Amid the chaos of war, a glimmer of hope emerges through cinema—how a group of ordinary Sudanese people, torn from their homes, united to create a powerful documentary that captures the essence of humanity in crisis. But here's where it gets controversial: Can art truly heal the wounds of conflict, or is it just a temporary escape? Dive in to discover 'Khartoum,' a kaleidoscopic film that premiered at the Berlin Film Festival and graced the lineup of the 69th BFI London Film Festival (LFF), running through the weekend. This documentary isn't just a movie—it's a heartfelt blend of personal stories, creative reenactments, and raw oral histories, brought to life by five everyday Sudanese residents: a government worker, a tea stall owner, a volunteer with a resistance committee, and two young boys who eke out a living by gathering plastic bottles from the streets. And this is the part most people miss: These individuals collaborated with a diverse team of Sudanese and British filmmakers, all of whom were themselves displaced, to weave their memories, aspirations, and dreams into something truly transformative.
Behind the camera, directors Rawia Alhag, Ibrahim Snoopy, Anas Saeed, Timeea M Ahmed, and Phil Cox poured their experiences into the project, focusing on the emotional journeys of the two street boys and best friends, Lokain and Wilson; the resistance volunteer Jawad; the tea lady Khadmallah; and the civil servant Majdi. The film kicks off with a shocking revelation—right as production began, a brutal civil war erupted in Sudan in 2023, pitting the government against the Rapid Support Force Militia in a coup that forced over 10 million people, including every single participant in this documentary, to flee their homes. It's a stark reminder of how conflict can upend lives overnight, turning personal stories into urgent testaments of survival.
These five brave individuals open up about their deepest fears and dreams, offering insights that resonate far beyond Sudan's borders. Jawad expresses his terror of never returning to his home, a sentiment that echoes the uncertainty many refugees face. Khadmallah touches on a profound identity struggle—some Sudanese identify strongly as Africans, while others lean toward an Arab heritage, highlighting the cultural tensions that simmer beneath the surface. For beginners wondering about such dynamics, think of it like a family debate over roots: it's not just about geography, but how history shapes personal pride and belonging. Majdi grapples with self-reflection, questioning whether he's been a coward or a courageous soul in the face of adversity. And the two boys provide a poignant metaphor: 'The rubbish is our treasure, plastic bottles are our gold,' illustrating how even in poverty, resourcefulness turns scraps into survival tools—perhaps drawing parallels to how innovation often arises from necessity, like turning recycled materials into art or livelihood in other communities.
In interviews conducted with The Hollywood Reporter during the LFF, directors Alhag, Cox, and participant Khadmallah delved into the extraordinary challenges of crafting 'Khartoum' amidst warfare, displacement, and logistical nightmares. Their goal? To bridge understanding and foster healing for audiences outside Sudan through the magic of filmmaking. Cox recalled how the project began as a poetic cinematic tribute to Khartoum before the conflict, but the outbreak of war flipped the script entirely. Suddenly, the budget had to pivot to evacuate participants and crew, leading everyone to scatter to Kenya over four to five months. Tools like green screens, staged reenactments, and even drawings from the boys allowed them to continue creating content from afar. 'We just had this footage before the war,' Cox explained, 'And we realized the stories were all inside our participants.' It's a clever example of adapting to adversity—much like how remote work tools today let teams collaborate across oceans during global crises.
Finding suitable voices wasn't straightforward. Alhag shared the hurdles in locating children to film; while street kids are abundant, pairing two who could safely and comfortably participate proved tricky. They settled on two boys from Khartoum's outskirts, but even with official permits, shooting on the streets drew discomfort from locals uneasy about filming kids out of school settings rather than in controlled environments. This raises a controversial point: Is it ethical to involve vulnerable children in storytelling about trauma, or does it empower them by giving voice to the voiceless?
The war's turmoil fostered an unexpected diversity among the filmmakers. 'These are people who would never meet,' Cox noted, 'But because we’d lost everything, we all ended up in the same room on a mattress.' The group spanned genders, ethnicities, and religions, united by shared loss—a beautiful counterpoint to how conflict can sometimes break barriers, contradicting the idea that war only divides. Alhag added that her unique position as the sole woman on the team initially created some distance, but displacement in Nairobi forged deep bonds through necessity. Khadmallah, approached by director Anas Saeed (a regular at her tea stall), initially faced family skepticism but won them over with a video plea to her mother. For those new to filmmaking, this highlights how personal connections can turn everyday encounters into cinematic opportunities.
Reenacting painful experiences proved cathartic yet challenging. 'I think I had a lot of trauma,' Khadmallah admitted, often breaking down in front of the camera, a common thread among participants shaped by the war. Alhag emphasized the collaborative spirit: despite varying expertise, they functioned as a family, blending skills into a cohesive whole. But here's where it gets controversial again: While the film celebrates unity, could this idealized narrative gloss over the real divisions in Sudanese society, like ethnic or political rifts that fueled the conflict?
Completing 'Khartoum' marked not an end, but a fresh start. 'It’s been the start of something new,' Alhag said, with many still residing in Nairobi, rebuilding lives anew. Cox echoed that the documentary acts as a catalyst for healing, offering Sudanese viewers rare on-screen representation—a powerful statement in an industry often dominated by outsider perspectives. Yet, this invites debate: Does such representation truly empower marginalized voices, or risk exoticizing their struggles for global audiences?
What do you think? Has 'Khartoum' changed your view on how art can emerge from crisis, or do you see it as potentially oversimplifying complex realities? Do you agree that filmmaking can foster unity in diversity, or does it sometimes amplify existing controversies? Share your thoughts in the comments—let's discuss!
