details of their experiences. This is what led my programs to always focus on documentary-style storytelling.
I find myself more in the documentary form because I love meeting people directly and speaking with them without barriers or intermediaries. Some films take two or three months of preparation, and I enjoy this phase of the work, especially when there’s a challenge in interviewing one of the film’s subjects or convincing them to be filmed and have their story shared. For example, in Lost Rights, there were four women featured in the film. As you know, it is very difficult for women to appear on camera in Libyan society. But I didn’t give up, and I succeeded in including their perspectives in the film, shooting several scenes within their safe space.
I do have plans for narrative films in the future, but for now, my focus is on documentaries. Another primary reason for this is that the production cost of a documentary is significantly lower than that of a narrative film.
3- Did you face challenges during the production of your film projects?
While making my first feature-length documentary, I faced many difficulties related to the high production costs. Producing a long-form documentary that meets international standards turned out to be incredibly expensive. For instance, the project we are working on now requires a budget of around $60,000. This is because, with my short films, I relied on my own individual efforts for shooting, editing, and preparation, and the crew was never more than four people. In contrast, a feature-length film requires a crew of at least 15 people.
4- Have you ever received financial support from within Libya?
Unfortunately, no. The only thing I received was a small grant for Lost Rights, which was just to provide payments for the technicians working on the film. It wasn’t really support, just a token of appreciation.
5- What are the main funding difficulties Libyan filmmakers face?
Over the last 20 years or so, a real gap has formed in Libyan society. Generations have grown up without cinema, without films, without a single movie theater. This has made both the public and private sectors completely uninterested in cinema. You find that all sponsorship and support automatically goes toward Ramadan television dramas to meet audience demand, where artistic production is consumed just once a year. And even then, the state of television production is not much better off than the film scene.
In reality, on the ground, a film industry simply does not exist in Libya. All the attempts we see today are personal endeavors by individuals like Osama Rizk, Muhannad Lamin, Faraj Meayouf, Moayed Zabtia, Yousef Eljedabi, and Ayoub Ahmed, among others. But they remain isolated efforts, not an organized industry.
6- Is there any financial support from Arab or foreign entities for Libyan films?
Personally, I have tried to apply for more than one grant outside of Libya, but I am rejected every time.
During my participation in the Oran International Arab Film Festival last year, someone advised me that I needed to partner with a foreign producer to be able to secure foreign grants. I did contact two producers, one from America and one from Tunisia, and both gave me the same answer: “I am not prepared to apply for a grant to produce a Libyan film because Libya is an unstable country. If we get the grant and then a problem suddenly erupts in Libya that halts the project, I will lose my reputation with the funding bodies.”
Their advice was to secure initial funding from within Libya, work on producing the film locally, and then apply for completion or encouragement grants—not full production grants that cover a film from the initial idea and script phase.
Some people do manage to get foreign grants, but these are small, supportive funds, not the kind of grants that allow you to produce a feature film from start to finish according to international standards.
7- What are the real factors that have led to the absence of a film industry in Libya today?
We come back to the primary historical reason, which is the 20-year time gap between the last cinema screening in Libya and today. This is what caused people to drift further and further away from cinema and lose interest in film production. In addition to that, there are many other reasons, most notably the fragile infrastructure, the absence of film production companies or support funds, and the lack of theaters.
We conducted an experiment where we screened a collection of Libyan films in collaboration with the Misrata National Theater, which is a space equipped with a large screen and good technology, with a capacity of about 360 seats. We sent out invitations for free attendance, but the turnout never exceeded 100 people. This just confirms how little interest the average Libyan citizen has in films and cinema screenings.
In contrast, the first screening of Lost Rights was completely full. The reason was that we put up a large promotional banner a month before the screening, but it was very expensive and we paid for it out of our own pockets. This experience shows us that we must think seriously about rebuilding the foundational infrastructure for a film industry in Libya, from theaters to financial and media support.
8- How can documentary films contribute to changing the reality in Libya today?
The director Federico Fellini was once asked, “Why do you love making documentary films?” He replied, “There is nothing more magnificent than reality.”
Art is a mirror of society, whether it’s cinema, drama, or even folk songs. There is nothing more beautiful than expressing society through art. In cinema, when you tackle an issue with sound and image and convey real, human stories, your message reaches people faster. This is especially true when documentaries are about real people and real issues stemming from the community and the daily problems of its citizens.
When we screened Lost Rights, viewers couldn’t believe that the people in the film were real and that their stories were true events from Libya, not acting. They were shocked that the problems raised by the film actually exist in our society. This is why documentaries open the door for serious discussion about the issues facing marginalized groups — people who live among us but are neither seen nor heard.
I believe the great advantage of art is that it presents a beautiful artistic image that allows the viewer to enjoy their time, while simultaneously addressing critical human rights issues. In my film Champion, we highlighted some of the rights of people with disabilities in Libya, especially women. The film told the story of an athlete, Souad, who had to travel over 20 kilometers from her city for training and had her monthly disability benefit cut off because she got married. This caused her financial problems and stood in the way of her athletic dream. Thanks to the film, two of the many problems it highlighted were solved: a means of transportation was secured for the athlete, and her monthly benefit was reinstated.
For us filmmakers, that is the greatest achievement and the most valuable prize, when we can create change and inspire hope.
Oct 23, 2025
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The title itself points to a paradox we see unfolding in our societies: How can we establish “alternative” cinema spaces if we haven’t first established recognized, commercial theaters that meet the standards for showing new films? The answer lies in our tendency to import terminology from the masters of cinema, the Euro-American and Asian worlds. A century ago, the narrative film was already a quarter-century old, a period in which the unique language of cinema was forged through editing experiments in the Soviet Union, Germany, America, and Japan. These experiments went beyond the self-absorption of experimental film, influenced by modernism in literature and theater. In this context, cinema clubs spread across the globe to preserve the “treasures” of the world of cinema and to discover distant voices alongside local productions.
While the landscape has become far more complex than this brief summary allows, it’s worth noting the most famous alternative screening space in our Mediterranean sphere: the French Cinémathèque. The term itself is so influential it has been adopted into English and other languages. (If we were to truly Arabize it, we might call it Al-Masnama, structured like al-Maktaba, our word for library). One of its founders, Henri Langlois, became a cultural legend in European film circles for his tireless work, beginning in the 1930s, to preserve films from every artistic movement on the planet.
In February 1968, the French Ministry of Culture issued an order dismissing Langlois from his post as director of the Cinémathèque. In response, the filmmakers of the French New Wave – who had educated themselves on the very films that Langlois had saved from oblivion by traveling the world to copy them – rose up in protest. These demonstrations would become the seed of the May 1968 revolution that swept through France, transforming its culture, labor, politics, and society.
The takeaway is this: small screenings for a handful of cinema fanatics are capable of creating societal shocks that can lead to cultural, social, and political revolutions. And since revolutions in our beloved society are often equated with civil strife, we will instead turn to our own experiences.
From the First Glance: Video Art Exhibit at Al-Saraya Al-Hamra, Tripoli, 2013
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We are not concerned here with the history of film clubs and private screenings during the Kingdom, Republic, or Jamahiriya eras. While we hear of cinema clubs and cinephiles from the foundational years of Libyan cinema (1968-1972, before the establishment of the “Khayyala” organization) people who were, like fanatics elsewhere, only human after all—it is difficult to imagine these clubs having the capacity to screen what the French Cinémathèque did. Even neighboring Arab countries had a more solid cinematic foundation. Back then, films were only available on film prints, making their acquisition a heroic and painstaking task, just as it was for Langlois. Screenings were therefore dependent on the efforts of commercial distributors showing what was popular in Cairo and Beirut.
This situation changed after the 17th February revolution with the emergence of the “Arete Cinema Club”, an initiative of the “Arete Foundation for Culture and Arts.” The club began its screenings at the Dar Al-Funun (House of Arts) in Tripoli in 2012 with Asghar Farhadi’s film, A Separation. Fully aware of the cultural sensitivities of society, the club’s program booklet did not mention the film’s nationality, as Libyans have long associated any engagement with Iranian culture with the promotion of Shi’ism.
Khaled Mattawa, one of the foundation’s founders, tells me that the film’s greatest success was not just the number of attendees, but the significance of the screening itself. Screenings of films by Ingmar Bergman, for example – in the final 2014 seasons – attracted only a few of Tripoli’s cinephiles, but a small audience does not necessarily mean an empty experience. The club continued to show classics of world cinema, an achievement that Mattawa believes could be expanded by distributing program guides to film students at colleges and institutes.
That same year, 2012, the club took its screening experience to the Old City for the “Al-Lamha Al-Oula” (The First Glimpse) festival, projecting international video art onto the city’s white walls. This cultural celebration, he says, “connected the old with the new,” because the youth of the capital had not truly engaged with the world of the Old City. The experience of watching became profoundly communal.
In 2013, following the success of the first festival, a second “Al-Lamha Al-Oula” (The First Glimpse) was held, this time inside the Red Castle (Al-Saraya al-Hamra). This continued the experiment of connecting the viewer to their surroundings, as most Libyans had never entered the castle and, as Mattawa recalls, many found it difficult to get in. He added that in this edition, many of the selected works were critical of aspects of Libyan society, voiced through a collection of international art.
Immediately after that festival, I joined the club’s team to program three seasons of screenings. In this role, I experienced firsthand what I had read in the writings of critics and programmers from around the world: amidst the global dominance of Hollywood studio distribution, a deep-seated curiosity to discover the “other” through alternative cinema still possesses the conscience of societies. This alternative cinema does not have a single face; sometimes it hews close to a “traditional” narrative line, other times it rebels against it, and at other times still, it scrambles the formula entirely. Since we were in cinematic education 101, the majority of our selections at the club belonged to the first category, with a few from the second.
One of the most beautiful moments I will never forget was when a viewer approached me after a screening to ask for a copy of the film so he could watch it again. He was a student at the arts institute, and the film was Incendies, the Canadian adaptation of Wajdi Mouawad’s play about the horrors of the Lebanese Civil War and its aftermath in Canada (and, in this case, its resonance in Libya).
In the joyful summer of 2014, fear seized Tripoli’s soul before it seized its body. The cinema club’s screenings stopped without a meeting or a plan. War, after all, comes to us without a plan. We never imagined that the summer season would be our last. The Arete Foundation continues its cultural activities to this day; the cinema club alone remains suspended, a silent echo of that joyful summer.
From one of the film screenings at the Tanarout Collective, Benghazi, in 2018
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After the catastrophe of that joyful summer, the “Tanarout Collective” was founded in 2015 upon the ruins of the ongoing war in Benghazi. I asked my friend Houssam al-Thani, one of the collective’s founders, to reflect on some aspects of their experience, which, like Arete’s, is a long story. We will focus on a few highlights that reveal both beauty and ugliness.
Houssam used to meet with his artist and writer friends – all cinephiles – at his house every week to screen films with a personal projector. It was here that one of their “elderly” friends reminded them of a cinema club in Benghazi in the 1990s that he used to frequent. And, as is the fate of Libya’s forgotten film clubs, the security services had inevitably shut it down.
Tanarout’s opening film was Timbuktu by the Mauritanian director Abderrahmane Sissako, who has worked primarily in Malian cinema. We can note a similar impulse in the openings of both Arete and Tanarout: a turn toward world cinema, not just in terms of production, but in its mood, its “humanist” themes that serve as a true introduction to alternative cinema.
Remember how Arete avoided mentioning Iran for A Separation? The Tanarout club fell into the trap of “promoting Shi’ism” when it screened an Iranian film. (Incidentally, Libya’s guardians of virtue always conflate Shi’ism with atheism, secularism, Freemasonry, Ibadi Islam, and other concepts that should never be confused, let alone blended). This marked the beginning of a societal clash with the club and its events, which spanned all areas of arts and culture.
Houssam reflects on some of the collective’s choices in dealing with these clashes. He tells me they should have decided on a path of reform instead of revolution, of maneuvering and “diplomacy” with social opposition rather than confronting it head-on. Yet, after harassment engineered by the Islamic Endowments Authority and naturally supported by the security services, the founders and directors decided to shut down the collective completely in 2020, having barely survived legal battles and the COVID-19 pandemic.
Today, there are a number of cultural institutions in Libya that have learned from these two preceding experiences and have become more timid. They walk a fine line, clinging to a delicate balance. But regular, seasonal film screenings have not been revived since Tanarout.
We noted at the beginning the desire of critics and cinephiles to archive world cinema and create a quiet space away from the monopolies of distribution and commercial theaters. In our current era, it has become easy for cinema fanatics like me to watch whatever we please from around the world, from the earliest experiments of the Lumière brothers to this year’s festival standouts. Therefore, the importance of alternative screening spaces in Libya does not lie in archiving, as it’s the mission of the “First World”, but in establishing cinematic references. It is about introducing society to the world through a lens other than massive Hollywood productions, not because they are harmful, but because they are not the only way to express this ever-evolving art form, an art that most of the world’s population has yet to truly discover. It is also about moving beyond the condescension of an elite who claim these films are not suitable for the simple viewer, only to be surprised by that same viewer every single time.
Finally, we must remember the communal essence of any screening, whether in a commercial or an alternative space. Nearly every film screening includes a post-film discussion with its makers or experts. A film’s life cycle does not end when the credits roll. In the cinema clubs we have mentioned, and those we haven’t, screenings were accompanied by discussions that connected the content of the films to social issues in the country. In addition to discussing issues that mirror our own, we engage with those that challenge them. In the end, cinema, like all arts, strives to ask questions. Otherwise, it would lose its power to create societal shocks, and we would have no need for discussion at all.
Oct 16, 2025
The 1970s marked a dramatic turning point for cinema in Libya. What was once a thriving industry on the cusp of regional leadership entered a new phase, one defined by the dimming lights of its movie halls.
This shift began with the government’s decision to nationalize all cinemas, transferring the entire film industry from private hands to state control. For the public, the change was jarring; they were suddenly confronted with restrictions on the films they could watch. The consequences, however, ran much deeper than just production and exhibition. This move fundamentally reshaped the relationship between the Libyan people and the big screen, profoundly influencing their cinematic tastes and visual culture for years to come.
The General Cinema Organization:
According to director Abdullah Al-Zarruq, the decision to nationalize cinemas robbed the Libyan viewer of access to films with real intellectual and artistic value, which had previously been shown exclusively by the private sector. He explains that after 1969, the state began imposing stricter censorship, a process that ended with the 1973 decision to abolish private cinema ownership and establish the General Cinema Organization.
From that moment on, cinematic activity entered a gradual decline. Showings were reduced to commercial films, and theaters began to close, one by one. This trend worsened until the 1990s, when most venues shut down for good.
“Ending the private sector’s role made the General Cinema Organization the only authority responsible for importing films,” Al-Zarruq adds, “and it selected movies that aligned with its own ideology, without considering their artistic or intellectual quality.”
He continues, “This created a huge gap between the state and the audience. Viewers, who were used to seeing the world’s most celebrated films, lost hope of ever seeing them in local theaters again. Where private owners had once competed to bring in the best and newest releases, audiences now found themselves limited to watching Indian cinema and karate movies, which famously inspired a generation of young men to imitate stars like Bruce Lee.”
When asked about the role of the General Cinema Organization after the nationalization, he said it was extremely limited. Its work was confined to producing a few short films that weren’t even shown in theaters, alongside a handful of co-productions and a small number of feature films. The state’s control and its refusal to entertain any idea that didn’t align with its own is incredibly dangerous, because it robs the audience of their freedom of choice.
Al-Zahra Cinema in the Libyan capital, Tripoli, also known as “Odeon,” in 1957.
Abandoned Theaters:
Writer Muftah Ganaw explains that the next chapter in Libyan cinema’s history began with the establishment of a new entity, the General Company for Cinema. This state-run company officially took ownership of all the newly nationalized private theaters. Ganaw notes that the company didn’t last long and failed to achieve its objectives, neither in producing Libyan films nor in properly managing the theaters it had inherited.
Like many public sector enterprises, the company eventually crumbled. When it was officially dissolved, the cinemas ceased operating entirely, becoming abandoned, locked-up spaces. For a time, no one dared touch them, until some of the original owners began filing lawsuits to reclaim their properties. The heirs of Khalil Al-Ja’ouni successfully regained ownership of the theaters their family had once owned, only to sell them. The new buyers then demolished these historic venues, including the Al-Jumhuriyah, Al-Rasheed, and Royal cinemas in the city center.
Ganaw points out that the chaos following the 2011 revolution made things worse. With state security weakened, individuals seized the remaining cinema buildings and converted their facades into small storefronts selling cigarettes, clothes, and trinkets. Today, it’s easy to forget that behind these makeshift shops lie vast auditoriums, spaces that both the Libyan state and its people desperately need. He cites the Al-Hamra Theater as a prime example, a venue capable of hosting major plays and cultural events, just as it did during its glory days in the 1960s and 70s.
Director Abdullah Al-Zarruq adds another perspective. “The nationalization order also made it illegal for anyone else to purchase films,” he says, “making the theaters captives of the state organization that now controlled their content.” This was a stark contrast to the era of private companies that competed to import the latest Egyptian, Syrian, and international productions, sometimes even before they premiered in their countries of origin. “In fact,” he recalls, “Lawrence of Arabia was screened in Libya before it was shown anywhere else in the Arab world. Those companies were connected to global cinema, ensuring the theaters were clean and the films were promoted with elegance. But after nationalization, it all fell apart. The halls turned into ruins, and the movies shown were trivial, failing to meet the cultural standards we aspired to.”
Al-Zahra Cinema in the Libyan capital, Tripoli, also known as “Odeon,” in 2015.
The Sorrow of Libyan Cinephiles:
Reflecting on a cinematic history that spans over a century, Abdullah Al-Zarruq recalls a time of great promise. “Before the nationalization, specifically in 1968, we had assembled all the necessary film technologies. We established labs for developing and printing, and purchased modern cameras from Germany. Preparations were underway to build a true national cinema at a time when most Arab countries lacked our resources.” He credits this vision to the late Ahmed Salheen Al-Houni, then Minister of Media and Culture, who established a film production department and supported early works.
“That momentum was a sign that Libya could have been a leader in the field,” Al-Zarruq continues, “especially with the rise of private companies and visits from Arab producers. But the winds of change blew in an unwelcome direction. With the establishment of the state-run organization, all private companies – the only real hope for a genuine Libyan cinema – were shut down.”
“The public sector seized control of every aspect of the industry,” he says. “And just like that, the dream of Libya becoming a filmmaking nation like Egypt, Syria, or Lebanon was lost. For us filmmakers, it was a profound sorrow.”
After a long journey of pioneering success and subsequent silence, Libyan cinema now stands at a crossroads. Today, a new generation of creators is filled with the ambition to restore the glow of the silver screen and return the moving image to its rightful place in the nation’s cultural memory.
Oct 9, 2025
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In the winter of 2022, as football fans awaited the Qatar World Cup, an old yet persistent thought crossed my mind: how can one watch Libyan feature films? I had previously watched “Ma’arkat Tagrift” (The Battle of Tagrift) and “A’shaziyya” (The Shrapnel) on YouTube shortly after the uprising in February. But where are the other five/six/seven films we keep hearing about? I didn’t expect to find masterpieces after bearing the brunt of having to watch both films — but my desire to seek them out didn’t come from expecting to find hidden treasures; rather, it was like someone searching for a lost sock, simply to know how it got lost.
I kept having the same thought as the World Cup approached, although this wasn’t entirely a coincidence. My passion for cinema began just as my addiction to football waned in my late teens, when I began to discover films from around the globe, from Georges Méliès to a multitude of contemporary filmmakers. We obviously exclude some countries from “The Cinema of the World”, especially one in particular.
I rang my film companion and friend Abdulmajid Djerbi, to shoot a short documentary that would humorously investigate the fate of lost films. I had the title in mind: “The Hunt for the Six” I used the term “missing film” instead of “lost film,” which is internationally used for movies that have vanished from cinematic history. The number didn’t matter, since there’s little difference between five or eight feature films produced by a country in a century.
Abdulmajid owned a car and a good camera; more importantly, he was eager to take part in the experiment. I flew from Al-Bayda to (The Mermaid of the Mediterranean) Tripoli that had lost its cinemas decades ago (for those who don’t know, Alexandria also bears the same nickname, but unlike Tripoli, it hasn’t lost its cinemas). We began shooting without “development,” funding requests, or even a filming permit (we’ll return to that later). Years earlier, I had already accepted that I would never be able to make my own feature films — so I decided to make a documentary about the reasons.
I’m still dissatisfied with the film; sometimes I even hate it. The reasons are obvious: scarce material, weak editing, and the inevitable consequences of inadequate production. The film, however, was screened at several festivals without a producer, distributor, or promoter. It was shown, for instance, at the Ismailia Documentary Film Festival, and it received a “Special Mention” award at the Casablanca Arab Film Festival, where the jury noted “the uniqueness of the director’s style” — a phrase that helped me laugh at myself.
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Abdulmajid and I graduated from Visual Arts from the Faculty of Arts and Media at the University of Tripoli. Naturally, we thought of meeting and including our old mentors. We contacted Mohamed Al-Mesmari and Dr. Nour Al-Din Al-Werfali.
Mohamed, himself a filmmaker, spoke to us about his films and those of his colleagues, while Dr. Nour Al-Din discussed Fascist cinema in Libya (notably “Alfirqa Albayda”(The White Squadron) and the semi-Libyan cinema of Mustafa Akkad.
We also met Ahmed Bilal, Libya’s first film sound engineer, who began his career in 1968 and retired in early 2000’s. I began my film with our meeting in the silent film style to create an ironic contrast that embraced both sound and image. I had planned to film the interview at the “Sound Studio” in the Damascus District of Tripoli, using that same approach, but like most institutions, the studio was closed at the time. I wasn’t aware until our meeting that Mr. Ahmed had lost his sight years ago as a result of daily exposure to studio equipment without protection. The memory of his death last year still hurts especially since I hadn’t prepared the audio version of his interview for him to hear.
We were referred to filmmaker Salah Gwaider by our friend Faraj Mayouf, also a filmmaker, to talk about his experience in short films, which received a lot of attention. One of his works won an award at the Carthage Film Festival a year before the uprising. We sat down with Abdallah Zarrouk to delve deeper into independent cinema beyond the state-run ‘Foundation of Cinema’ “Al Khayala Foundation/Company“. He began his career with the film “When Fate Hardens” in 1971. We discussed in detail the hopes of those beginnings and the harshness of their endings.
Our investigation wasn’t limited to filmmakers — we also spoke with cinephilic intellectuals. The final conversations were with novelist and playwright Mansour Bushnaf and the poet Khaled Mattawa. The first offered his perspective as an observer and critic, while the second founded the Arete Cinema Club, which was the first to screen films from the aforementioned ‘Cinema of the World’ in Libya. (In the film, I included a note: a moment of silence for the souls of the women who weren’t here for these interviews).
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What hit me the most in all the interviews was the graciousness and the open-mindedness of the people I spoke to, some of them didn’t know who I was or what would become of the documentary and yet, they all sat for hours to discuss everything without any refreshments. I remember that we didn’t even offer Abdallah Zarrouk a glass of water, and yet after the interview he asked: “Do you want me to help you find someone — a number, an address…?
But all of those we interviewed were helpless to “The Hunt for the Six”. Salah Gwaider told me that he had lost the negatives of his first film are, and Zarrouk too didn’t have a single negative of any of his feature films.
The tragedy of the archive lies at the very heart of Libyan cinema. It is through it that our scarce “national” film material can be released — to lay a foundation for what might come after. Today, that archive is divided among gangs (in the literal sense), each holding part of it. Every member of the group keeps a portion of the material in his house or on his “farm,” as Gwaider told me.
As for the cinema halls themselves, we dedicated our last day of filming — in Tripoli — to visiting theatres that were closed, demolished, or repurposed. Our colleague and fellow filmmaker, Saqr Al-Hawat, joined us.
Since we didn’t have filming permits, a mischievous idea crossed my mind:
First, to close the camera lens and use only the microphone — to record the answers we wanted to capture. (If the authorities succeed in suppressing the freedom of image, they can’t suppress the flow of sounds.)
Second, to throw Abdulmajid “into the line of fire” — let him ask the questions and hold the camera. After all, he’s from Tripoli; if his camera got confiscated, his family and friends could get him out.
Our audio investigation managed to document some of the repurposed cinemas, and Saqr – owning the same skill most Libyan cameramen often develop to avoid being noticed by Big Brother — managed to capture a few quick video shots. Rarely does repression produce such talents.
By coincidence, that day was a Friday — a “Black Friday,” imported from our “mother America,” with crowded malls and heavy shopping discounts. The city was almost free of police, luckily.
We found Cinema Al-Hamra completely sealed off, no way in. Cinema Odeon had its dark entrance open to pedestrians behind iron-meshed gates, under renovation by the “General Authority for Cinema (Al Khayala), Theatre, and Arts.” (We got rid of Gaddafi, but not the word Al Khayala.)
Cinema Lux had turned into small shops.
On my way back to Cyrenaica, I filmed Benghazi’s Berenice Cinema with my friend Khaled Mattawa’s phone, only months before it was demolished — just like Rex Cinema and Al-Khums Cinema in Al-Khums.
In Al-Bayda, one old theatre still keeps its seats and screen — behind locked doors, for obvious reasons.
At the end of that miserable shoot I titled the film, “Cinema, and Nothing More”, inspired by Abbas Kiarostami’s masterpiece “Life, and Nothing More”, which blends reality and imagination in a village destroyed by an earthquake — inseparable from the filmmaker’s and his crew’s history. Here, too, lies the same destruction and the same determination.
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I believe that cities, like humans, have a life cycle that end with death. I do not mourn the ruins of the Berenice Cinema (already destroyed by the war), or over the ruins of the opera houses built by the fascist ruler and never open to public. This remark does not stem from a postcolonial stance that dismisses all things Italian in Libya; on the contrary, it is always possible to transform Italian occupation facilities into vital institutions, and examples abound. The ultimate goal is to build the present, regardless of the ruins of the past. Libya does not have cinematic ruins, whether we like it or not.
When we call for state intervention in building a national cinema, it’s not out of hollow patriotic fervour, but from a clear-eyed awareness that the state lacks the will to act on such projects. The society itself doesn’t care about cinema -otherwise public pressure would have at least brought about a single functioning movie theatre.
That’s why change must come “from above” — from those with financial means, namely the state. Yet that state is represented by the “Cinema Authority,” which employs thousands -while, as Mansour Bushnaf told me, you’d be lucky to find two or three actual directors among them.
In conclusion, we mustn’t compromise with the sceptics—those who question the economic value of cinema and its ‘industry.’ Cinema must be embraced in its entirety, not à la carte: with all its challenges, provocations, and ‘controversial’ audacity, as well as its capacity to entertain.
We shouldn’t think of cinema or art, only in terms of utility or purpose. Everything that touches the soul is essential — and therefore “useless.” Especially when “usefulness” is measured by a nation’s GDP.
“These are things money can’t buy.”
Oct 2, 2025
I don’t know what came to mind when the idea of writing an article on cinema based on the memories of a cinema-going generation struck me, before its complete disappearance. Perhaps it was a sense of resisting the thought of us starting from scratch and that we had a history, whether it was a history of going to cinemas or a history of the industry itself. Every time I heard someone nostalgically tell their story of experiencing a movie theater, I envied them. At least they knew what it meant, while we, as a generation, never had that experience—except for those who traveled abroad and had that opportunity.
The social history of cinema and its audiences cannot be separated from the history of its theaters, their creation, transformation, and disappearance.
As a start of a social project for those who are interested, I attempted to pose a reminiscing question to a group of intellectual citizens which actually was nostalgic, and ultimately hopeful. They weren’t selected for any particular research or bias, but rather because they would be more acknowledging towards this short article.
The questions were: What is the moment you most remember from your visits to the cinema? Do you remember the theater where it happened? And which was your favorite cinema hall?
Hussein Al-Mazdawi
He began by saying that “Cinema was daily bread and butter for my generation.” He then added: “The Film Foundation used to screen films at schools periodically. As I grew, I began going to the cinema. I remember that I used to journal each film, from its name to its cast and the screening location. I would specifically go to the cinema before my final exams as a habit.” It was a way to relax and cheer myself. We used to watch a variety of Arab, foreign, and Indian films. I clearly remember the screening of Khali Balek min Zuzu (Take Care of Zuzu), the street was jammed with crowds buying tickets. It was Al-Khayyam or Al-Zahra Cinema if I remember. There was a film theater called Al-Nasr and another one called Al-Hamra Super Cinema, which later was renamed Al-Khadra.
The balcony (upper floor) was reserved for families: women in their traditional veils along children.
We even learned the Egyptian dialect from watching films and then, in the blink of an eye! Cinema disappeared. The crowds, the chatter, and the cinema culture—all gone!
Hauwa Al-Qamoudi
Should I be embarrassed to mention that I entered a movie theater for the first time in 2019 at the age of 62? It was during my visit to Cairo, attending the book fair. The thought of going to the cinema did not cross my mind during my trip at all (November 2018 until mid-February 2019). I faced an embarrassing incident which I’m not sure if I should disclose just because I belong to the (Al-Sania) family in (Souq Al-Juma) on the coast of Tripoli. This area was ridiculed. We are talking about a period of cinema during which my brothers grew up; I, as a child, began to pick up names of films along the name of a cinema, especially when The Message was screened, and I remember how surprised my brother was by seeing women in their traditional veils attending the films!
I learned about cinema through Egyptian films that were broadcasted on national TV. In most films, friends and beloved ones would accompany each other to watch films in cinema halls. When I, along with other students, saw a large white cloth, I was amazed as we sat there quietly waiting. Our teacher then told us that it was a “hygiene awareness” film. We were left speechless as we saw people moving and talking on that cloth. I then wondered: When was the last time I heard from a friend about their experience of going to the cinema on a specific day designated for families in Tripoli and they had to be well dressed and behave politely while being seated? They used to clap when the movie ended, just like I did that night when the movie ended, which marked the milestone of my entrance to a movie theater in February 2019 for the first time, in Cairo.
Omar Khayyam Cinema, Tripoli – 2006
Noureddine Omran
I used to regularly attend Al-Najma, Al-Hilal, and Al-Mujahid cinemas. My bond with cinema grew stronger between 1996 and 1998 when I started studying the Principles of Film Production, which required frequenting movie theaters and writing papers on the subject. Every Saturday, we went to a movie theater owned by the Cinema Committee, which operates as a supervisory committee. In the third year, we conducted a survey of moviegoers in three or more theaters and distributed survey questionnaires.
Huda Sabri
As a child, I went to the cinema with my aunts a few times. There were exclusive screenings for women. In the late 1960s and early 1970s as I remember, cinema was not combined between men and women. The most memorable incident that occurred in the theatre was an organizer scolding mothers that brought children, giving them warnings not to bring children again. I remember feeling upset that day. Watching a film in a theater makes you a part of the story, unlike the cold projection of a television screen.
Al-Nasr Cinema building, which was one of the most important landmarks of the city of Benghazi
Sunusi Isteta
I remember watching an American film titled Hush… Hush Sweet Charlotte as a teenager in Dernah at the Shabab cinema. This film got stuck in my mind because of the two foreign girls, perhaps a little older than me, who sat in the same row and were overwhelmed with fear. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them crying and sobbing. I later learned that no one under the age of eighteen was allowed to watch the movie. I realized that memory isn’t always reliable, as I had read about the film beforehand and it didn’t match the events in the movie. Perhaps I, too, was overwhelmed by the terrifying scenes, as the two girls sitting near me.
Aida Al-Kabti
Behind our house on Al-Andalus Street was Al-Ghazal Cinema, where our father used to take us every Thursday to watch a movie. We didn’t pay any attention to the movie; rather, the cartoons shown to us. As for the movie, we’d be bored to the point that we would fall asleep during the screening. My grandmother Halima (who was deaf) used to visit us and she loved cinema even though she could not hear, but the films inspired her days. She would ask us to tell my father to take us to the cinema and the hall was usually empty. We had a dog called Bella that would follow us around and enter the cinema for free without paying a ticket. The attendants at the gates would let her in, and she would enter walking victoriously.
Sakina Bin Amer
The first time I attended cinema was for the screening of The Message. I was in middle school at the time, and my uncle had reserved the entire balcony for us. Our family and relatives all went to watch the movie and since there weren’t any strangers among us we all felt at home. As soon as Hamza appeared with his majestic presence on screen, mothers cheered and aunts ululated, accompanied by our laughter and the rebuking voices of our uncles, telling us to be quiet!
Theatre name: Bernici Cinema, at the beginning of Omar Al-Mukhtar Street, downtown.
I don’t exactly remember the film’s releasing year, but I think it was between 1976 and 1978.
As for the best movie theater, girls weren’t allowed to go to movie theaters, so the movie theater was in our house in Al-Baraka. In the summer, my older brother would let us watch movies in our courtyard, with the scent of jasmine in the air, and my mother’s popcorn for snack.
Bernice Theater in Benghazi was established in 1928 and was demolished in 2023
Azza Al-Maqhour
I belong to a generation that never had access to the red velvet cinema seats in Tripoli. Generations before me had lived this experience, specifically my aunts, who used to tell stories about it.
But I experienced something beautiful and different… The cinema was in our house since we were very young. My father is an art lover that includes cinema, so we had a movie theater at home and a big screen. My father would open the screen to the wall, put the tape in, and we would hear a soft click, and then the movie would come on. We watched cartoons, Charlie Chaplin movies, and many more.
Because my father was a movie buff, he bought us a VCR early on, and we would enjoy watching the movies he brought back from his trips. We watched The Godfather, Steve McQueen’s Papillon, The Great Escape, and other films. He would sit up front and control the remote control to avoid any unfamiliar scenes.
After each film, there would be a short session where we would discuss the film, its scenes and the artistic value or the idea behind it.
We attended the Oscars with him late at night due to the time difference.
My father is to be credited for my love of cinema!
These are just a handful of the experiences I collected. I did not wish for the memories to end, for they clearly reveal one common fact: Cinema is not just entertainment. It is a memoire, a culture, and a part people’s hearts.
