In Afrikaans, “fokol” means “nothing” and is a promise made by security companies in South Africa that with their service there is nothing to fear any more – fear fokol. In South Africa, there are far more security guards than police officers and soldiers combined. Tuva Björk undertakes a grim but at the same time involuntarily entertaining journey into the world of non-state security services, where the illusion of protection is hard currency in this tense climate of inequality, anxiety and masculinity in crisis. Björk observes with a touch of voyeuristic curiosity and lets the security employees talk freely – the absurdity of their job is revealed all by itself. The high demand for private protection in countries with great social inequality like South Africa drives an industry that continuously invents new, indispensable products, gadgets and services. Built on the failure of the public authorities and fired by the ruthless promotion of suspicion of the “other”, the illusion of security slowly unravels.

Twelve-year-old Mikal lives with his father Jason, mother Tonya and cat Smokey in cramped conditions in a run-down hotel room. So-called “flophouses” offer accommodation to all those who cannot escape the radical inequality of the US real estate market and are forced to lead their lives on the margins of society. The few square metres serve as bedroom, living room and kitchen, dishes are done in the bathtub. Nothing but a thin curtain separates Mikal’s “realm” from his parents’ bed, and the only escapes from the confines of his home are the lonely hotel corridors and the vending machine in the lobby. But their family life is put to the test not only by the precarious living conditions but also by his mother’s alcohol abuse.
Despite these difficult circumstances, moments of love, affection and dreaming shine through. It seems almost harmonious when, after a fierce argument, father and son kneel in front of the bathtub, washing a mountain of dishes and jokingly adopting the language of commands in a canteen kitchen. In her three-year observation, director Monica Strømdahl captures such ambivalences in fragile and intimate images whose immediacy is always palpable.