Information only trickles out sporadically from isolated Belarus. And those held in Belarusian custody seem almost out of reach. Having fled to Poland himself in the wake of state repression, Andrei Kutsila brings the fates of three detainees to light in this film testimony, which is polyphonic at both a narrative and visual level. They represent the more than 65,000 people who have been criminalised and detained since Alexander Lukashenko’s controversial re-election in 2020. There is Kasia, a student who uses her art to find a way to cope with everyday life in captivity. Rendered in dark tones, her drawings offer insights into a harrowing situation, while simultaneously serving to guide the viewer through “Letters from the Silenced Country” in animated form. Then there is the activist Witold Aschurak, who receives photographs from a friend while in prison. Footage from surveillance cameras documents his mistreatment before his eventual death in custody. Meanwhile, former detective Andrei Astapovich is in Poland investigating the crimes committed in his former homeland and compiling evidence for the Belarusian opposition organisation BYPOL. An anonymous man also gets his say; he lives in constant fear of being arrested. Andrei Kutsila’s film is a compilation of true horrors – right in the midst of Europe.

Carolin Weidner

Snow, seen for the first time, comes together with hard labour and homesickness. A Kosovo-Bangladeshi directorial duo offers a raw, immediate glimpse into the limbo of a group of Bangladeshi construction workers in Kosovo, building houses while stranded far from their own homes. In a foreign country itself plagued by economic migration, fragments of the workers’ lives emerge through footage shot on their mobile phones: family faces on the screen, dangerous heights at work and dreams of a better future. A quiet reclaiming of their humanity beyond exploitation and invisibility. For some, this is Europe, too…

Anca Păunescu

Ibrahim is back in the village he once left behind. He wants to show films. But “cinema is banned here, Ibrahim – they like playing football here,” reads the text in blue above the arid landscape. So the Sudan Film Institute organises a football match featuring four teams named after Elia Suleiman, Abbas Kiarostami, Ousmane Sembène and Abderrahmane Sissako. The winner gets to decide which film will be shown that evening. Before then, local peculiarities and bureaucracy must be overcome. And then war breaks out. “Nothing Happens After Your Absence” is the final part of Omer’s trilogy “After the Event or Post-Trauma”, which views Sudan as if suspended in time, keeping the war outside the frame. It appears in on-screen text, in children’s games and in conversations. With humour and satire, Omer gives an account of the violence that intrudes on everyday life and of cinema as a place of resistance and community.

Seggen Mikael

“What a minor thing to be bothered with in times of invasion. It’s just a bureaucratic record,” scoffs the chorus of critics. Volodymyrivna, Mariia’s patronymic – a middle name derived from that of her father – has disappeared from her international documents. For her, the name is more than just a formality though: it links her to her father and to Ukraine. This personal film playfully combines documentary footage, archive material, official documents and staged re-enactments on a night train. In so doing, it questions the patriarchal concept of the patronymic and sheds light on its postcolonial connections. For Mariia, this is already her third work – following ‘May 9th’ (2015) and ‘Three Windows on South West’ (2023) – in which she grapples with her identity.

Seggen Mikael

The first voice belongs to the director, asking himself what sort of film he would make about the middle class. What we see is more or less what he describes, split screen combinations of archive footage and shots from now showing unspectacular snippets of daily life: family get-togethers, his neighbourhood park. He talks about shifting the focus of the film too, which is also what happens, as more voices arrive and different formats keep moving between the two screens: the man listing mundane everyday objects; the woman separated from San José by an invisible line; the Venezuelan immigrant who talks of the bus as the great leveller; the granddaughter who inherits a vast encyclopaedia collection. Their backgrounds differ, but they all reference class either explicitly or implicitly, for each person a different category at a different time, so many meanings, so many objects and references, one term of countless shapes. When you open the termite mound, you see it’s been made by them all.

James Lattimer

An institutional portrait in the form of an elegy: after more than sixty years, the fate of the Les Lilas maternity clinic already seems sealed. Having not worked in a profitable enough manner, this private institution is now to have the subsidies it relies on withdrawn. Alain Kassanda’s film accompanies the clinic’s last flicker of resistance, showing heated internal meetings and the public protests aimed at saving it. The interactions between the purple-uniformed staff and their patients come to the fore at the same time: offering caring guidance across the entire birth process, precisely explaining the specifics of an imminent abortion or advising a young couple confronted with an unplanned pregnancy. Everyday life in the Maternité des Lilas is both eventful and moving. And it can look back on a long tradition: deeply anchored in the second wave of the women’s movement, the clinic made history for its progressive approach. Everyone was supposed be able to give birth in the way they saw fit, the patriarchy was banished from the delivery room and operating theatre – “mon corps, mon choix”. This inconspicuous place retained this forward-looking approach to the last. Alain Kassanda’s lament is far from maudlin. It is the unsentimental depiction of a loss only justifiable on paper.

Carolin Weidner

Jimena is in her twenties, a young woman who goes by the nickname La Pichi and grew up on the edge of Buenos Aires close to the port, the other side of the invisible line that separates centre from periphery. These are not mere descriptions, but rather how she tells it herself – her garrulousness knows no bounds, which makes her the perfect storyteller. Like a Scheherazade porteña, La Pichi tells a new story each night and there are so many it’s easy to lose count. With their extravagant titles, her stories of relationships, family, body issues and class might seem like tall tales, but they are all plucked from her everyday reality, the same reality lived on the fringes that we see in velvety nocturnal images during and in between her voiceover monologues, which are narrated with an infectious enthusiasm and humour that belies their ambivalent undercurrents: the tale of the boyfriend who didn’t want to be seen with her, the tale of the transvestite-loving grandmother who cooked glorious food she wasn’t supposed to eat, the tale of the father with vitiligo who at one point was no longer there. Yet this is no narrative of hardship and suffering, but rather one of irrepressible, inspirational joy, for what can be more empowering than being given space to chronicle your own biography on your own terms? As La Pichi herself says, “I wasn’t one word, I was many.”

James Lattimer

Minneapolis has become a battlefield: clouds of poisonous green billow over the wintry streets, there are wounded people, screams, vehicles that resemble tanks. Laura Poitras and Rachel Lauren Mueller capture the work of the immigration authority ICE and its paramilitary operations from different perspectives and combine them into a horror film. Parts of the population organise themselves in order to stand up against and protocol the illegal actions of the perpetrators, most of them in masks. Gradually, a network of gigantic dimension is revealed, which extends to the kidnapping of minors, secret scouting trips and a steady stream of deportation flights. “They’re Here” is a genre-fluid documentary dystopia, whose darkness is only heightened by the score by Alessandro Cortini (Nine Inch Nails).

Carolin Weidner

Wugoushui, a Hakka village in southern Taiwan, is slowly losing its traditional way of life as younger generations leave. Its huofang compounds, once shared by generations of one family, grow quiet. Between waiting for children and grandchildren to fill the house and the moments of their departure, eighty-year-old Alan tends her garden, processes the harvest and shares the small chores of daily life with her lifelong friend A-Mei. Here, life has another pace, embraced with grace and quiet acceptance.

Anca Păunescu

The planning phase began at the start of the pandemic, for a new highway intended to pass right through the centre of Xiangzidian, a village in Shaanxi province. Born and raised in the village and marooned there by Covid, director Hu Sanshou could thus document the process from the start, in lingering wide shots and gentle pans of an unostentatious beauty, their all-enveloping focus punctuated by comments from the villagers wandering through the frame and Hu’s own voiceover commentary. Compensation notices are posted and graves relocated before construction begins, which stretches over years and numerous changes of season. Once the surface of the road is laid out, it does indeed resemble a stage and the local inhabitants move around on it as if being directed from afar, which is not inaccurate. Yet the great expanse of white pebbles is also akin to the pages of a vast book, which Hu fills with novelistic detail, narrating countless anecdotes about friends, family members and acquaintances that begin in the present and stretch way back into the past, capturing the cadence of that amorphous in-between phase between tradition and modernity which the traffic will soon drown out. If the violence of village life leaves little room for nostalgia, it is a sad story nonetheless. Whether tales of joy, hardship or simple endurance, folk memory and its loss touch us all.

James Lattimer