Author: Maryam Shayesteh (Writer for Majara Film School)

I view the world of Larissa Sansour’s films through a dual lens, embodying the narrative of dualities and the dichotomy of the storyteller. Although she has lived in a different generation and geography, the exploration in her films feels like a translation of our lives world reflected in another mirror.

In her films, she intertwines national and historical identity with cosmopolitan concepts and a forward-looking perspective. More importantly, she doesn’t stop at merely expressing ideas; she manages to convey a unique cinematic translation of her intellectual world to the audience. This is not only understood by viewers from the Arab world and the Global South but also offers other audiences a distinct understanding of Palestine.

In the continuation of this note, I will discuss some parallels between Larissa Sansour’s cinema and my own experience as a contemporary Iranian woman.

The Traveler of Snow and Spring

Persephone packs her suitcase. She steps onto the ground of her mother. The cool breeze of life brushes her face. I zip my backpack. I step onto the street. The cool wind of freedom rushes through my hair. Six months later, the scorching heat of the underworld strikes Persephone’s face, the wails of the dead pierce her ears, and the last ray of sunlight disappears from her sight. Hours later, a cloth wraps around my head, I blow my last triumphant smoke into the sky, and the terrifying sound of compulsory paradise quickens my pulse.

Maryam Shayesteh

Persephone and I are not mere travelers; we live in a state of constant journey. She, by divine decree, spends six months of winter in the underworld and six months of spring on earth. Yet she is neither of the underworld nor of the earth. Though she is named the Queen of the Dead, no one seems to remember her other side, the six months of spring we owe to her. I, by human fate and choice, move through every hour of my daily life in this land, as if I am traversing between the world of the living and the dead. One moment, I walk freely through the streets of my city with my hair loose, and the next, the harbingers of death appear before me, forcing me to choose in an instant: turn away or cover myself to stay safe, or dare to embrace the danger of freedom. Another moment, I escape from the ghouls of the streets into my home, my safe haven, immersed in the sound of Broadway musicals calling out to me: “Rush to salvation! Rush to servitude!” Again, the world of the dead seems to appear before my eyes. But what if, right now, on this very earth, I am already redeemed?

The veil between the earthly realm and the divine is lifted / For anyone who serves the cup that reflects the world

The journey of Persephone from the world of death to life reminds me of my own dual existence in Iran, where my experience of being a woman, a human of this earth, and being free is constantly distorted by ideological, traditional, and religious pressures. On one hand, the ruling powers in this tense atmosphere demand uniformity and singularity, while on the other, they position themselves as ambassadors and worshippers of death and the afterlife. Having a different voice is considered a crime, and even if there is no overt conflict, a portion of society is deprived of its rights and freedoms. In such conditions, the very concept of “being a woman,” regardless of one’s beliefs, strips women of numerous opportunities. In Persephone’s narrative, the female character may not have much agency in her journey between life and death, but the women of today’s Middle East, despite the daily onslaught of signs from the world of the dead, are shaping their own destinies in a different way.

In this kind of life experience, watching the unique cinema of a woman from the other side of the Middle East can offer significant insights for Iranian women. In what follows, I will describe several key aspects of Larissa Sansour’s cinema in relation to these experiences.

The Nowhere Land

Larissa Sansour comes from a land where the concept of “homeland” is different from anywhere else in the world. The notion of being Palestinian carries the burden of history for its people. Whether they have lived there or have left forever, whenever they speak of their homeland, their definition cannot be contained within a single frame or a single word.

Homeland and land are combinations where geography, nature, human relationships, structures, and even history are intertwined. In today’s Palestine, each of these elements has taken on a different form. The first and most basic connection between a person and their homeland is the land itself— the sense of belonging and ownership over it, a right that should be fundamental for every citizen. Yet, for the residents of Palestine, this basic right is increasingly restricted, making it impossible for them to imagine a future. This issue is manifested in different forms in Larissa Sansour’s works. In most of her films, many of the frames depict futuristic spaces that do not clearly belong to any specific country. However, the striking point is that despite this depiction of placelessness, in each film, the issue of Palestine is creatively and impactfully present. In her earlier works, the intersection of these two images perhaps conveys the message more loudly, but as the filmmaker matures, this fusion works in the subtext, evoking even more empathy.

The concept of a “seized place” holds different meanings for many contemporary Iranian women. For instance, what might have been acceptable attire for attending university yesterday is no longer permitted today, as non-academic authorities now monitor the dress code on campuses. Or streets that should belong to all citizens suddenly become the domain of those who conform to the standards of the ambassadors of fear. This seized space is not limited to wrongful presences but is also defined by the painful absence of certain places. Whether it is dance halls or bars, which do not exist in the first place, or football stadiums where women are prohibited from entering, the absence is just as significant.

In this perspective, the “place” in a film is no longer confined to the physical location, but rather, each place, with its varying coordinates, conveys a different meaning for the inhabitants of the Middle East. Larissa Sansour’s intelligent use of this concept not only captures visually stunning cinematic images but also draws the audience into the space of the film in two ways. First, through placelessness, where spaces are not clearly identifiable, creating a sense of familiarity and safety for refugees and all those who have had their spaces taken away. Second, through the historical identity of place, where despite the lack of clear indicators of a specific location, the atmosphere of the Arab world’s historical spaces is present. This duality evokes a bittersweet sense of familiarity for the audience.

The Timeless Narrator

Oppression and injustice are not new issues in human history, and sometimes the boundaries between them are blurred, while at other times, they are crystal clear. However, the world’s response to the oppressor and the oppressed is a crucial factor that can influence the resilience of the victim and the continuation of violence by the aggressor. The global reaction to the Palestinian issue has largely been one of “turning a blind eye” or passive observation during certain periods, as though living for more than half a century under the constant threat of war and genocide is something the world has accepted. The Palestinian people (like many in the Middle East) are left to struggle on their own to reclaim their basic rights, as the image of the victim is cemented in the consciousness of the First World.

Larissa Sansour, however, shatters this victim narrative. Her characters often seem semi-divine. On one hand, they possess a dignity that feels connected to eternity and history, while on the other hand, they reflect the doubts, loneliness, and anxieties of modern humans. This narrative is not merely a direct depiction of reality but a full-fledged artistic representation that, even before conveying its message, draws the audience into its world through cinematic power. The captivating eyes of the women (as seen in As If No Misfortune Had Occurred in the Night), the eerily familiar apocalyptic landscapes that combine past and future (In Vitro and In the Future They Ate from the Finest Porcelain), and the relationship between humans and the world constructed in the film, shown in frames that shift between extreme close-ups and distant shots (Nation Estate), all redefine the magic of cinema within a different framework.

It seems that the filmmaker, confronting distorted, biased, and hopeless narratives of her time, stands as a narrator outside of time. In doing so, she blends a terrifying present, a mythical past, and a future shaped by both, all while remaining loyal to the current conditions of her homeland and the complex history of her ancestors. In this future, humanity is no longer trapped by race or nationality, but still, the memory of one’s land and identity is carried like a cherished keepsake close to the heart.

Split Frames

While dividing frames on the cinema screen is not a new technique, its use remains rare. Larissa Sansour’s approach to split frames stands out as one of the most fascinating examples of this cinematic device. Specifically in In Vitro, the dialogue is not limited to two characters. Instead, it feels as though we are positioned between two generations, two narratives, two times, and a multitude of other dualities. This technique becomes a crucial element of her storytelling. However, dualities in Larissa Sansour’s cinema are not confined to split frames alone. The truth is that the concept of duality permeates the very fabric of the films’ intellectual spaces—whether it’s between sisters, mothers and daughters, ruins and reconstruction, joy and sorrow, hope and despair, and more.

Portraying these dualities is valuable not only in terms of the thought behind them but also in the emotional impact they have on the audience. These dualities evoke a range of emotional responses, often pulling the viewer in different, sometimes contradictory directions—so much so that the audience may not immediately recognize which emotion they are leaning toward. This mirrors the real-world experiences of people, and what greater achievement can a film have than to reflect this?