Kurdish cinema grows beyond the diaspora

As the lights slowly dim in Het Ketelhuis, a dusty village from Bakûr, the Kurdish region in southeast Turkey, appears on the screen. At the back of the room, someone whispers softly in Kurdish. Young people born in the Netherlands watch intently. Some film short fragments with their phones, others sit silently afterwards as the credits roll.

For three days, the Amsterdam Kurdish Film Festival was a meeting place for Kurdish filmmakers, visitors from the diaspora and Dutch film lovers. The fifth edition of the festival focused on films, panel discussions and cultural activities around the theme ‘Between tradition and transformation’.

Grown

According to organiser Reber Dosky, the festival has grown significantly in five years. “When we started, we only used part of The Ketelhuis,” he says. “Now we need several halls. Every year we get more visitors, including many Dutch.” For Dosky, the festival is more than just a cultural event. He points to the limited opportunities that Kurdish filmmakers often face. “Because Kurds do not have their own state, it is difficult to distribute films internationally,” he says. “That's why festivals are important. Here, filmmakers can show their work directly to the public.”

In the film house's foyer, traditional Kurdish dresses hang next to pictures of film productions. Visitors drink tea, eat Kurdish food and continue talking about scenes from the films between screenings. Later in the evening, the space slowly turns into a dance floor as visitors dance govend (a Kurdish folk dance) to live music accompanied by davul and zurna, traditional drum and wind instruments.

Parents' stories

Co-organiser Maila Ahmad sees mostly young generations returning to the festival. “Many Kurdish young people born here know their history mainly from their parents” stories,“ she says. ”Through films, we try to reconnect them with their language, culture and collective memories. “That the festival is becoming increasingly international, she also notices from the audience. ”Not only Kurds come here,“ says Ahmad. ”We also see Dutch, Belgian and German visitors who are curious about Kurdish cinema and culture."

Panel discussions this year focused on the tension between cultural identity and assimilation. Filmmaker Erol Mintaş talked about how Kurdish stories in Turkey, Syria, Iraq and Iran were barely visible in cinema for a long time. According to him, nowadays social media and new technologies make it easier to break down borders and distribute films worldwide.

Challenging reality

Actor and theatre maker İsmail Mamo also pointed out the difficult conditions in which Kurdish filmmakers often work. Mamo has now lived in the Netherlands for 10 years and took theatre and acting courses in Rotterdam and Arnhem. “Many Kurdish films are about war, migration or political pressure,” he says. “That also has to do with the reality in which filmmakers live.”

According to Mamo, Kurdish filmmakers often lack financial support and institutional structures. Yet he sees change slowly emerging. “I would love to make a Kurdish comedy film myself one day,” he says, laughing. “But for that you need time, resources and a stable sector.” One of the guests during the festival is philosopher and Kurdistan expert Michiel Leezenberg, who translated the Kurdish epic ‘Mem û Zîn’ into Dutch. Leezenberg has been attending the festival since its first edition and sees Kurdish cinema changing rapidly. “Twenty years ago, there were very few Kurdish films,” he says. “Now you see that both the quality and the number of productions are growing. Kurdish film festivals are springing up all over the world.”

From its own perspective

According to Leezenberg, the power of cinema lies not only in political narratives, but rather in universal themes. “Films should ultimately do more than just appeal to a particular community,” he says. “The best stories also touch people who don't share that background.” For visitors like 26-year-old Beyar Altefli, this is precisely why the festival takes on personal meaning. Altefli, born in the Netherlands to a family from Qamishlo in Syria, attended the festival for the first time this year.

“I have never been to Kurdistan,” he says. “But during some films I saw landscapes and families that reminded me of the stories of my parents and grandparents.” Scenes where families eat together or play music particularly stuck with him. “Those kinds of images I recognised from home,” he says. “On Dutch television, you almost never see Kurds from their own perspective.”

According to Altefli, films help young people in the diaspora learn more about their background. “Many young people grow up among different languages and cultures,” he says. “Here you hear Kurdish, see our stories and meet people who recognise the same things.” As visitors continue talking in the foyer late in the evening and music still echoes through the corridors of The Ketelhuis, it becomes clear that the festival means more than film to many attendees. For a moment, a place is created where memories, language and culture remain visible - in the middle of Amsterdam.