Film still from Milisuthando.

What were the initial kernels of inspiration for Milisuthando? Because I know you created it over the course of [nearly ten] years. What started it off initially, and how has it changed in this process?

Milisuthando Bongela (Filmmaker):
I’d say the first moment when I knew that there’s a story to be told, was when Nelson Mandela died in December [2013], and [my friends and I] went to the funeral and to the vigils outside his house… to pay our respects. And I just remember being there singing struggle songs with my friends.

And I’m singing along with everybody, but as I’m singing, I’m like, “It’s not true for me…” However, most Black South Africans… were extremely badly affected by apartheid. And I was like, I can’t really identify with the people in the song if I’m really honest with myself, and I felt a sense of shame.

I was like, “Wait, What does that mean? Am I allowed to be that Black person that didn’t have the worst experience?” And so, I was like, “Wait: where did I grow up?”

I realized that I grew up in another place that was the Transkei, but I didn’t really know what the Transkei was. I just knew that there was this kind of idyllic childhood that I had. I didn’t experience apartheid in the same way that people always talk about. But no one has ever framed that for me. And why and how? Because when you’re growing up in a particular world, there’s no questioning. It is what it is.

Map of the Transkei, produced by the CIA. From the Perry-Castaneda Map Collection.

That was kind of the first time where I was like, “There’s something here.” And then, the following month, I was out with a friend having breakfast… Instagram was just new, and we’d all just started making our accounts, and I remember being on Instagram and seeing all these gorgeous black girls with long, straight hair, and I was like, “Maybe I should straighten my hair, and maybe get a weave… because everyone looks so cute.” And I told my friend, and he kind of laughed it off. He was like, “It’s actually ridiculous. Why would you do that?” I was like, “I don’t know. It looks cute.”

And he just started talking about racism and identity and apartheid, and I was like, “What the hell do you mean? What does any of this got to do with my hairstyle?” And we kind of got into this argument, and I felt shamed, because I’d already made the booking at the salon, but I’m too ashamed to go. I’m like, “Is everyone gonna laugh at me? Is there something that he knows that I don’t know?”‘ And I went home, and I remember looking in the mirror and being like, “Yeah, I don’t love my hair, actually. I do want it to be straight. And why is our hair so hard?… Why are we like the wretched of the earth?”

And I knew that there was something deeper… God didn’t create me to hate myself. Something else must be going on. And I think I’ve typed in black hair and identity or something, and I fell into a rabbit hole…

So I interviewed some friends of mine, talking about their relationship with their hair, and it was so obvious that this was the site of so much personal and cultural struggle around who gets to be beautiful, and… how we accept ourselves. This is the way racism against colored people lives kind of, for free in our minds, all day long, especially as young people; as women.

I was like, “She’s right. Let’s go deeper.” And it kind of changed from then on, where I was like, “Where did I learn to hate myself, because I didn’t hate myself.” And then it became a film about those Model C schools — those schools that we all went to in the ’90s after apartheid. I realized that very few people had done any extensive research on the experience of black children that went to those schools and how close-range racism functions and loops…

Our parents were all happy that we were in these schools — but we were too small to actually go home and say, “Wait, the racism is now sitting next to me at class; in the playground.” And then at the school… during lunchtime, you could just go and ask for these sweets called “n*gger balls.” Just, “Hey, can I have two n*gger balls, please.” Literally, we walked into that kind of situation.

But it was confusing, because there were also nice things happening. We were getting invited to sleepovers — but you go to a sleepover, and then, they wouldn’t touch your hair when they’re braiding each other’s hair or you go to a sleepover, and you can’t sleepover because your grandmother is a domestic worker, and you can’t get home the next day…

There was always slapping and stroking. A slap and a stroke is the experience I can describe it as — where you’re supposed to be grateful because you’re getting all this exposure or this education, or this privilege, which you are; it’s why I’m sitting there. But it came at the price of all these tiny daily cuts. And these forms of intimate, quiet violence deployed by the teachers, by the school, the actual building itself, your friends, their parents, the whole community that you walked into. And there’s no space to really articulate this trauma.

I think a part in the film that really stuck out to me was when you’re talking about the ways that your white teachers smile at you, but don’t really look at you. I think you summarize it very well.

Yeah. And so many people can relate to that thing, because we’ve all been experiencing it. But why does no one say anything about it?

It’s part of the power struggle. People are afraid to talk about it. Because I’ve had so many conversations with POC friends who are like: white women are like, worse than men sometimes, but it’s hard to articulate it because it’s more subtle.

That’s what makes it more violent. It’s the whole fallacy that it’s subtle. It’s not subtle. They are the ones that are most proximate to the white man. It’s their father; it’s their son, it’s your brother. They sleep next to them. And so, on one hand, they are subject to white men, but they also influence white men and the ways white men move, and… all of this rapacious activity that’s been happening all over the world since the last 5 to 7 years… the way it’s written about and talked about is for the sake of the white woman, and the white child.

It’s for her that we will kill a whole village of people because maybe she fell in the river and that village brought her back… so I felt that white femininity is much more nefarious as a thing that we’re dealing with…

Yesterday, when I showed it at AMC, a white South African woman was there, and she came up to me, and she did everything but talk about the film. She wanted to come talk to me. “Hi, I’m so and so. Living in Seattle. I’m so proud to see a film by black South African filmmaker.” Nothing about the story… so there’s this cognitive dissonance that will also occur, [which] I’ve experienced.

A white South African journalist — she’s a woman — interviewed me. She just wanted to talk about the fact that she watched the film, and all she could talk about was the fact that it premiered at Sundance and how glamorous that is but nothing about the actual film itself, which is about her as much as it is about me. I said the achievement is one tiny thing. What about the film? And she couldn’t access herself because there’s extreme cognitive dissonance where she knows it’s a critically good film, but does not know how to put herself [in it]…

For a long time, [Milisuthando] was about the schools and what they did to us, and how we changed them and transformed them, but how they transformed us. And just: this thing of like, our parents sending us into the hands of that lion, knowing what those would have done to them. What did that mean? What did that take? What did that mean for them? That must be complex. And when they look at us, they go, “Oh, we did nice; look, our kids are in America, working, making movies, getting awards.” But there’s a huge cost and price that we paid that they’re hardly talking about, because it’s not a big trauma. It’s not like, “Oh, I got raped or… I got beaten.” It’s much more benign…

I was in a state where I was just constantly upset… I was like, “How do I get out of this constant state of rage?” Because it’s affecting everything in my life, and I’m not born to be constantly rolling my eyes… and writing letters and being upset. There has to be more to my life than this.

What is it mean to identify and observe the wrongdoing or the racist side [with] your own wellness and your own sense of self as a person and as a spirit?… How do they coexist within you in harmony? This thing of you needing to observe and point out the problem, but in a way that doesn’t harm who you are, ultimately, and in a way that doesn’t replicate the very thing that you’re criticizing?

After a while, I went home to my grandmother’s house. I said, “I can’t be in [Johannesberg] anymore.” I’m tired. I’m just always angry, and I feel like this thing is also chasing me, because everywhere I go, some white person will just come to me and say some messed up thing, and I’m like, “What is going on?”

I’m at the movies, and I’m watching a movie, and after I watch the movie, two ladies come in, and say, “I’m sorry; have you finished cleaning the movie theater?”

No!

Yes.

So going to grandma’s was restorative?

Grandma’s was like: I need to get out of there. Where does grandma live? She lives in the Transkei… rural, maybe 1,000 kilometers [away]. You have to take a plane or drive for a long time. I was like: I’m out of here. And I just want to spend time with her, just doing nothing. To help her go to collect her pension, sweeping, cleaning, making food, walking around to the neighbors, visiting people… I started to calm down in a fundamental way.

First of all, this landscape? Yes. The way that people are; the language. I didn’t speak English — which I was like, whoa, wait. I don’t have to speak English… everyone only speaks Xhosa, and that language is not just conveying communication. There’s a whole knowledge system inside of it. I was like: but how do these people retain their dignity and their beauty?… They’re angry, but they’re angry in a very particular way — that almost hasn’t been whitened. That lactification hasn’t really happened. I’m experiencing a sense of self that’s different.

Not to romanticize anything, but… I was watching my grandmother. She lived through colonialism, apartheid, the Transkei, and democracy, all in one lifetime. How is she so joyful still? What is that? How? I just used to record her anyway, because I find her fascinating and the way she walks… how she repeats everything.

I was always already writing about and filming her, and I remember: after maybe 10 days of being there, feeling like there’s another place to who I am. There’s another life. There’s another story. My beginning is not inside whiteness. My beginning started here. And I became really interested in the history of the Transkei — and how, of course, my grandmother, every time you see her, she will mention that Mandela ruined the Transkei thing. Literally. This is her mantra.

And the only reason she mentions it is because she worked for the Transkei government for a long time as a teacher, and all her pensions? She lost them when the Transkei government ended — and so, she had to start from scratch in a new government. This is what pushed her and a whole bunch of other people off, like: these people ruined our pension. It will be: I’m going to collect the pension, and then she’ll mention, “Oh yeah, do remember that the pensions were lost in Transkei?” And then there’ll be a whole rant about Mandela and South Africa, and then my uncle will come over, and then they’ll have an argument. It’s very funny. Too bad that couldn’t fit in the film, because the arguments in them are totally hilarious.

That’s like its own short film.

I think I can make it into its own short film…

That then became the doorway through which I was interested in Indigenous history and knowledge. What was the Transkei? Who lived here? What are our belief systems as people who are from [there]?

I’m from another part of the country; my family only came in the 1830s — and so, I then met all these healers in that time. When I started asking those questions about Indigenous knowledge, I was just thrown into a world of healers, and people who were integrating Western knowledge systems, Western healing systems and African healing systems in their work. So literally: medical doctors who are also mudangs in the Korean sense, and sangomas in the South African sense…

When you get called to be a traditional healer, it’s not a choice; ancestors choose you, and they show you through various methods, either experience, or you’ll get… certain ailments and certain symptoms, and then you go to a healer, and they say, “Yep, your grandmother wants you to join the force,” or, “The great-grandmother wants you to join the force,” and you have to go to training.

And a lot of young people in the country, in different careers [are being initiated]. You can be an actuary, you can be an actor, you can be a lawyer, you can be a dancer, you can be a painter… Because I feel like this energy that was suppressed for 200 years because of certain laws that called it witchcraft is now emerging, because now, we’re free to move and become and express ourselves — and so, it also wants to be expressed.

I still talk to them. I’m still immersed in the healing methods and the healing modalities about people and how they understand psychology, how they understand art, how they understand the body, how they understand the spirit… then I had to include that element of that part of my journey.

It was the thing that was helping me deal; [to] continue to look at race and racism — because when you look too much, it’s hurtful. It’s painful. You don’t want to look. Why do I want to wake up and look at archives of the monsters? I don’t want to do that. But I also had to transform the way I saw this work. It wasn’t just my own egotistical looking at history. I knew this was something that people in South Africa needed to see. So how did I ensure that I’m looking with as much — not objectivity, but I have to process my own pain, so that I can try to understand what’s happening rather than look with eyes and fingers that are contaminated by my own rage.

Right. Because you mentioned researching and trying to understand the white perspective, and that shows up in your film through your friend. How did those conversations begin? It must be a friend that you trust to be able to get to that level, I imagine, of conversation.

I’ve known Marianne for a long time. We’ve always been able to talk about this at this level. But I myself was more interested in: how do I behave around [her]? How do I posture? If I’m scared of white people, how does it show up in my relationship with her, right? How do I exceptionalize her?

Because I used to have many white friends, and when I started the journey of making the film and writing about making the film and being kind of vocal about how this bullshit is still continuing, a lot of them scurried off. They weren’t trying to engage me, and they were denialists. We’re not friends anymore, and I’m okay with that. But the ones who stuck around, I was like, “Okay, so can I be myself around you?” And it’s very hard when you’re dealing with somebody that’s close. It’s much easier when someone is a co-worker or some stranger in the street. When there’s a lot to lose between the two of you, it’s very hard to go into that conversation.

I knew that I had to, at some point, be vulnerable and bare myself. Because first, I tried the whole life, while I’m the black person, and you’re the white person, and I’m gonna now interview you, and I know… that didn’t work, because it just didn’t produce the thing that I thought it was going to produce.

It took that moment in the hotel room to happen… for it to unravel, really, for me to be like, “Wait a minute, wait a minute. This is what I’m talking about.” I’m having this reaction where you just asked me to turn the music down, and I’m like rushing off, almost freaking killing myself, trying to quickly do it so that I’m not going to upset you. It became a long conversation about, “What does that mean?”

Yes, to you, you’re asking a normal simple question — but this is what it means to have proximity to black people of color, is that: we all hold these traumas, and they really come out in these spaces. It’s basically me saying: you have to engage your power. Whether you want it or not, whether you… acknowledge it or not, it’s there, and I’m having to engage my fear, which is not the thing we want to talk about.

And so, what does it mean to have this friend who is all lovely and bubbly and friendly, and she’s like, “How can you be scared of me?” It was very hard. It’s very hard. But those are not easy [conversations]…

Ultimately, honestly, it did cost our friendship… It did affect it… I wouldn’t be want to say, “Oh, yeah, just do it, with your friend.” Because the things you discover about yourself; [the] things you discover about the other person in that space? You really have to have serious trust and maturity and courage to go there. And I think… we went as far as we could in that conversation, and yeah, it was difficult, but it’s exactly what I’m trying to articulate, and it’s one of those choices you make…

This is the power of representation, I guess. Media representation. Because I hadn’t seen that thing anywhere else in film. I didn’t see that conversation. It’s always Viola Davis and Julia Roberts being BFFs or whatever. That isn’t deep enough, and yet, all of this tension exists.

I don’t want to say it’s easy. We’re still navigating that thing, and it’s very painful, actually, especially now that the film is out… some of the reviews have not been the best in relation to Marian, and I’m like, I never wanted to… instrumentalize her. That wasn’t the point…

And I feel like showing clips of her with like friends — obviously, surrounded by black community, I think, also helped. It didn’t feel like you’re trying to demonize her.

Ultimately, I knew that I couldn’t do that. Because we walked down that road, and I was like, “This doesn’t feel good; this is not what I want to do.” In the process of learning how to film… my white friend, to have these conversations, was really a back and forth, and it required a lot of trust from her. Which she did ultimately give… though it wasn’t easy… it was always negotiation, which I understand.

That’s where I’m at. You gotta have proven yourself already. No educating..

If you’re not doing that work, forget about it. You can’t meet me where I’m going, and I can’t meet you where you’re going. And I don’t want to be in a position of educating; I want to be in a position of learning from each other…

I’m always looking for the ways in which it registers in white people’s bodies and gestures when they encounter me in the street, after the film, or even just in general. And that interest is the reason this film exists. Because my thing is: how many times are we going to keep explaining the same thing? Generations upon generations upon generations? Different types of people in different languages? When is this going to stop? Why does it persist? What happens in white families? When does the white child learn to look at a black person when they say the N word? A three-year-old? How does the three-year-old know, and [how] they are talking about me? No one is sat down and said, “Okay, here’s a spoon…” but somehow, the environment teaches that.

I am interested in racial conditioning within whiteness. That’s why the interest is more: I’m interviewing my friends, not my black friends. Because my black friends, you know their stories; you see it in their faces… we’ve all been saying the same thing… and I learned a lot from what Bettina said, for instance, because I had seen so many things about her family and her…

We were having tea at my house. We’re talking about our ancestors, and she was like, “Oh, yeah, my grandma great-grandmother came to South Africa to find a husband.” and I was like, “Oh, that’s quite specific… I thought she came to colonize…”

But no, a bunch of Irish women were being sent to South Africa to populate a landscape because these men had no women, because they were all very busy with the Indigenous women. But of course, that person had her own life; she had a reason to get on that ship. And all of them had their own lives and reasons to get on the ships. And so, when you allow nuance in, it’s not that it takes away the horror of the history, but I am trying to objectively make sense of: how does this persist? So that I know how to engage it at the source; so that I don’t frustrate myself, because I’ll frustrate myself if I keep saying, “I told you not to do that,” and it keeps happening.

And so, what does it mean to not extend the philosophies of apartheid in the fight against it? And so, intimacy then becomes the antidote to fascism. And this is where things are most rough: is when things are here… I fundamentally believe that… we’re only going to resolve these things when we begin to really engage with each other, and that space is frightening for everyone, for different reasons. Because inside of it, we realize we need each other…

For me, the conversations with [Bettina] and the fact that I was like: well, I’m still building my relationship with you. These are the questions that I have for you, as my friend, as my neighbor, as a person I’m interested in, but also as a white woman. And the way she answered them, for me — the way she carries herself, the way she engages this — is so exemplary of what could be for so many people…

Some of the things she said, I really needed to hear. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear them. And I also got to understand that they don’t necessarily have the answers. Even if… 100 of the smartest white people in the world, the richest, the most resourced: even if they got together, they still wouldn’t know how to figure this thing out. And they need us. That’s why she says: I need my black friends to help me; I also need other white friends. But also me, as a black person, I need to say these things to a white person.

Because there’s some perspective things they can never figure out, because they don’t consider what the experiences are.

Exactly, exactly. And there’s also some experience things that we don’t know, because we don’t experience them. Not to equivocate, but to say it’s a give and take. Another friend of mine, who was white, said when he watched the film, and she talked about the separation of the meat [between black and white people…] he remembered when he was eight years old, in Boston, at school… in the early ’80s, a black kid came to this white school that he was at, and the kids… did this thing in the class where nobody would want to touch the door handle if the black kid had been the last person to touch it. So they’d all kind of feel distracted or something towards them whenever they have to go open the door. And it’s those little things that will never make it to the news, but they exist in their memory.

And maybe not even til you brought it up in the film. Sometimes you forget about that stuff.

Exactly. And so, it’s all set up to kind of provoke these memories…

What is the significance of using your own name as the title?

I mean, I didn’t want to… but essentially, I am very much being propelled by the meaning of balance…

Hopefully, It’s visible in the film — that every frame is filled with love, even for the monsters.

I definitely feel that actually. Because I feel like you’re talking about some really hard things, but you’re not doing it in a way that It’s factual. and it’s like showing the truth, but It’s not like overly harsh or cruel.

Because I’m dealing with people and people. You can’t reach them. If you’re beating them.. you need to tell people how difficult it is while they’re sitting in a warm bed…

It wasn’t a brain film. It wasn’t intellectual [or] only intellect. It’s holistic. It’s physical, its memory. It’s psychological. It’s spiritual. And for me, honestly, the spirituality and going that route, and engaging my ancestors down to ideas that are in the field I got from them.

Yeah. Can we talk about that? What is your relationship to your ancestors and how did they show up?

I came from a home where I was born inside of this. Luckily, I never had to go discover it out there. My father… he was an author, and a lot of his stories revolved around the subject of personal lives. The villager goes to the city, and then when they get to the city, they become a drunk, and they beat their wife and they lose all their money… because their ancestors are unhappy with them. Because they didn’t leave home properly. They didn’t do this ritual.

All of his work is imbued, a lot of times with this idea that: yes, we have our lives; yes, we have our individuality to some degree, as free agents, but we live in harmony with our ancestors. And at each phase of life, you have to involve them, so that you get that protection. Our whole belief system is that we don’t really know who the great creator is. There are certain names to the creator, but we don’t attribute any qualities — no gender… It’s none of our business. We don’t really know. The only people who may know are the ones who have died, and who are maybe closer to what’s on the other side…

We don’t really believe in death, per se. The body perishes, but the spirit lives on, when a person is coming, and the person is born. They don’t look at that baby as like a brand new soul, and it’s like, “Okay, who is here? Who’s coming to see us”‘ and the baby is handed over to the ancestors… but there has to be a ritual that says, “Okay, this is medicine time. From this day forward, she is your responsibility you have to protect; you’ve got to make sure that her life goes well-protected from illness… from financial strife, from violence, etc.”

You do these rituals, virtually every now and then, to keep the relationship… you have to keep doing these things, to ensure that the ancestors are giving strength to help you… the more you give to them, the more they give to you. We were told that if you forget your ancestors, then they forget you. And so, it’s almost like you have this team that works with you, and it’s a team that is drawn to your spirit, your soul, your purpose, your cause, and they share gifts with you…

I’m very lucky that it was not foreign to me; I wasn’t born outside of it…

My last question is… I feel like so much of the narration that you provide is really poetic, really beautiful. I’m wondering about your process for writing some of those narratives.

I only wrote at night… during the day, I putter about and do this and that, but [my brain] too noisy. So I’ll take notes about what I’m seeing and thinking and feeling. I’ll take scribbles — the first iteration on a restaurant napkin, because I’m always sitting in a coffee shop or somewhere writing — and then that’ll turn into cell phone notes while I’m driving or something, and I have notebooks everywhere…

Inside that process, when I’m really writing, I try to get messages. In order to have certain dreams and to have certain sleep, I have to control what I’m eating, what I’m drinking, what I’m saying, who I’m spending my time with, what I’m consuming…

The process is trusting that the path will appear. That’s the process. There isn’t a strict, “Okay, wake up at 4am, and then I go for a run, and then I’ll have a cup of coffee, and then…” You try to do those things to buttress and support your mind attaching itself to these ideas and holding on to them, but really, when the rubber meets the road, it’s like a pure magic thing that’s different for everybody.

There’d be nights where I sat, and there’s nothing that happens, and I’m just scribbling and I’m drawing. Also, obviously, reading helps; reading different texts that then spark certain ideas, certain words. I am a very slow reader, and I read that I read multiple books at the same time. I’m not a one-book person, so I’ll be cross-referencing three or four texts at a time, and trying to find the relationship between these ideas and why am I so excited by this?

All the writing in the film — especially the poetic bits in-between… was some of the first things that I wrote and finished. And then we were like, “How are we going to build each of these universes?” Each of the five chapters actually revolves around those… we call them transcendental voices. That transcendental writing speaks to that. And those are all instances in my life. Those are things that have happened to me that I’m writing about in a poetic way, but I’m using the second person, so that the audience can also put themselves in my shoes.

It was a lot of trust and faith and knowing that it has to come out of me. And I mean, the one thing I became confident about was writing. When I started the process, I was not a filmmaker, right? I never made a film before. I don’t really know much about the technical aspects. I had to learn all that stuff. And there was always the imposter syndrome looking at me like this: “Hi, I’m here.” Constantly.

But the one thing that always swatted it away was my ability to write and express myself, and I knew that the power of the writing is not didactic, and it’s poetic. It has to be in a register of the poetry. It cannot be in prose. It can’t be prose dressed up as poetry. It had to be true poetry that is able to cut through anything, anywhere at all times. And that takes iterations. Sometimes you’ll get one line, but then the rest you do have to build.

And yeah, there has to be love, man. Ultimately. There has to be love. It has to be words that people want to hang around. You don’t want words that people run away from. You want people to be like, “Oh, I want to stick around and hang around the sentiment…”

And you have to have love for people… part of the process was an exercise in really ensuring that: this other thing, which was my name, was also embodied within the writing… It can’t just be dry words; the words have to be drenched in some kind of intention and love… constantly asking, “What is this force? And how does it express itself? How does it wish to express itself through us?”

Milisuthando Film Trailer

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Palestinians inspect the damage following an Israeli airstrike on the El-Remal area in Gaza City on October 9, 2023. Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license. (Attribution: Palestinian News & Information Agency (Wafa) in contract with APAimages‏‏)

Early Media Limitations During the Current War on Gaza

Following Hamas’ attacks on Oct. 7, Israel imposed a total siege, which forbade food, water, electricity, and fuel from entering the Gaza Strip until two weeks later, when a trickle of aid trucks was permitted. Outside journalists were also barred from entering, leading to a reality where journalists who were not already inside Gaza were only able to cover the war from outside of Gaza. Due to their lack of firsthand access, mainstream Western media outlets tended to stray away from live coverage on the ground — though many flocked to Israel or the Israeli-occupied Palestinian territory in the West Bank in an attempt to get closer to the conflict.

The largest of the Arab media outlets that already had reporters on the ground in Gaza has remained Al Jazeera — which is funded in part by the Qatari government and lesser-known by average American audiences. Firsthand coverage has also gained increasing popularity through the reporting of Palestinian citizen journalists and influencers who live in Gaza, echoing similar circumstances in the United States during the 2020 Black Lives Matter uprisings for racial justice.

“Social media has allowed us access into people’s homes, and we have made a situation that was seemingly presented as this complex situation to be as this very straightforward situation,” Palestinian journalist and writer Mohammed el-Kurd shared on CBS News. “You have a people subjugating another people, and [with] this, we have been able to trespass the gatekeepers of mainstream media that don’t allow us to share our narrative.”

On Oct. 27 — three weeks after the Hamas attacks and amid an increase in Israeli bombardments on Gaza — news spread far and wide about the first total communications blackout imposed by Israel. For a 34-to-36-hour period, cell service and internet were almost completely unavailable in the Gaza Strip; another blackout took place beginning Oct. 31. Both aligned with a significant increase in Israel’s ground offensives and heavier bombardments. As the Committee to Protect Journalists warned, “A communications blackout is a news blackout. This can lead to serious consequences with an independent, factual information vacuum that can be filled with deadly propaganda, dis- and misinformation.”

Accessing social media through satellite uplinks and out-of-country SIM cards, Palestinian citizen journalists, such as Motaz Azaiza, Bisan Ouda, and Plestia Alaqad, were among the first to share somber messages regarding the communications blackout. Intermittently, they continued to update their social media accounts whenever they were able to access the internet — thus providing some of the most significant firsthand, on-the-ground images available in a time when most Western journalists were unable to enter the Gaza Strip. Yet it remains rare that their footage is incorporated into mainstream Western media, and many have allegedly faced attempts by social media platforms to ban or “shadow-ban” their account.

Long-Standing Allegations of Western Mainstream Media Bias

Analyzing the news headlines of mainstream media outlets can offer a clue into long-standing media biases that have been perpetuated throughout this current war. In December 2019, 416 Labs published its report “50 Years of Occupation,” which analyzed over 100,000 news headlines across 50 years from the Chicago Tribune, the Los Angeles Times, The New York Times, The Washington Post, and The Wall Street Journal about coverage on Palestine and Israel.

“The findings demonstrate a persistent bias in coverage of the Israeli-Palestinian issue — one where Israeli narratives are privileged and where, despite the continued entrenchment of the occupation, the very topics germane to Palestinians’ day-to-day reality have disappeared,” Owais Zaheer, one of the study’s authors, told The Intercept. “It calls to attention the need to more critically evaluate the scope of coverage of the Israeli occupation and recognize that readers are getting, at best, a heavily filtered rendering of the issue.”

As outlined by The Intercept, “The patterns identified seem to show a clear slant toward the Israeli perspective. … Since 1967, the year that the Israeli military took control of the West Bank, there has been an 85 percent overall decrease in mention of the term ‘occupation’ in headlines about Israel, despite the fact that the Israeli military’s occupation of Palestinian territory has in fact intensified over this time. … While subtle, a consistent disproportion in article headlines — which by default gives a greater airtime to one side or occludes certain key issues — can impact public perception.”

Arguing that Western media takes a “specific position of complicity,” Palestinian American writer and journalist Mariam Barghouti told The New Humanitarian, “It’s as if Palestinians don’t exist, except as dead bodies and images, or as terrorists screaming in the language that is not understood by much of the audiences that are observing this, especially in the English-speaking world and English-speaking media production.”

Barghouti noted that in certain interviews, journalists avoided showing both sides of the perspective — often interviewing only members of the Israel Defense Forces (IDF), for instance, and ignoring Palestinian voices. She continued, “What it is helping is in perpetuating a continued assault and a continued slaughter, when they should be able to inform audiences of what’s happening so that readers and viewers can make their own choice. This is being out of touch with reality. This is not bringing in the fact-checkers, and the people to really showcase and inform.”

Similarly, major news networks, such as MSNBC, CBS, and CNN, allegedly omitted coverage by or rescinded invitations to Palestinian and Arab guests. According to The Nation, “MSNBC claimed that the three Muslim-American hosts were removed only for logistical reasons and that their religion had nothing to do with the decision. One complexity of the story is that the three employees continued to appear on MSNBC as reporters and analysts even as they were sidelined as hosts.”

As Middle East analyst Omar Baddar shared on X, “I was recently booked & repeatedly confirmed on a major network. Day of, I was asked to summarize what I planned to say. When I obliged (US shouldn’t support war crimes, we need a cease fire, Palestinians need freedom, etc.), the producer said they could no longer squeeze me in.” Human rights attorney and professor Noura Erakat wrote on X, “They want us on to cry about our dead but not to provide context or discuss responsibility.”

In instances where Western media networks have interviewed Arab or Palestinian thinkers, network hosts have often sidelined important conversations around the history or the context from which Hamas was created, derailing the conversations instead with repeat inquiries about whether they condemn Hamas.

Selective Determination of Victimhood by Western Leaders

Since the war on Gaza began, President Joe Biden and many high-ranking officials in his administration have used word-for-word catchlines to describe their unequivocal support for Israel to defend itself. For weeks, such language was used alongside condemnations of Hamas, but with no mention of the Palestinian civilians who were killed in Gaza, even after the war began and thousands were killed. This changed on Oct. 13, after Israel called for half the population of Gaza — 1.1 million Palestinians — to move from the north to central or south Gaza for reasons of “safety.”

This move was criticized by humanitarian organizations as an “impossible” act of “forced displacement,” which is a war crime; furthermore, bombardments continued in central and southern Gaza during the period of migration was recommended — another war crime. After this newsworthy period, U.S. officials finally began to speak generally of the “humanitarian crisis” in Gaza and the need for aid. While continuing to repeat the same lines that “Israel has the right, indeed the obligation, to defend itself,” they began to note that the civilians should also be considered.

The State Department, however, continues to refuse to put limitations on Israel’s use of weaponry, trusting that Israel will ethically police its own actions. In a NATO Ministers of Defence meeting in Brussels, Belgium, U.S. Defence Secretary Lloyd Austin stated, “[Israel’s] is a professional military, led by professional leadership, and we would hope and expect that they would do the right things in the prosecution of their campaign” — despite Israel’s sustained and ongoing record of violating international law and committing war crimes.

“What we have seen from … Western leaders is an absolute support of Israel in its defense. … While they are right to condemn Hamas, while they are right to call for the release of hostages, they have been silent, and their silence is complicity, in relation to the crimes that are being committed against Palestinians,” noted Yasmine Ahmed, United Kingdom director of Human Rights Watch. Ahmed also noted that the 8,000 Palestinian civilians killed during the first two weeks were equivalent to “88% of the civilian population killed in Ukraine in 19 months,” yet “the world community quite rightly calls Russia to account, but has been silent in relation to this onslaught against Palestinians.”

During an April 2022 press conference regarding Russia’s war on Ukraine, National Security Council spokesperson John Kirby said, “It’s difficult to look at what [Putin is] doing in Ukraine, what his forces are doing in Ukraine, and think that any ethical, moral individual could justify that.” He then had to recompose himself as though he were about to cry.

A year and a half later, Kirby spoke of Israel’s attack on Gaza in a vastly different manner. He said, “This is war. It is combat. It is bloody. It is ugly, and it’s going to be messy. And innocent civilians are going to be hurt, going forward. … That doesn’t make it right. That doesn’t make it dismissable.”

On Oct. 31, Secretary of State Antony Blinken presented before the Senate Appropriations Committee, offering testimony for requesting an additional $106 billion in supplemental funding for defense interests abroad. Of that, $14 billion would be directed to Israel, adding to the approximately $3.8 billion the U.S. has given Israel every year since the Obama administration. During his speech — three weeks into the conflict — Blinken once again prioritized condemning Hamas’ activities and spoke nothing of the Palestinian people, period, despite the growing humanitarian crisis.

Meanwhile, the United States continued to brag about being the largest donor to Palestine, citing an increased $100 million in support at a time when aid trucks were unable to enter the Gaza Strip.

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The Deliberate Targeting and Murder of Journalists

While downplaying the Palestinian plight through omission is one tactic, misinformation is another. In 2022, Palestinian American journalist and Al Jazeera reporter Shireen Abu Akleh was killed by the IDF. The IDF initially denied responsibility, but later investigations by neutral entities — such as the United Nations and several news organizations — concluded that “Israeli forces were almost certainly responsible.” According to The Guardian, the U.N. said Israeli soldiers fired “several single, seemingly well-aimed bullets” at Abu Akleh and other journalists.

Attacks on journalists are considered a war crime under international humanitarian law, yet between Oct. 7 and Nov. 27, the Committee to Protect Journalists has already tallied at least 50 journalists killed by Israel. Some incidents are more well-documented than others, including the Nov. 21 murder of two Lebanese journalists in south Lebanon and airstrikes that killed numerous family members of Al Jazeera Gaza Bureau Chief Wael Al-Dahdouh.

Yet investigations into such incidents can be time- and resource-intensive, thus temporarily quieting any allegations of misconduct. Early in the war, on Oct. 13, the “deliberate targeting” of a group of journalists near the Israel–Lebanon border killed Reuters videographer Issam Abdallah, seriously injured Agence France-Presse (AFP) correspondent Christina Assi, and blew up an Al Jazeera vehicle, injuring others. The ballistic analysis from RSF‘s preliminary investigation showed that the shots came from the direction of the Israeli border, and that two strikes happened within short succession to “clearly indicate precise targeting.” Furthermore, it was unlikely the journalists were mistaken for combatants given their vantage point atop the hill and highly visible “press” markings on their helmets, bulletproof waistcoats, and vehicles.

Momentum for Misinformation, Fed Through the Media Machine

Misinformation or obfuscation of reality can also be spread by Israeli leaders or media and then parroted by Western media or leaders at the highest levels, including people like President Joe Biden. Some of those claims are later rescinded, but often not until after they have been widely shared by mainstream media or gone viral on social media. Retractions are often not published or are underseen by audiences who do not engage beyond the initial wave.

At the start of the conflict, it was widely spread that Hamas had beheaded babies when it took hostages. Biden, in a press conference, claimed, “I never really thought that I would see and have confirmed pictures of terrorists beheading children.” The White House later walked back his comments after no evidence could be found.

One egregious piece of “evidence” posted by the IDF featured an Israeli soldier standing in front of a calendar inside Al-Shifa Hospital, claiming it was a “guardian list” with the Arabic names of Hamas “terrorists” who were in charge of their hostages. The video was quickly debunked as misinformation; the calendar showed the days of the week in Arabic. Nonetheless, the IDF has still not deleted the widely shared post, and a simple language check would have prevented mainstream networks from running the misinformation.

Other cases may be more complex, such as the confusion around the Oct. 17 bombing of the Al-Ahli Hospital. The destruction was initially paired with the Gaza Health Ministry’s claim that 500 were dead — though that number lowered to 471 the next day — and Western media cited even smaller numbers without stating how they reached their conclusions. Israel immediately denied responsibility, claiming it was a misfired rocket from Palestinian Islamic Jihad (PIJ), though PIJ has denied it. Results remain inconclusive even though the event was livestreamed by Al Jazeera and documented by a handful of other sources, which were later reviewed by The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal in independent investigations. Each came to a different conclusion about who was responsible for the strike, with The Times saying it may have come from the direction of Israel and The Journal saying it came from the direction of Gaza.

While the facts around Al-Ahli remain disputed, Israel has bombed hospitals, schools, U.N. shelters, and refugee camps. The U.N. has documented more than 100 attacks on medical facilities and ambulance convoys. These attacks also often ramp up after the initial provocation falls from the gaze of the media. Weeks after the Al-Ahli controversy, Israeli troops and tanks surrounded Gaza’s largest hospital, Al-Shifa, and destroyed critical parts of its infrastructure, despite the fact that it had been operating without power for days. Similar destruction was waged upon the smaller Indonesian Hospital, and most other hospitals were rendered inoperational.

Yet while Israel justifies its attacks on hospitals with allegations that Hamas runs command centers in underground tunnels, it has yet to provide meaningful hard evidence, aside from uncorroborated videos of tunnels that are not seen in-depth and the presence of a set of guns and a Hamas-branded protective vest supposedly found in Al-Shifa. Furthermore, former Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak told CNN that Israeli contractors, in fact — not Hamas — built the underground bunkers in the 1980s.

Still, confusion around the Al-Ahli Hospital served to immediately cast doubt on information provided by the Gaza Health Ministry — which is managed by Hamas, the governing party of the Gaza Strip. Such doubt was perhaps most highlighted by Biden, who expressed no confidence in the death tolls. He said, “I have no notion that the Palestinians are telling the truth about how many people are being killed. I’m sure innocents have been killed and it’s the price of waging a war.”

In response, the Gaza Health Ministry came out in support of numbers provided by the Gaza Health Ministry.

“Everyone uses the figures from the Gaza Health Ministry because those are generally proven to be reliable,” said Omar Shakir, Israel and Palestine director at Human Rights Watch, in an interview with The Washington Post. “In the times in which we have done our own verification of numbers for particular strikes, I’m not aware of any time which there’s been some major discrepancy.”

Although U.S. leadership supposed that the Hamas-provided names may have been fabricated, the reality is that the White House State Department has used the Gaza Health Ministry’s numbers in a number of its reports. A senior Biden official has also suggested that death tolls supplied by the Gaza Health Ministry are likely an “undercount.” International news agencies also continue to use the numbers the Gaza Health Ministry supplies.

Paths Toward the Condemnation of Human Rights Abuses

Citing the ongoing “genocide” against Palestinians, Craig Mokhiber, director of the New York office of the U.N. high commissioner for human rights and a U.N. employee since 1992, stepped down from his position on Oct. 28. In a letter addressed to the U.N. high commissioner for human rights, he wrote of the U.N.’s inability to prevent previous genocides and called Israel’s current actions a “textbook case of genocide.”

“In Gaza, civilian homes, schools, churches, mosques, and medical institutions are wantonly attacked as thousands of civilians are massacred. In the West Bank, including occupied Jerusalem, homes are seized and reassigned based entirely on race, and violent settler pogroms are accompanied by Israeli military units,” he stated. “What’s more, the governments of the United States, the United Kingdom, and much of Europe are wholly complicit in the wholesale assault. Not only are these governments refusing to meet their treaty obligations ‘to ensure respect’ for the Geneva Conventions, but they are in fact actively arming the assault, providing economic and intelligence support, and giving political and diplomatic cover for Israel’s atrocities.”

Ultimately, the question is why, who, or what structures are to blame for the clear, persistent dehumanization of the Palestinian people. How is the war fought if the battlefield is the media? And what can be made of a tragic circumstance, now that the Palestinian plight for freedom from occupation is made more visible than ever?

“I think we are standing before a big opportunity,” Palestinian journalist Mohammed el-Kurd said during an October event at The People’s Forum in New York. “Netanyahu saying this about us being the ‘children of darkness,’ or their defense minister calling us ‘human animals‘ — saying the quiet part out loud — can be used to our benefit, but the response to it has to be unanimous.”

“We can make a big deal about this language, and we can mobilize against this language, but again, we have to be in unison,” he continued. “We need to be participating here, because the Palestinian resistance will never win on its own without internationalist support. When you look at this moment like an unprecedented moment that is full of grief and heartbreak — but it’s also full of incentives — it helps you step outside of your despair.”

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Seven Mothers of the Universe, rendered in Midjourney and representative of Alaya Dannu’s dreams

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Learning to Dance in Dreams

As a three-year-old, Dannu ran around on the balls of her feet, prompting her mother to put her in ballet classes. From there, she proceeded to learn a variety of dance forms, including jazz and tap. Then, as a teenager, the dreamscape took her dance training to a deeper level.

Over a 15-year period of dreaming, Dannu was shown specific movements and taught to understand their philosophical foundations. Her ancestral mothers taught her a sacred narrative about the origins of movement and ways to embody movement through a dance ritual. When she performed the dance publicly in 2022 and 2023 at the International Association for the Study of Dreams Conference, audiences were mesmerized by the precision and beauty of her movements.

The first dream dance lesson took place when Dannu was 15.

“I called her Madame Asha in the dream, but it was one of my ancestral divinities,” Dannu explains. “She would just show me very basic footwork, but I would have to practice it. She would say, ‘Wear bells on your ankles, so I can hear you practice [when you’re awake].'”

The directive prompted Dannu to investigate which cultures incorporated bells in their dance traditions, and she discovered several African and Indian traditions that did. Because she was living in Queens at that time — the most ethnically diverse New York borough — she went to Jamaica Avenue and purchased some bells with her allowance.

Finally, in 2013, a dream revealed the specific cultural context of the dance Dannu was learning.

“I had a dream about Vishnu, and he stated, ‘Those who give praise to Padma Makara will receive great blessings.’ And I was like, ‘Who’s Padma Makara? I don’t know who that is,'” she recalls. “In the second dream, I was being addressed as Mahari. And I was like, ‘Do these words even exist?'”

Dannu decided to Google the names of the figures who emerged in her dreams, and soon learned that Mahari is the name of the sacred temple dancers in Orissa, India. There was also a mother-daughter dance tradition, known as the Mahari tradition.

“Dannu began researching the Odissi dance form, and her ancestral mothers eventually approved for her to seek a waking world teacher. As Dannu explains, they told her, “‘Now you can go out into the world and learn the basics… But we’ve taught you the essentials, we’ve taught you the origin story, we’ve taught you the nuances of movement, we’ve taught you the philosophy.'”

When Dannu went to take an in-person class, the teacher was so impressed by her skills, she didn’t believe it could possibly be her first class. Dannu recalls, “She said, ‘I’ve been teaching for fifteen years, and those are not beginner’s moves.'”

Water Temple (top) and Architects of Existence (bottom), rendered in Midjourney and representative of Alaya Dannu’s dreams

The Origins of the Dream Gift

Dannu’s uncommon relationship with dreaming was nourished from an early age. With “ancestry from all over the world,” Dannu’s mixed-race family normalized and encouraged discussion about nocturnal adventures.

After her great-great-grandmother passed away, Dannu started having dreams where the recently-transitioned ancestor gave her messages to relay to other family members. Recognizing Dannu’s gift, her family urged her to write down her dreams, around her 17th birthday, her aunt gave Dannu her first dream journal.

Dannu has been recording her dreams ever since and usually travels with some of her dream journals — an invaluable archive of trans-dimensional knowledge. On some past journeys through her ancestral homelands, she’s prioritized precious baggage space for the journals and has chosen to leave behind other items at the behest of the Transportation Security Administration (TSA), rather than part with these sacred texts.

Dannu defines dreams as “both a space and a process.” In one of her canonical dreams, dreaming was explained to her as “traveling through a transit hub out in the cosmos, heading towards a place to receive knowledge [and] information.”

“When we go to sleep,” she says, “our bodies are at rest, and our consciousness, or our spirits, travel to another realm.”

But Dannu doesn’t stop there. She shares what she witnesses.

The Mothers Emerging (top) and Elders of the Night (bottom), rendered in Midjourney and representative of Alaya Dannu’s dreams

Cultural & Ancestral Dreaming

Much of Dannu’s focus is on what she describes as the effort “to bring awareness around cultural, traditional cultural aspects of [dream] training beyond Eurocentric research.”

“We don’t need to psychoanalyze everything,” she continues. “There are cultural traditions that have a way of seeing and understanding the dream and not necessarily interpreting the dream.”

Dannu’s mother firmly believed that listening to their foremothers’ teachings — as transmitted through dreams and intuitive insights — provided more nourishing narratives than many of the male-centric and colonial perspectives on spirituality that exist in the world today. She impressed upon her daughter the belief that “ancestral knowledge is more valuable than the narratives created by the current dominant worldview — in particular, the ones that exist in American society.”

Due to the overlap and similarities between her foremother’s teachings and that of Ifá — a spiritual and wisdom tradition originating in West Africa — Dannu explored different facets of Ifá. However, one of her ancestral mothers told her in a dream that, “Getting initiated in Ifá is not your path.”

Over the years, it became clear that Dannu needed to honor the legacy of her foremothers and develop her path in alignment with their guidance.

“There’s cultural memory — the reclamation of memory through more traditional practices,” Dannu explains. Her goal is to encourage others to take an interest in their dreams or embrace their own dreaming practices. Dannu believes everyone has access to an ancestral or cultural dreaming approach.

“Even if you feel you’re disconnected from your culture… reconnecting to your ancestry doesn’t necessarily mean becoming best buds with the worst of ancestors,” she explains. “It means understanding where they came from and what their practices were. How they related to the sacred; how they relate it to the spiritual realm, so that you can utilize those tools to understand how they’re communicating with you.”

Dannu’s ancestors usually communicate with her through direct transmission. She explains, “They’ll come down, they’ll speak, and then I have to remember it. Sometimes they won’t leave until I’ve gotten it; I’ve had to repeat back to them what they just transmitted, and then they would disappear.”

Fated Death (top) and Black Madonna Continuity (bottom), rendered in Midjourney and representative of Alaya Dannu’s dreams

Incorporating Artificial Intelligence into Dream Art

In 2022, Dannu was recovering from an outpatient surgical procedure and came across Midjourney, an generative artificial intelligence program which creates images from textual prompts.

She started feeding her dream reports into Midjourney to render the dream experiences into visual art. Studying language descriptions, she filled her arsenal with nuanced prompts to generate the most accurate imagery to reflect her dreams. Dannu credits her ancestral mothers with supporting this mode of expression, which she describes as a “three-way collaborative process between the mothers, the AI, and myself.”

Dannu has since developed an impressive portfolio of work. She hopes to someday present an exhibit that combines visual art, dance, and presentation that explores “utilizing modern technology to give shape and form to ancient traditions.”

“We don’t necessarily need to be limited to old ways of being creative,” she continues. “This is my way of giving form to the sacred.”

Divinity Codex, rendered in Midjourney and representative of Alaya Dannu’s dreams

Dreaming Beyond Boundaries

For people who want to start to uncover the gifts offered by dreams, Dannu has a few suggestions. First, she recommends documenting them.

“You have to develop that relationship with yourself,” she says. “You have to show that higher aspect of yourself that you want to be dedicated to this. And then your dreams start to shift; things will start to be revealed.”

Dannu also recommends branching out beyond the standard psychoanalytic approach to dream interpretation. She suggests, “Absolutely look into other cultural practices and interpretations and ways to interpret your dreams, because if you relegate it to just a Western approach, you’re gonna miss out on so much.”

Finding out more about one’s ancestry can be a place to start honing in on cultural dreamwork specific to one’s lineage. “How to find that alignment is, of course, digging into your ancestry and… how those cultures related to symbols…” she explains. “It’s hard. It has its challenges. But for me, it’s so worth it… because it’s restoring a lost culture and way of being.”

While she finishes her PhD, Dannu is already developing mini-courses on ancestral dreaming and other aspects of her research. She hopes to offer students tools to better understand their dreams and how to work with them. Prioritizing traditional or Indigenous dreaming practices in how she builds and lives her life has come with its challenges, however.

“You have to sacrifice a lot of what society has said is important to you. You have to get rid of a large part of your conditioning in order to really fully honor it,” she admits. “And it’s a struggle because some people are comfortable with what society has set up for them…”

“[But] I wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world,” she continues. “Because this path — [which includes] cultural restoration through dreams, embodying and sharing dream knowledge, and dreamweaving — is very nourishing.”

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Invisible Landscapes Film Trailer

Multifaceted Media for a Multifaceted Problem

Having been raised by a father who was a forester, Czech documentary film director Ivo Bystřičan has been thinking about the environment for as long as he can remember. Yet while he felt it important to contribute to the timely topic of climate change, he realized that he wanted to challenge himself by presenting a piece of work that didn’t repeat all that had already been done.

“There were many films generally targeting the climate change topic, and those groups are traveling around the world with very good financing and equipment,” Bystřičan explains. “Those films were important to me, but I didn’t want to do the same thing, depicting the sports of… climate catastrophes and droughts or hurricanes or whatever is caused by climate change. I was trying to find some perspective that would be new to me and that would even surprise me.”

In their quest for Invisible Landscapes to incorporate a distinct perspective, Bystřičan and Teresa Swadoschová — Bystřičan’s life partner and the film’s producer — began to collaborate with Czech musician Václav Havelka of the band fyield. They decided to invite musicians to be “quasi-characters” in the film, who visit locations that are significant to climate change and attempt to understand the sites through the medium of sound.

“We wanted the right musicians to do it, for their deeper relation to sound, generally,” explains Bystřičan. “Later, we came up with the idea to [bring] our own expedition philosopher to provoke the musicians.”

Invisible Landscapes expedition photo (top) and film still (bottom) from Fjallsárlón, a glacier lagoon in Iceland.

While Invisible Landscapes is sonically rich with a variety of ambient environmental sounds and industrial sounds from power plants, it is, in general, fairly minimal in dialogue. The sparse pieces of dialogue which are featured often come from philosopher Lukáš Likavčan, who focuses on environmental philosophy and the philosophy of science and technology. During the expeditions, Likavčan prompts the musicians — Havelka and his bandmate Pan Thorarensen of Iceland — to more deeply consider the field recordings, which are conducted by Magnus Bergsson of Iceland and Sara Pinheiro of the Czech Republic.

“We are using sound to stimulate the imagination, because I think we are kind of stuck in thinking this [the same way] all the time,” says Bystřičan. “[Society is] about letting just experts and politicians decide, expecting that they somehow manage, but I think they will not. They cannot.”

Many of the conversations the musicians and field recordists have with one another showcase deep perceptions of sound that move far beyond the surface-level sensibilities of an average person. Those which were not used in the film became the backbone for the project’s other interdisciplinary elements, such as a musical album and a podcast.

“There’s a lot of music, but if you have a conceptual album which touches some kind of problem we are experiencing, is linked to particular places, and is linked to particular topics — that are linked to those particular places, that might be interesting for some kinds of audiences,” Bystřičan explains. “We went, in a way, of using and reusing and recycling the material we were planning to have, so that was very environmentally sensitive; you will have one material [being used differently] four or five ways.”

Invisible Landscapes film stills from Hellisheiði, an Icelandic geothermal power plant.

Applying Environmental Philosophy to Sound

Interspersed throughout Invisible Landscapes are a number of educational title cards which include facts about climate change and offer insights into each individual location. Philosophical words from Likavčan also serve as excellent conceptual framing. One standout insight comes when he says, “Sound gives us a structure of not just being an object, but an effect.”

Such concepts are obvious when the musicians listen to the varying types of power plants which are featured throughout the film. Notable examples include the Búðarháls hydropower plant and Hellisheiði geothermal plant in Iceland. At both, the musicians place their ears to metal pipes filled with steam or water, diving deeper into their layered sonic qualities through the use of specialized microphones called geophones and hydrophones. At Žarošice, an oil field in the Czech Republic, giant oil wells suck the oil out of the ground like a straw.

“It looks like there’s almost nothing happening. Instead of some simple machine doing a job that it’s been doing basically since the end of the 19th century,” comments Likavčan. “Sounds give us, in this sense, an ability to perceive slow change. A change that is imperceptible visually.”

Once field recordist Sara Pinheiro places a contact microphone upon the oil well, Likavčan observes, “You can hear the process that is actually… like the gas is going up and then to the tubes.”

This comment beautifully illustrates his point that sound is an effect. With the sucking sound comes the extraction of centuries of decomposed organic creatures that have been transformed into oil for present-day consumption.

“With the help of a philosopher, [whose role was] provoking [the musicians] to think, [we wanted] to free them from the usual categories of good and evil, nice and ugly, and to think in a different way than just binary opposition[s],” Bystřičan explains.

Bystřičan employed this strategy from the beginning. Though the Czech coal plant Tušimice is incorporated in Invisible Landscapes, he was careful to avoid critiquing coal as the sole evil culprit. Instead, the film reveals the complex reality of all technologies which generate electricity.

“In our country — but I suppose, in many countries — [it’s] the same. We just think [a] coal factory [or] coal power plant is an evil thing, and we should [all] go geothermal… because that’s great. Well, it’s not, and we should know it,” comments Bystřičan. “Not that everything is just bad, and everything’s fucked, and we are doomed, but we need to find much more sensitivity [about] how to invent things [and] how to operate them… economically and institutionally.”

Invisible Landscapes expedition photos of Tušimice, a coal power plant in the Czech Republic.

Interconnected Environmental Impacts Across Time

“When I started to research what does what and what risks are connected with any particular technology, it was shown that every technology is connected with some problems,” explains Bystřičan, who believes that understanding such complexities will help human beings better address environmental issues. “Some of [the problems] are known already. Some of them are unknown; there are unknown unknowns, known unknowns. It’s a very diverse and multifaceted problem.”

Invisible Landscapes reveals, for instance, that while geothermal energy is often seen as “clean” because it does not release CO2 into the atmosphere, it comes with other repercussions. This complexity holds true for all other energy production technologies.

“Due to very skillful Icelandic greenwashing, [Iceland has] a very good reputation because they are not producing any CO2, which is a great thing, but they are causing other problems that are very deep, that are very dangerous, that are very interesting, and kind of unknown,” Bystřičan explains. “If you drill three kilometers under the surface in a volcanic area, that may bring you many problems. If your hydropower plant is dependent on the iceberg that is melting very slowly and very constantly through the decades, but then it starts to melt way much faster, and it’s going faster and faster… then [the] hydropower plant [may destroy] land and chase out any life, becoming useless.”

Invisible Landscapes reminds viewers that current environmental problems are the result of ongoing, interconnected chains of actions that have been taken in the past and continue to have repercussions. In addition to the aforementioned sites of energy production, the filmmakers also chose agricultural sites and landscapes with great biodiversity. They believe these three buckets serve as the fundamental building blocks of modern civilization, regardless of the types of governments attached to them.

“It doesn’t matter if this is… capitalism or communism, because… both dominant systems are modern,” says Bystřičan. “Modernity is not [a] political [or] economical regime.”

Invisible Landscapes expedition photos of Kaly, an aquaponic farm in the Czech Republic (top), and Milovice, a grazing reserve in the Czech Republic.

Imagination to Encourage Innovative Solutions

Invisible Landscapes is not all doom and gloom, however. Without being overly prescriptive, the film offers some solutions, by showing technologies such as a high-tech aquaponic farm called Kaly, which combines fish and vegetable farming to create a closed system where both entities thrive in reciprocal exchange. A more low-tech solution can be seen through Milovice, a nature reserve which was established in the Czech Republic in 2015. Since then, Milovice has seen positive outcomes through rewilding efforts and begun to thrive with biodiversity.

Yet Bystřičan admits that these are only a small portion of potential solutions. He supposes that moving to more community-oriented cooperative or communal models — as opposed to relying too heavily on massive nation-states — may be part of the solution. Encouraging everyone to dream about climate change solutions together is also a vision the film also hopes to prompt.

“[Climate change is a] way too difficult, multi-dimensional, super-complex thing, and I think much bigger masses of society should be part of common dialogue and more [fantastical] ways of thinking,” Bystřičan comments. “What are we experiencing? What can we do? What can everybody do? What can be new configurations of roles in society? New professions and new specializations?”

Bystřičan also hopes that human beings will begin to understand that they are not the only entities on the planet Earth. Invisible Landscapes illustrated that the sonic world which human beings understand — and that which is presented in the film are very much limited by current technologies. These understandings may be subject to change as future technologies develop. With this abstract thoughts in mind, Bystřičan hopes his next project will explore how other beigs experience the world around them.

“I’m very, very much interested in, for example, how the deer is experiencing the wildfire… or how the bird is experiencing the emptiness of the landscape with monocultural agriculture,” Bystřičan dreams, while acknowledging that there are far more birds and fish on earth than there are human beings. “Other beings could be bringing us to the idea that our senses and our no knowledge are not the only one on this planet, and we somehow share it… because like this human-centric perspective is becoming boring, and I think it’s also very dangerous.”

He continues, “We don’t understand that our steps have very broad and complex consequences that are finally threatening even us — through a whole cycle of consequences in nature, through other beings, and everything.”

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Images courtesy of Hernan Vargas and Vee Hua.

Interview originally conducted in Spanish and translated by Vee Hua, with additional consultation from Julián Zuluaga. English translation approved by Hernan Vargas prior to publishing.

On the table in the studio’s front room, one instrument, long and spherical, is immediately identifiable as a flute. Another is more difficult to discern and looks like a strange ceramic box with a handle; lift that handle, and one hears the splashing of water, which pushes through fired clay and expels air to create a strange beast of a hydraulic wind instrument. Still another instrument is an accordion with a ceramic exoskeleton, powered by a series of reeds inside.

When I enter the back room of the studio to interview Vargas, I find him working on the body of a guitar, still in its raw clay form. He is shaping it with a rounded tool as he watches YouTube videos an iPad. A week later, after I have departed from Oaxaca, the piece will be glazed with a white base and speckled with painted black droplets and blue accents, bringing it into the aesthetic universe of his other instrumental pieces.

The Magical Powers of Barro

Vargas first began working in ceramics nearly two decades ago. Despite his love for the medium, it was not initially obvious what his contributions would be.

“Very shortly after starting with ceramics… I started to ask myself, ‘What do I want to do with [the medium]?'” Vargas explains. “And I was in a bit of a crisis, because I couldn’t figure out what I wanted to do, until the possibilities of [making] instruments appeared. It created a bridge between music and ceramics, and that was… super interesting to me.”

Vargas self-describes his work as an “investigation into the development and creation of ceramic instruments, sound sculptures, and the search for the connection between music, ceramics, sound, and what needs to be expressed.”

Influential to his early understandings was the work of a Brazilian project called Grupo Uirapuru. Consisting of dynamic rural artists who participate in many creative practices, Grupo Uirapuru also has an “orquestra de barro” — an orchestra consisting completely of ceramic instruments.

“At first, I only made percussion instruments, and over time, I started… making other instruments,” Vargas recalls. “I started making… for example, clay guitars, clay charangos… string violins, and then started on hydraulic instruments that operate with water, which were also based on ancient Mesoamerican pieces.”

Vargas explains that his work doesn’t directly pay homage to Mesoamerican cultures — or any specific culture, for that matter — but ceramics inherently hold a deep historical resonance. Ceramics have caught his attention in part due to the wonderful duality they hold and the “magical” qualities they possess.

“If you drop the [ceramic] piece on the floor, it breaks. But if it doesn’t fall to the floor, it’s a material that can last thousands of years, right?” says Vargas. “In fact, we reconstruct much of the history of ancient cultures here in Latin America through ceramics pieces, because ceramic and stone pieces are materials that persist over time. They are a timeless material.”

“They present a duality that is present in the fragility, as well as in the strength of the material,” he continues.

An Emergent Spirit of Creativity

Touchpoints from history, contemporary art, and a wide range of other influences may often find their way into Vargas’ work, but they are never copied in exact ways. Instead, all the influences mix together in his being and reemerge through an exploratory spirit of creativity.

“Everything I see and everything I investigate leaves a trace, right?” says Vargas. “[But] when you begin to develop pieces, design pieces, or create pieces, every point [of reference] becomes almost involuntary.”

The involuntary nature of creation is heightened by Vargas’ process. He rarely plans out his pieces in advance — instead, allowing himself to follow intuitive whims and impulses. This, of course, can sometimes lead to false starts or failures.

“With every piece, there is a learning of discovering the things that will work and even also the things that don’t work, because sometimes, I have planned something, and it might not work,” he explains. “But the fact that they don’t work is also a learning experience.”

Failure, then, is an acceptable byproduct of a creative process that very much centers the art of “play” and exploration.

“Every piece… emerges from a lot of play,” says Vargas. “The majority of the pieces are not designed beforehand. I make the piece, and along the way, I’m going to discover what the character looks like [and] the presence of the entity that emerges from the piece, right? It’s very playful.”

Such playfulness perhaps manifests most thoroughly in Vargas’ complex wearable sculpture pieces — large costume-like instruments that are mostly, or completely, made of ceramics. Two such pieces on display in Casa de Todas Partes include a massive sound helmet and a soundsuit. Striking as visual objects, they offer an audio-visual performative experience for those witnessing them in action — but perhaps more importantly, also provide an interactive, immersive sensory experience for the object-wearers.

“You put your head inside and directly experience sonic sensations inside,” Vargas explains, of the sound helmet.

As a sculpture, the sound helmet is giant, with the frets of a string instrument poking out from either side of it, as though the head were adorned with a musical set of antlers. The barrel-chested soundsuit, located in the studio right next to the sound helmet, is completely made of ceramic and incorporates a complex system of flutes within its body cavity.

Making objects that are interactive is done with clear intentions. Vargas stresses that one of the most important qualities of his work is its ability to facilitate exchange and interconnectedness.

In addition to making musical compositions by recording, sampling, and looping the ceramic instruments, Vargas also hosts performances of the objects in action. Likewise, with his work on display at Casa de Todas Partes, complete strangers are day-in, day-out invited to touch the ceramic instruments and understand how it is that the beautiful sculptural objects make their sonic magic.

“The interactivity, for me, is the most important thing [about the art],” says Vargas. “And the sacredness of the material.”

Learn more about Hernan Vargas at the following links:

• Barro Mare – Hernan Vargas’ work on Instagram
• Casa de Todas Partes – Collaborative arts studio in Oaxaca

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An Intergenerational Tragedy of Displacement and Land Loss

Today, although the land of Artsakh remains, the place as it was previously known and loved by its Indigenous population has ceased to exist. After three years of tenuous peace, Azerbaijan attacked Artsakh in September 2020, and then in December 2022, blockaded the only road connecting Artsakh to Armenia. As of January 1st, 2024, all previous state institutions were dissolved. Since the 2020 war started, over 130,000 people fled their homes, becoming refugees in Armenia and other countries.

When Mkrtichian set out to make There Was, There Was Not in 2018, she had no idea that she and her subjects would get caught in a war two years later. She did, however, grow up listening to her grandparents tell Armenian fairy tales –– some of the last vestiges of their beloved culture — and was sadly familiar with the history of displacement and genocide of Armenians. During World War 1, Mkrtichian’s family was displaced from their homeland, a region in present-day Eastern Turkey.

“Artsakh is on the other side of the country,” Mkrtichian explains. “As someone who came from a family who lost these ancestral lands and were displaced, the people of Artsakh felt like they were the closest to understanding how important a tie to land was.”

“I always felt like these people really appreciated this land that they had,” she continued. “They had to fight for it. They knew how important that land was and how important it was to keep it and so I think that was some sort of tie that I felt to the people there.”

From Judo to Mine Removal: The Stories of Four Extraordinary Women

Mkrtichian moved to Armenia in 2012. She was drawn to Artsakh and made a short documentary entitled Motherland (2019), about the first team of women to remove landmines from the war in the 1990s. She later returned to teach a workshop. Enchanted by the place, she started to see, “a larger story there.”

“I was noticing all these really extraordinary women who were in this place that was objectively more difficult to live in,” she continued. “I just became really interested in how they had less access to rights and freedoms but seemed like the strongest people I’ve ever met and tend to be like doing all the work in this place. That kind of irony really drew me to telling these stories and finding a way for those women who are doing that work, who I found really extraordinary, to be seen in a different way.”

The four women at the heart of There Was, There Was Not all came into Mkrtichian’s life organically, and the depth of each friendship resonates strongly in the film. Sose Balasanyan is a world-class martial artist in Judo who has won gold medals in competitions around the world. Another lead character, Siranush Sargsyan, is a civil servant in the city government who’s campaigning for city council with a platform that champions women’s rights. Her efforts are complemented by Gayane Hambardzumyan, founder of the only Women’s Center in the Republic of Artsakh. Lastly, single mother Sveta Harutunyan is one of the first and only women to take on the harrowing job of removing mines previously left during war efforts. The women represent different backgrounds, generations and personalities, but they share incredible qualities of strength, resilience, and compassion.

Mkrtichian employs a subtle show-don’t-ell approach, visiting each woman in her daily life and witnessing tender moments each experiences with family, food, and the land. In the early years of making the film, Mkrtichian worked with cinematographers, but came to recognize that “the relationship that I was establishing with the four women was moving into this more intimate space and felt more like a friendship.”

“By the time I was in the third year of filming, it felt like just being in a room by myself was actually the way that I was getting the footage that felt most organic to me,” she explains.

This focus on the quiet power with which her protagonists moved through everyday life was Mkrtichian’s primary goal. In her director’s statement, she writes, “I never meant to make a film that documented war, displacement, and ethnic cleansing. I meant to make a film about how women create a sense of home and a better future for their communities, after the rupture of war, displacement, and ethnic cleansing. But history repeats itself.”

Emily Mkrtichian and Sose Balasanyan at True/False Film Festival in Columbia, Missouri, in February 2024

An Unexpected Plot Twist: War and Displacement

In 2020, just as she thought she was nearing the end of production, Mkrtichian found herself caught in a war — just two days before her flight home.

“I got a call from [Judo champion] Sose [Balasanyan] at like 7:00am, telling me that bombs were dropping,” Mkrtichian recalls. “From that moment, it was a very different relationship with a camera… it felt like the camera was like a lifeline… it started to feel like it was like a crucial act — a radical act — just to have this camera and to follow these women.”

With no prior experience in wartime conflict, Mkrtichian found herself concerned primarily with the safety of the four women. She called upon journalist friends to advise on protocol for filming under such challenging circumstances. At this same time, three years into filming, she received her first funding for the film, from Sundance Institute.

Balasanyan joined Mrktivhian at the world premiere at True/False Film Festival in Columbia, Missouri, in February 2024. With Mkrtichian serving as translator, Balasanyan shared her feelings about the recent, painful loss of her land.

“Honestly, she would never have never imagined that she would have to leave that place,” Mkrtichian translated. “They really overcame everything. They overcame a blockade. They overcame being attacked with these kinds of weapons that you can’t respond to.”

“For hundreds of years, Armenians have always lived in that place, and they’ve always struggled for it,” she continued. “Even after the war, everything was uncertain and hundreds of people came back to Artsakh not knowing the future, knowing that it wasn’t safe, knowing that the borders were moving and there were still bombings. People still wanted to live in that place.”

When it became clear that no international aid was coming, Balasanyan and others in Artsakh felt really alone.

“The Russians weren’t helping; Armenia couldn’t do anything. No one from the European Union stepped in,” translated Mkrtichian. “Within three days, everyone decided to leave. Over 120,000 people decided to leave these lands, which tells you how scared everyone was.”

“The media narrative was, ‘Oh, they just decided to leave.’” said Mkrtichian “How do 120,000 people decide to leave a place unless everyone really feels that their lives are in danger? Especially a place that they fought for for hundreds of years?”

“It was really hard to make that decision [to leave],” Mkrtichian says, of Balasanyan’s experience. “They’re believing and dreaming that one day they’ll be able to go back to this place.”

Crafting the Story: Finding the Nuances

While editing the material, Mkrtichian found herself longing for a partner who could help her craft the nuanced kind of story she was trying to tell. Specifically, she sought to ensure that the film “was really steering clear of sensationalizing the war, the violence of it and really focusing on the more quiet, patient stories of these women.”

“This is an industry, and I feel like films are made in certain ways,” she comments. “People want them to be successful for larger audiences, and often that means catering to a certain way of witnessing war.”

Fortunately, Mkrtichian found a collaborator and mentor in Alexandria Bombach (On Her Shoulders, Frame By Frame), a director, cinematographer and editor known for documentaries which tell the stories of extraordinary people navigating the aftermath of genocide and war. Bombach, one of the film’s Executive Producers, first joined There Was, There Was Not as a story consultant in 2019 and later joined as editor. Bombach’s support instilled confidence in Mkrtichian to realize her vision and make the film she wanted to make.

“In the edit, we leaned into the fact that Emily was making a completely different film before the war broke out,” Bombach says. “I think many directors would have skipped over that footage, but Emily had the instinct to listen to what the footage was saying and what it meant to the larger story. Her compassion and integrity created a profoundly authentic portrayal of a devastating situation — told through a deep connection with these four women and with Artsakh.”

“[Alexa was] just such a beautiful collaborative partner and brought so many things to this film that I wouldn’t have had the skills to do,” shares Mkrtichian. “I think that the most important thing for them was to listen to what was important in the way that I wanted to tell the story. I’m really glad that I found someone who helped strengthen that for me, because I think that’s what people are reacting to now when they watch it.”

Despite the trauma and sorrow, Mkrtichian found a way to close There Was, There Was Not that invokes the beloved fairy tales her grandparents told her. The final shots are stunning — almost otherworldly — as all four women gather together for the first time, on a mountaintop as the setting sun casts a golden light over the green hills.

“I really wanted to find a way for us to just have a beautiful place and to film something that felt like it was in another world,” reflects Mkrtichian. “But it took years for me to understand how to use it, because I think I still couldn’t quite wrap my head around how to imagine something different than the horror that we had seen.”

“Eventually, coming back to that theme of fairy tales and stories and that idea of why passing things on is so important,” she continues. “I think I came to feel like that was the work of this film, to reopen that portal to some sort of better future.”

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Tell me how you came to understand the significance of birch bark — both for you personally, and then how it evolved to be important to you as an artist.

Phillip Gladkov:
This necklace that I got [around] 2015 was what brought birch into my awareness. Obviously, I’ve been around it a lot before then as a kid. There [were] things in my house growing up made of birch that I just didn’t know what they were. My dad came back from Russia, and brought me this medallion. I don’t know what it symbolizes, to be honest, and neither does he, but he brought it back, and I’ve worn it almost every day ever since…

At the time, I was working on a documentary film in upstate New York, and there just happened to be a lot of birch trees [there] also. It was almost kind of coincidental that I got this necklace and was in that place. [I then] just started paying attention to them a lot more and appreciating all the different colors and textures that they have. I’ve always been someone who has a deep and profound love for the forest and nature in general. And this was just an extension of that.

So I started kind of collecting pieces of dead birch from the ground, not really knowing what I would do with it, but just loving touching it and looking at it. And as it was there on the ground, I wasn’t feeling too bad about [it]… I [wasn’t] ripping them off the trees and stuff.

One day, at home, I was looking at the pieces, and — naturally being an artist, I was like, “I should make something out of this,” and I made my first piece which was a little mountain. It was Mount Algonquin in the Adirondacks in upstate New York. And I liked it, and other people liked it, and I was just kind of, “Hmm, this is interesting — making collages out of this beautiful bark that is almost paper-like in texture.”

They just started there. I made one after another, and now I think I have maybe… around a dozen of these giant collages of birch bark that are very special to me.

Portait photos by Johnny Frost

What have you learned about the way that birch bark grows or flakes — or how the colors turn? Because I’ve been astounded by the incorporation of color in your work.

Phillip Gladkov:
Betulin is the compound that gives birch trees their distinct white appearance.

And the reason they’re evolved to be white: one of the theories is that dark trees in the winter can absorb a lot of sunlight on one side, and with nightfalls and temperature differences, that can lead to condensation, freezing inside, and a lot of problems. So, it was beneficial for the birch trees to be white, because they would reflect the sunlight in the winter and would kind of stay uniformly the same temperature.

And they were one of the first trees that came when the ice started melting from the last ice age, I believe, because they’re a pioneer species. So they’re in these cold environments, and it was just beneficial for them to have white bark.

So it grows in Russia and in New York?

Phillip Gladkov:
There’s a lot of species of birch. This necklace that I’m wearing from birch is probably a different species then one that I was collecting in New York, though they have similar properties. The species that I collect in New York and Vermont and New England — and that’s pretty popular, I guess, in North America — is betula papyrifera.

Birch grows all over the world, where the habitat is right for it. Mostly colder, higher-altitude places. And wherever it grows, people have used it from the beginning of time… one of its simplest functions as bark is as a fire starter — it’s very flammable — to then, utilitarian things, like baskets, and here in North America, canoes and shelters for homes. Once it gets beyond that, it’s craft purposes, like making beautiful things [such as] earrings, ornamental [objects]…

The uses for it are endless, and that’s like, one of the things I love — that all around the world, people have come to love and revere this tree, because of its benefit to us and its beauty.

How did you come to develop the concept of Story of the Sun

Phillip Gladkov:
I was telling a bedtime story to someone. They asked me to make one up on the spot, and I told the story about the world before the sun and where the sun came from, and I kind of just said it in one go.

I have a book about myths my friend gave me while I was working on this project — about sun myths and origin stories from all around the world. One of the most interesting things I found in it was that while there are many different creation myths about where the sun came from, one really common thing is that people describe this world of darkness before the sun. That’s a common factor.

That’s something I think about a lot — the human curiosity of thinking of… “What was it like before the sun? “Even though now science has other explanations, we all have our own explanations too.

That’s where the written portion of [the story] came from. I wrote it down in a phone note the next day or something.

I feel like there’s like a bit of a morality tale in there. Do you see it that way?

Phillip Gladkov:
I always want to make art — at least in films and my storytelling arts — that’s like a little bit of like, a love letter to humanity…

Sometimes, I think about how young we are as a species, and how we’re still kind of in a childlike state. Even though we have this highly advanced technology, we still kind of operate in a very — I don’t know the right word for it, but childlike way… not always forward-thinking.

There is morality in it… you can look at these primitive birch beings and be like, “Oh, man, they’re so stupid! They let fire destroy their whole village,” and then you think about humans and climate change where we’ve come to like the point of making the planet uninhabitable in several decades. It’s not too far off of a metaphor.

Right. And also, fire being this interesting thing, because we control it so much that the lack of regular controlled burns has become a problem for wildfires.

Phillip Gladkov:
Yeah. Wow. It’s also really cool that the film is made out of birch bark, because it was a material that was probably — by the earliest humans and even maybe even pre-humans — discovered to be very flammable and used very much so.

They found a lot of birch tar in Neanderthal firepits. They either think they use the tar because you can use it as glue [and] they either figured that out — or other people are arguing now that they were just burning birch, and that’s why there’s tar there. So, it’s debatable whether they knew its many uses, but that’s still cool.

I actually didn’t know birch had tar.

Phillip Gladkov:
It’s quite sticky. I’ve actually made it before myself out of the scraps that I use for my birch pieces. You basically have to burn it without it getting burnt — without the fire actually touching it. You have a hole in the bottom of a tin can, and you can collect this tar that’s kind of what remains.

It’s black, and it smells like smoke, and you can use it as a slightly-functional mosquito repellent if you have nothing else. And if you keep boiling it, you’ll make it into more of a sticky glue that is very sticky, and you can bind wood with rocks to make hammers… and stuff like that. That’s another thing that birch was used by people all around the world for a long time.

That’s fucking cool. How long did this project take you? And you mentioned stop-motion — but what other if any animation techniques, if any, did you employ in the process?

Phillip Gladkov:
I first told that story [in] 2017, and I’ve been telling the story since, but I always thought: it would be nice to make an animation of this one day. And, finally, that one day came around [at the end of] 2021, I was like, “I gotta start working on this.”

It wasn’t until… the beginning of 2022 that I made a storyboard on a giant piece of paper. And then, it wasn’t until I moved to LA that I actually started working on the animatics… and further storyboarding and developing it.

Principle animation probably began in October 2022, maybe… It really kind of blurred. Time blurs, because you start working on a project, life gets in the way, you put it down, and then you return to it.

Are you the type of creator who gets really in the hole with animation stuff?

Phillip Gladkov:
Yeah, yeah, but this takes so long that you can get in the hole, and then it’s time to get out of the hole, and then you have to get yourself hyped to get in the zone again, because you can be at it for like two weeks, working full-time days, and only be 5% done. Or, like, even less, honestly. So it’s definitely a marathon.

When I first showed [my friend] the animatic and was getting his feedback, he was like, “Just get ready, because it’s gonna take a lot longer than you think,” and I got kind of mad at him for saying that. I’m was like, “No, I’ll have it done in no time. What are you talking about?” and he was totally right.

In addition to stop-motion, what were some other animation techniques you used? It looks like there’s some CG or VFX stuff.

Phillip Gladkov:
A lot of the characters were stop-motion. Some of that would be in-camera stop-motion that I would do with them, and some of it was: I needed to get a shot, and I didn’t necessarily have the time or resources to recreate it in stop-motion again — and so, I would just rig puppets in AfterEffects and put the birch texture onto them.

It’s a good mix of stop-motion and AfterEffects comping.

Because the birch bark is really precious to me too, I can’t just be like cutting up infinite amounts of pieces of it, because I use it for my fine art.

It’s just such a sacred and valuable material to me that I tried to minimize waste as much as possible… I don’t live somewhere where I’m around birches right now, so all of my pieces are very important to me, and it pains me so much to cut into them even when I’m working on a piece I really love.

For me, the story is always the most important… Do I think it’s sacrilegious to not have 100% of it be pure, traditional stop-motion animation? No, because I don’t think that’s practical. It’s also a privilege to have that much time to devote to that. I don’t necessarily have that much time to do it a certain way, just for the ideology of only doing it in that way. I don’t; that doesn’t matter to me.

Phillip Gladkov’s fine art birch bark pieces.

What was the process of working with your composer and your narrator? What guidance did you give them, or what was the collaboration?

Phillip Gladkov:
I was really lucky to just happen to work with two really awesome people that it was a pleasure to collaborate with. The voiceover person — I’ll start with them: Tsukuru Fors. I was searching for a voice that sounded ancient. Not old, because that’s… two kind of distinct things. A person can have an older-sounding voice, but [not] have that kind of mysterious timbre and quality that an ancient-sounding voice might have…

For telling a story like this, I wanted a certain quality of voice. I knew what I wanted, but I couldn’t necessarily describe it, and I knew very easily what I didn’t want it to sound like. It was really hard to cast someone. I got a lot of talented submissions — honestly, probably over 100 — but when I heard Tsukuru’s voice, I was like, “They are the one.” And I reached out, and they’re really cool. They’re an activist, among other things, and a voice over artist, and I kind of just got along with them very easily off the bat.

At first, they sent in some recordings that they did on their own. And we would workshop them, and I would give notes. And finally, we had a recording session in person, and my partner — who helped me a lot on this film — was present for that too. She gave notes as well, and it was really helpful to be there in-person and… hear a take and then be able to give some feedback to Tsukuru that, “Hey… this is the emotion of this part,” [or,] “This is why this part is important,” and they would be like, “Oh, okay, knowing that. I can deliver this line a little bit differently.”

By the end of that session… I was like, “This is it; this is the voiceover.” I couldn’t have done the film without them, because their voice is… the guide that guides us through the story of these little birch people…

Honestly, all the way up until recording the voiceover, I was like, “Do we need this? Can I tell this story visually, without voiceover?” Because it’s so much more inclusive when you don’t have a voice in one language — but there are certain things that we’re just kind of lost in without it.

One immediate takeaway I had was, “Oh, their voice feels very timeless.” Even though obviously they’re speaking English, it’s not quite clear what their accent is.

Phillip Gladkov:
That was one of the things I was looking for… I grew up with parents who had accents; everyone in my family who had spoken English had an accent. And that’s honestly a quality I love… I grew up around different people who spoke different languages.

So I wanted that, but I also didn’t want it to be that distinct of an accent that you would be like, “Oh, this is like a Russian accent, or this kind of accent is from this place,” because this story isn’t really tied to any place. And I didn’t want there to be some kind of association like, “Oh, is this a South American story?” Because it’s not. I didn’t want there to be confusion around that, so I wanted an accent that wasn’t specifically tied to any place.

I absolutely love working with Tsukuru, and hopefully they’ll help me translate this into Japanese and we’re gonna do a Japanese VO voice version of it.

How about working with your composer?

Phillip Gladkov:
Lionel Cohen was really cool to work with. I put out a call for composers on Facebook and Craigslist… I had, I think, over 100 submissions too, and it was a lot.

I submit to a lot of things; I’m a freelancer. I’m constantly throwing my name in the ring, and so, I have the respect to listen to everyone’s things and respond to everyone… understandably, a lot of people submit to things, especially right now in this… very dry work climate, but I get upset when there’s not even a thank you… or, “Hey, we went with someone else.” So it took a long time to sift through everyone…

I had a few composers [whose work I really liked], and I talked to all of them. Lionel and I just felt like the best fit, and he was very accommodating and patient with all of my notes and kind of let me know, “Hey, you can give more notes. it’s okay.”

He’s worked on a lot of cool stuff, and he’s a bit more into his career, so it was good to work with someone who has so much experience. There were a few rounds of revision. I remember he did a demo where I was like, “Okay, this might not be like, 100% the final vision, but he gets it, and he knows the emotional tone of this piece.” And that’s the most important thing.

Without him this movie wouldn’t be what it is, because so much of the score is the emotional part, because otherwise, it’s just a birch puppets movie, you know? It really makes you feel how they’re feeling, and you know: the tragedy and the humor and all of that.

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Moments Drawn from Real-Life Experiences

Central to the narrative of Moloka’i Bound are the everyday experiences of Tengan and the film’s lead actor, Holden Mandrial-Santos, who both grew up in Kāne’ohe on the island of O‘ahu. The two started working together in a filmmaking capacity shortly after becoming roommates in 2017. Less than a year later, Mandrial-Santos acted in Tengan’s first short film, Mauka to Makai (2019).

“We just have deep conversations all the time about how proud we are to have grown up where we grew up, and we haven’t really seen it depicted in the way that we know it to be true,” Tengan explains.

“For me, it’s definitely having an opportunity to tell the stories of where I come from and being able to represent the people that I’ve grown up with,” Mandrial-Santos says, regarding what draws him to the work. “Maybe it’s selfish, but they’re so important to me that I want their voices to be heard and for them to feel proud that there is someone telling our stories out there.”

Throughout Moloka’i Bound, Madrial-Santos plays Kainoa — someone who, after being released from prison, makes big strides towards creating a better life for himself. To help him get off his feet, his sister’s family grants him permission to stay with them, and his teen niece begrudgingly gives him her bedroom — all on the condition that he stays on the straight and narrow. Another promising development comes when Kainoa finds meaningful employment pounding poi, a Native Hawaiʻian cultural food.

Most importantly, he manages to rekindle his relationship with his son, Jonathan, and in some moments, even to get back in the good graces of his son’s mother, his ex-girlfriend. At the height of their reconnection — though it never reaches the level of rekindling he secretly hopes for — she “trusts” Kainoa to take Jonathan out for a long fishing adventure, even if the trust comes across like a doubt-saddled leap of faith.

Everything seems to be trending in the right direction, but self-sabotage is ever around the corner. Kainoa remains embattled in the struggle between reforming himself and falling back into risky behaviors that threaten his dearest relationships.

“I’m always interested in nature versus nurture — and that push and pull that we all have within us,” says Tengan, whose work often deals with the complex journeys of paternal figures. “Especially in Hawaiʻi, where it’s… such a beautiful environment, in so many ways, but there’s still so many hardships that people are dealing with all the time.”

As Kainoa spends more and more time with Jonathan — played by young actor Achilles Holt — his love for the land and his Native Hawaiʻian culture shine through brightly. Kainoa takes great pride in passing down knowledge, nostalgically contrasting his familiar comforts against the corporatized overdevelopment of O‘ahu. He teaches his son how to fish and sail, relays the importance of cultural foods and music, and tells stories about the magical land of Moloka’i, where horses and deer run wild.

To create Kainoa — a character who is full of depth but also mired in challenges — Mandrial-Santos drew inspiration from his own family and personal stories. Kainoa is, in part, based on his uncle, while Jonathan is based on his cousin.

“Growing up, before my uncle had gone to jail, he was the charismatic uncle. Everybody loved him,” recalls Madrial-Santos, who adds that he still sees his uncle every week. “He took care of the family, but … he just went through problems.”

“[He] was someone who I looked up to,” Madrial-Santos continues. “We knew what he was involved in and stuff like that, but it was never seen in a way where what he was doing was… very wrong. We knew that he was supporting us, and we knew that he cared about our family.”

“Where we grew up, we saw so many people who are [fundamentally] good people… they just get caught up in things beyond their control, and sometimes it’s hard to shake a lot of those habits, unfortunately,” Tengan adds, regarding challenges his peers had faced with addiction. “That was something we tried to set up with each of these characters… [with] Kainoa trying to navigate like who he is, and ultimately, the man he wants to be.”

An Authentic Community of Non-Actors

In addition to being theoretically centered around familiar people and places, Moloka’i Bound also draws directly from the community with their choice of cast. Nobody in the film is a professional actor, which the filmmakers believed was necessary to preserve the authenticity of the story.

“It’s so hard, I think, to replicate [our upbringing],” explains Tengan. “It’s hard to cast people outside of that who don’t really understand it.”

For a story to be successfully carried by non-actors, Tengan stresses the importance of ensuring that they are “comfortable in their own skin.” He also adds that what attracted him to casting each of them was the fact that they were, off-screen, “very steadfast in who they are.”

One example can be found in community member Hale Natoa, who plays Hale, the parole officer that oversees Kainoa’s release from prison. Hale is depicted as a sympathetic and gentle figure, though he is simultaneously vigilant in making sure that Kainoa hasn’t returned to his old ways. In reality, Natoa was formerly incarcerated himself and is presently on parole now. He was able to share his real-life experiences to help the filmmakers shape the on-screen representation of parole, ensuring that it was believable and accurate.

The Mystical Journey to Moloka’i

Native Hawaiʻian cultural touchpoints are ever-present throughout Moloka’i Bound, whether they are portrayed through language, food, or music. Many of the characters speak in Native Hawaiʻian or Pidgin Hawaiian, which can be difficult for non-locals to understand — and often, their words are not clearly translated. Hawaiʻian music is also omnipresent. It is heard on the radio, in headphones, or in the hands of Kainoa as he plays guitar, both solo and with his sister, who sings alongside him. Music becomes a vehicle for Kainoa to share with his son about Native Hawaiʻian food and culture; it also serves to highlight the ways in which their understanding of the world has grown apart while Kainoa has been in prison.

“Imbuing [the film] with Hawaiʻian music that we grew up listening to and loving and was kind of omnipresent in the background of our lives [was important],” says Tengan, who notes that Mandrial-Santos, who is also a musician, was one of the artists who contributed to the soundtrack. “I hoped [the music] would resonate for audiences beyond Hawaiʻi, because there’s so many talented Hawaiʻian musicians there.”

Another cultural touchpoint of significance is the island of Moloka’i. Throughout the film, Kainoa waxes poetic about the majestic island where his mother lives — and along the way, he endeavors to bring Jonathan there, in hopes of showing him lands that have yet to be spoiled by tourism and Western influence. Certainly, the importance of the island also plays a front-and-center role in the film’s title, but as the narrative unfolds, Moloka’i Bound leaves viewers wondering whether Kainoa and Jonathan will ever complete a journey there together. And even if they did make it, would the island hold any magic whatsoever? Or is its beauty simply in the mind of Kainoa, who is nostalgic for a past long gone?

Tengan first thought to partially set the film in Moloka’i due to the fact that his great-great-grandma lived on homestead land there. As he explains, “Spending some time there, we really got to understand the essence of Moloka’i and its peoples. My mom would tell me stories about going to visit her in the summers with her cousins… and how different Molokai’i is from O‘ahu.”

In the film, Moloka’i is certainly a place, but also seems to encompass the spiritual purity of Hawaiʻi, pre-colonization. The filmmakers wanted to do justice to the area while making sure to respect it and its inhabitants. How to find the balance was constantly a topic of collective conversation.

“Our producers that are on Moloka’i, [Mikiala Pescaia and Matt Yamashita,] were like, ‘Can you make sure you don’t make it look too attractive or beautiful… so tourists won’t come?'” says one of the film’s producers, Nina Yang-Bongiovi. “That was something that Alika had to be really thoughtful about. How much do you show?”

“That was an ongoing conversation with our Moloka’i producers, who were guiding us to make sure the way that we were trying to portray [Moloka’i] felt good to them, because they live there,” Tengan says. “It was definitely important to us that this didn’t feel like a tourist advertisement for the island, because we really want to preserve the way of life that they have over there.”

Native Hawaiʻian Cultural Specificity with Global Implications

Throughout Moloka’i Bound, the presentation of Native Hawaiʻian culture never feels too heavy-handed; it is always seamlessly woven into the solid, character-driven narrative and easily understood through the way that it is felt. Tengan’s experience watching films from all over the world played a vital role in his ability to display his culture on-screen.

“Having fallen in love with global cinema when I was in film school and watching films from around the world but having not been from those parts, [I understood] through context clues what they’re talking about,” Tengan explains. “I hoped that [in Moloka’i Bound], that’s the experience that other people [will] have who aren’t from Hawaiʻi or have never been to Hawaiʻi… Through context clues, [one] can kind of understand the feeling that we’re trying to convey, which is more important than the specificity of it.”

“It’s up to the filmmaker to tell the story they want, but it’s up to a diverse team of people that will give good notes from an outside perspective,” adds Yang-Bongiovi, who is also a co-founder of Significant Productions, a production company she in 2010 started with Forrest Whitaker. “Since I’ve been with this team, I would just assume that people will understand certain things — but when the editing was shared with advisors at Sundance [Institute], they would say, ‘What does that mean, or what does that mean?’ And they would come up with five different areas [of cultural significance that] they didn’t understand. I remember that Forrest Whitaker also came up with notes like, ‘What does that mean? Can you expound on… why pounding poi is a cultural practice?'”

Though Moloka’i Bound does not laboriously focus on topics of gentrification, displacement, or loss of culture, it does hint to these things through its presentation of Native Hawaiʻi. By some measures, Native Hawaiʻians comprise only 6% of the islands’ current population — or 21% if you include those who are part-Hawaiʻian. When one considers such real-life challenges, all of the film’s subtle cues take on a deeper meaning.

They also mirror the struggles faced by Indigenous communities worldwide, which are forced to live in colonized societies that disenfranchise them, subject them to higher rates of incarceration, and may be at odds with their customary ways of life. Thus, it follows that global Indigenous films inspired the genesis of this project.

Tengan and Moloka’i Bound cinematographer Chapin Hall first began to work together after attending Māoriland Film Festival. The festival booked them a car to take a day-and-a-half road trip from Ōtaki, Aotearoa, where the festival was held, to Auckland, New Zealand. Though they hadn’t worked together prior, they were so inspired by watching all the Indigenous films at Māoriland that they spent their drive mulling over a quick project they could shoot together in Hawaiʻi. Thus was born the short film for Moloka’i Bound (2019). Tengan and Hall’s relationship only blossomed from there, and Indigenous films continue to influence their work to this day.

“Meeting [other Indigenous filmmakers] from all over all over the world [and] seeing the connection that all these communities have in the stories that we share… was really amazing to me,” Mandrial-Santos recalls, describing his feelings after attending the LA Skins Festival which focuses on Indigenous films. “[Our subject matter] felt insular to where I was from… but for them to connect to the stories that we were telling and to hear theirs as well… it really opened my eyes.”

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The evening served as a fundraiser for Freakout Festival, which recently turned into a nonprofit organization and will be hosting their multi-day festival in early November. Despite the fact that the event was a fundraiser, the festival organizers didn’t seem to push too hard. They sold raffle tickets for swag packages and commented a bit about how their goal was partially to connect local musicians such as the Seattle-based opener, The Cumbieros, with international acts such as Sonido Gallo Negro. As a nonprofit boob myself, I certainly appreciate a light-touch sales pitch, but I did find myself hoping that Freakout hit their fundraising goals for the eve.

When the time came, seven of the nine members of Sonido Gallo Negro took the stage dressed head-to-toe in black, with the exception of a giant white X on each of their t-shirts. They immediately set the mood with a krautrock-influenced instrumental, then dove deeper into their unique brand of psychedelic cumbia, with “Chaneque” from 2019’s Unknown Future EP. Throughout the remainder of the set, they pulled generously from throughout their catalog of five full-length albums and many more EPs, compilations, and singles.

Sonido Gallo Negro know how to honor the musical roots of Peruvian cumbia but also incorporate plenty of modern rock sensibilities, effect pedals, and dynamic timings to create a blend of old-world-meets-new that is singularly their own. Their use of multimedia elements also heighten their psychedelic production. Images projected behind the band began with a crudely-rendered cowboy hat animation that looked like it was being drawn in real-time; they later progressed to become more polished and graphical in feel.

By the time they were five tracks in, Sonido Gallo Negro had ramped up the pace from slower grooves to something more frenetic. As they played “Yanga” from their 2022 record, Paganismo (Paganism), the band oscillated between surf rock riffs, funky basslines, scat-like vocals, and slightly discordant drum patterns. Meanwhile, images of a primary-colored monkey sailed behind them in a timewarp universe – and one couldn’t help but to think about the past and the future, all compounding upon each other at once.

Later in the set, the projections reached their most satisfying phase, as the repeating giant head of an Olmec statue appeared on-screen. Initially, they moved side-by-side neatly, as if on a conveyor belt. When tracks like “Cumbia Disco Energy” brought the dance to more epic proportions, the Olmec heads mirrored through a pulsating tunnel until they finally twirled upon themselves in circles, reaching infinity.

Even without projections, however, Sonido Gallo Negro’s music is evocative and cinematic enough. Their driving rhythms induce something akin to a playful trance state, encouraging comical visuals and loose storylines which flood into the mind’s eye as their sonic narratives unfold. Their theremin and swirling flute interacted with one another from across the stage. Though they sometimes played in similar keys and registers, the themerin’s wiggliness felt like a ghost embarking on a haunting, while the flute served to be the slightly more stable counterpart.

Another highlight of the evening came with the track “The Model,” also from Paganismo (Paganism). The track felt something akin to a plodding cowboy in a Western movie, riding along in his horse – until alien vocoder vocals kicked in to bring said cowboy into outerspace.

“Cumbia Ishtar” from 2018’s Mambo Cósmico also took one on a journey, though its Egyptian-inspired imagery reminded one more of giant sand dunes. A most ridiculous moment emerged with the track “Cumbia de Las Picaditas;” I laughed to myself as I pictured some kind of Arabian Nights tale being retold through a wild organ solo conducted by the phantom in The Phantom of the Opera.

All in all, Sonido Gallo Negro have done such a great job with choosing their core sounds — and so many of them are multi-instrumentalists — that practically any mix-and-match they do yields entertaining results. Whether it be through vocal effects, pedal tones, playful musical instruments, or just the band’s general expertise and tightness, the dynamic way they navigate rhythm sets the stage for the curious mind to wander. The dancing body then follows suit…

This evening at Nectar Lounge, the room was at least half-Latin, with many Spanish speakers, buffered by folks of many other ethnicities. The mixed crowd was getting down, which can be a rare sight in some parts of semi-rigid Seattle.

For my part, I felt like a possessed little blissful dummy and literally couldn’t stop smiling the whole time. Sonido Gallo Negro took me on a dizzying, delightful journey — one which interchangeably swept my soul onto a horse, then a camel, then a UFO… and who knows where else. Afterwards, I floated out of the venue into the starry night, cumbia synthlines stuck in my head long, long, long after the last note had been played.

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Band photos by Graham Tolbert

Collaboration as a Natural Movement

Bizhiki may be primarily centered around Jennings, Rainey, and Carey, but it also pulls in a number of guests — such as vocalist Mike Sullivan (Lac Courte Oreilles) and producer Brian Joseph — who are regular collaborators with Bon Iver and their numerous related offshoots. Each of Unbound‘s 11 tracks seamlessly blends stylistic lines in a way that listeners might expect from what Rainey affectionately calls the “Bon Iver Music Family Tree.”

Such staple sounds include sexy saxophones, pensive slide guitar, simultaneously smooth and highly affected vocals, and electronic experimentations that come and go. Yet what makes Bizhiki unique is its inclusion of powwow vocals and drums informed by the ceremonies, which are then layered throughout the record in dynamic ways.

Bizhiki can point to its early origins at the Eaux Claires Music Festival, which was founded in 2015 by The National’s Aaron Dessner and Bon Iver frontman Justin Vernon. The festival, located in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, did not feel comfortable hosting the second estival on Ojibwe homelands without meaningfully representing the Indigenous caretakers of the area. By Rainey’s telling, Bizhiki was born through a “natural movement,” where little ever felt forced.

“We were asked to open up for people in a most respectful way — meaning they weren’t asking us to do something that was out of our comfort zone,” Rainey explains to REDEFINE. “That comfortable blanket… was always there with the Bon Iver Music Family Tree.”

In Bizhiki’s press release, Jennings similarly expresses his gratitude for the invitation, which did not impose expectations on the Ojibwe musicians. Jennings was told that they could “collaborate with other artists if you want to, sing some songs in the woods, sing some songs on stage, sing whatever you wanna sing, with whoever you wanna sing with,” which allowed for a type of trust and authenticity that he was not used to.

“I told them I wished more people thought like this — that instead of reading from some land acknowledgement, that they would say, ‘We’re gonna give your people space and just invite you to do what you wanna do,'” Jennings adds in the press release.

“There’s a lot of people who we met just because of Eaux Claires, and a lot of relationships that we’ve maintained throughout the years,” Rainey says. “That was 2016, so here we are, 10 years later, creating music. I think those conversations were had initially at the festival, but we kind of let it happen; kind of let it grow on its own.”

Among all of the musicians’ busy work, life, and powwow schedules, Unbound was allowed to take the time that it needed to take to develop — and that process took more than three years. The album was formulated through a mixture of full-room jams, spontaneous improvisations, and carefully-composed tracks, which were then brought into an iterative process where each band member provided feedback before the tracks were further reworked. Major time was spent in the studio editing, arranging, and producing the album, and a number of guest musicians were invited to bring their instrumental expertise to select tracks.

“[Being] in collaboration with [multiple] genres of music, I think, sets [Bizhiki] apart from other material you may listen to,” Rainey explains. “Native voices with contemporary music has definitely been influential in my life… [As] a powwow singer, having a connection through music has always been with our own Indigenous people… so making our way through new avenues in music with contemporary artists and musicians: it’s different, but it’s been done before.”

An Invitation to “Come Through”

The project’s name, Bizhiki, comes from Bizhikiins Jennings’ given name, which means “Little Buffalo.” It was given to him by Eddie Benton-Banai, one of the founders of the American Indian Movement and Jennings’ wenh-enh, or teacher in Ojibwe. Honoring the Ojibwe language is prevalent throughout Unbound, whether through lyrics or song titles.

Unbound‘s lead single, “Gigawaabamin,” translates on the album to an English-friendly, “Come Through,” though the common Ojibwe word in fact translates more accurately to “I will see you.” The Ojibwe language does not have an equivalent to the English “goodbye”; thus, the translation “Come Through” invites an inclusivity and ongoing sense of community that Bizhiki endeavors to model through their project.

Produced and directed by Wisconsin-based Finn Ryan — who also did the band’s music video for the track “Unbound” — the music video for “Gigawaabamin (Come Through)” was one of the first pieces of media the group released. Filmed against a backdrop of trees, the imagery is proudly Ojibwe; it features traditional singing, ritual smudging, and hand drums, set around a game of baaga’adowewin — a type of Native American lacrosse that was played by a number of other tribes in the region. All that is also contrasted with skateboarding and bold graphical overlays.

The track and video are celebratory, playful, and welcoming, speaking to the values that the musicians have brought to Bizhiki. That ingrained sensibility can be attributed to a number of factors — not least of which is Jennings and Rainey’s history as powwow singers. As Rainey explains, “Powwow is in ceremony to Native or Indigenous people here… we all carry ourselves with respect and humility and with the things that we were taught.”

While many varying stories point to the origins of powwow, they have become important spaces for Native Americans to celebrate their cultures in ways that feel resonant for them. Powwows are an expansive constellation of events filled with artforms of all kinds, whether that be expressed through singing, drumming, dancing, regalia, beadwork, or food.

Some cultural crossover and consistencies can be found at powwows, but nuances exist. At the time of his call with REDEFINE, Rainey was at a powwow in South Dakota, where powwows are conducted differently from those in Northern Minnesota. As he explains, “To have that knowledge and awareness is something that we hold and we keep close to our hearts and our minds, because we always walk with our spirituality and our daily traditional things that we’re taught to do.”

Keeping powwow tradition in mind was central to the songwriting process for Bizhiki. Powwows have vocal songs and straight songs — those with and those without vocals, respectively — but for the untrained ear, the songs may sound similar. Still, for the initiated, protocol, rules, and traditions are important. In order to contemporize powwow music respectfully, well-versed musicians such as Jennings and Rainey understand what types of songs are acceptable for more contemporary or secular uses.

“When we’re creating things, we definitely want to walk that line of: we know what we’re singing isn’t stepping on any ceremonial toes,” says Rainey. “We are aware of what is in ceremony and what’s powwow — and what kind of things that we do at powwows that reflect our ceremonies, but aren’t strict teachings.”

Bizhiki hopes that listeners can keep these intentions in mind when listening to their music, while at the same time, not feeling overburdened by them.

“We invite people to, obviously, give respect, but also just to enjoy the music for what it is and not get too worrisome about if they’re appropriating…” Rainey comments. “This was all made within collaboration guidelines — even outside of those guidelines, just because of how new this might be to some people who are [not] privy to what we do year-round.”

Free-Flowing as Mother Nature is

Prior to the release of Bizhiki’s record, Rainey had just come off of releasing his 2022 solo record, Niineta, in collaboration with producer Andrew Broder. Niineta — which is much more experimental and electronic than Bizhiki but similarly provides a contemporary take on powwow-influenced music — was able to take Rainey all over the world. Touring his own record before Bizhiki’s prepared Rainey for the group’s eventual release, and some of that preparation is even a bit existential.

“Having [Niineta] come up before [Bizhiki] helped me utilize some tools that I have picked up along the way about the music biz, traveling, things like that,” Rainey explains. “It’s always walking a fine line between your tradition and contemporary ways. It’s a difficult life, especially for Natives, because we’ve got to get in our cars and drive places. We always try to take care of our Mother Earth, and it gets hard sometimes.”

Unbound is certainly not an “environmental” or “nature” record, but themes related to Mother Earth are ever-present throughout the project, whether that be taking care of one’s surroundings, experiencing environmental grief, or heeding messages which are born out of catastrophe. Rainey describes the title track, “Unbound,” as a “collection of thoughts,” but also a poem of sorts. Its lyrics came to Rainey in a time of great grief; writing the track assisted with his mental health and helped him release some of that grief.

“There [were] some natural disasters going on: wildfires, certain things that were obviously out of humans’ control,” he recalls. “We can’t control what happens… we have literally no control over… mudslides or hurricanes or tornadoes. Those things can take away people’s livelihoods.”

Despite such heaviness, Rainey was able to find potential opportunities to see the silver lining. Referring to Mother Nature, “Unbound”‘s lyrics calmly state:

Feel the heat
Taste the air
Seas what brings
Be calm when she speaks
Be calm when she speaks
She speaks the truth

“When something huge happens to impact your life, you really kind of internalize a lot, and some of it might be: this was the act of nature. This is Mother Earth somewhat speaking to us, and she might be speaking the truth,” Rainey comments. “If it means the truth [is] washing away your house in a flood, the truth is ‘Unbound.'”

A deep connection to nature is fundamental to who the members of Bizhiki are. Rainey describes Carey as an avid fly fisherman and Jennings as a lifelong preservation worker who holds a key role with [Great Lakes Indian Fish & Wildlife Commission] (GLIFWC) — a well-known organization which, among other things, helps to preserve natural resources for the Ojibwe, such as health and access to manoomin, or wild rice, a key traditional food that is foundational to Ojibwe prophecies.

“There’s nature elements in a lot of [the songs]. [In] some of the Ojibwe words that are said, [and] some of the naming of the songs are… feelings that we get from nature,” Rainey explains. He cites “Float Back By” and “Nashke!,” which translates loosely to, “Look, behold!,” as specific examples.

The incorporation of nature into Unbound was wholly natural, as the album was very much created in nature. The studio was located in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, where Carey lives — and it wasn’t uncommon for the trio and their collaborators to wander through the woods and then head back into the studio.

“I don’t want to call this a nature album… this isn’t like rain falling when you’re listening to it,” Rainey jokes. “[But] we definitely wanted to keep that [free-flowing] aspect of nature… We were just allowing things to happen naturally.”

The free-flowing nature was found throughout the album’s songwriting process and showed up in differing ways. Rainey recalls that vocals on tracks like “Franklin Warrior” and “Float Back By” were done as one-takes; the vocalists spontaneously came up with appropriate vocals as they heard the music. Some song titles and themes also emerged in free-flowing ways.

One such example was “Rez News,” which was written during the COVID-19 quarantine. During the songwriting process, Jennings and Rainey would sometimes sit in the studio’s live room, throw on their headphones, and listen to some of the musical components that the other musicians had made, such as a tempo or a melody, in order to decide what to sing. On the particular day of “Rez News,” it had been a while since Rainey had seen Jennings — who generally doesn’t participate in social media or have too much screentime — so Rainey was sharing some news about people who had passed away in the powwow community.

“The song was playing in the background… if they played the tape back, it’s literally five minutes of us talking about people who died…” Rainey recalls, with a sympathetic laugh. “We were talking over the microphone, so it was like we’re having a podcast about these people dying, because we had our headphones on.”

“Sean and Brian and those guys were so nice,” Rainey continues. “They didn’t stop the track; they just let it play.”

Thus was born the song title, “Rez News.” The song’s simple and somewhat cryptic lyrics may not immediately reflect the aforementioned content, but they are strong and reassuring at the same time, as if they are reassuring piece on the other side, or that everything will be alright:

Fortress now, where the rain never lands
Fortress now, you’ll never understand
Fortress now, the water is wide
Fortress now, on the other side

Centering patience, trust, collaboration, and relationships were key to the success of Unbound. Rainey stresses the importance of recognizing all of the collaborators that played a role in the album’s creation, which carries themes of significance to Native American communities, but also holds universal appeal.

“[Producer] Brian Joseph really laid down the groundwork and the environment for us to create a lot of the things that you hear,” says Rainey, in conclusion. “The support of our families and our communities [is also] going to help us go to different places and perform.”

“We always want to give thanks to our family and our loved ones, and also Mother Nature, Creator,” he continues. “We always want to give thanks to everyone that helped us along the way.”

Unbound album artwork by Jennie Kappenman, featuring Ojibwe floral satin applique, and graphics by Art & Sons

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Capturing the Whole Human Story

When Voge began shooting the film in April 2018, she was living in Colombia as a freelance journalist and decided to go to Mexico to cover the story of a “migrant caravan” — a group of migrants traveling to the United States — which had captured the attention of the Trump Administration and the media. Voge first met Magdiel when they were both about to board the cargo train infamously referred to as “The Beast (La bestia),” which countless migrants travel on each year while crossing Mexico.

“The intention was to build out their whole personalities as full humans, which I think is a more powerful way to build empathy,” Voge comments, regarding the documentary’s decision to focus on just Magdiel’s family. “They are people, humans, just like yourself, no matter who you are, and who they are.”

The unfortunate reality is that most refugees like Magdiel, Mirna, and Joshua are displaced from their homes for a multitude of reasons beyond their control. Sometimes they trudge through relentless deserts with the scorching sun beating down as they march for hundreds of miles with limited water. Journeys can be a grueling marathon of cramped buses and sweltering trains, where air conditioning is a distant dream, and families can easily be separated. Lamentably, when they finally reach U.S. soil, the nightmare continues as many are often cruelly torn apart from their loved ones and placed in detention centers. This perilous trek claims countless lives, leaving behind a trail of tragedy and heartache.

All We Carry shows that the act of coming to the U.S. or leaving one’s home in Latin America is not one-dimensional. “[The film is] not only about the golden opportunity of the U.S., and the horrible place [the migrants are] leaving, but it’s also the challenge,” Voge explains, of the nuance. “[The U.S. is] also beautiful and it’s challenging, and the place that many people are leaving is also beautiful and challenging.”

Once Magdiel, Mirna, and Joshua finally enter the U.S., they are immediately separated. Magdiel is held in a detention center in San Diego California, which he remarks is similar to a prison. Mirna and Joshua were also held in a detention center for nineteen grueling days, until they were released and traveled to Seattle to live with Mirna’s sister.

While staying in Seattle with Joshua, Mirna painfully recalls another mother who was forcefully separated from her son and acknowledges that it could’ve been her and Joshua instead. The audience is also shown glimpses of the couple’s phone calls when they are separated, as they prepare for the possibility that they might never see each other again. Thankfully, after enduring three months of detention, Magdiel is transferred to Seattle and finally reunited with his family.

“Their mental health and everything they had gone through definitely impacted how we told the story in multiple ways,” Voge said. “Pulling out the universal elements of these particular experiences that they have was really important.”

Rebuilding in the United States

Once reunited in Seattle, the family manages to be sponsored by a local Jewish synagogue that is associated with the Northwest Jewish Coalition for Immigrant Justice. Throughout the film, Magdiel, Mirna, and Joshua connect and bond with another family of immigrants. It’s a beautiful display of unity, as synagogue members help Magdiel and Mirna adapt to their new environment, provide them with a house to stay, look after Joshua, and celebrate Christmas with them.

“They have this beautiful connection with this Jewish community, and we see all the giggles in the car with the synagogue, these kinds of stand-in grandparents, and how beautiful that connection is for both sides,” Voge explains. “It’s like they’re bringing so much joy to this community, and vice versa.”

As these positive events are happening, the family remains under the stress of preparing for a hearing that will determine the rest of their lives. Yet despite all the heartbreak, there are moments of prosperity and happiness that reflect the universality of their personhood. An extremely powerful moment occurs when the family experiences snowfall for the first time, showcasing how refugees find moments of solace and peace after surviving traumatic experiences.

“This type of story is the type of story that I love to tell – [with] topics that are very timely, very newsy, but told in a very personal, intimate way, zoomed completely into one person or one family’s experience…” Voge explains, who ran an educational nonprofit called One World Youth Project before she became a journalist. “I still always think of storytelling as a tool for education.”

Another profoundly touching moment unfolds when Mirna describes Honduras to Joshua, who has no memories of his birthplace. As she narrates, the screen transforms into sweeping luxurious aerial shots of Honduras, showcasing its lush forests and winding rivers. The breathtaking images contrast starkly with the harsh realities faced by the young family, highlighting the beauty they were forced to leave behind while underscoring the involuntary nature of their departure.

​​”You see how lush and beautiful it is, and how much she loved growing up in a rural area,” explains Voge. “People might have stereotypes about people in the U.S., in rural areas. You might think everyone who lives in the city might think, ‘Everyone who lives in a rural area just wants to get out…” There might [also] be ideas like, ‘Everyone coming from Central America is coming from a city, and they’re all fleeing gang violence,’ but neither of those things are the case.”

Voge is currently working on her next documentary feature film, which will examine the issue of abortion and reproductive health following the overturning of Roe v. Wade by the Supreme Court in 2022. The film will feature a gynecologist who is attempting to start a reproductive healthcare clinic that will provide abortion care.

“She’s trying to start it in a boat or some floating vessel in federal waters in the Gulf of Mexico that would serve patients,” Voge comments, noting that the Gulf states all currently have abortion restrictions. “Once again, it’s a topic that’s very ‘newsy’ that I want to take a much more personal look at through the lens of a doctor who’s becoming an activist.”

Voge’s camera is not only a tool, but a gateway into the heart of the human experience. Through her cinematic artistry, Voge transforms serious, heartbreaking stories into powerful educational experiences that don’t only seek only to entertain, but spark empathy, understanding, and dialogue about the struggles and triumphs of those displaced by conflict and hardship.

Filmmaker Cady Voge with the family

All We Carry Documentary Film Trailer

Related Resources

Northwest Immigrant Rights Project
Northwest Jewish Coalition for Immigrant Justice
International Rescue Committee
The UN Refugee Agency

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The Role of Art Through an Immigrant’s Journey

Ghirmay’s original homelands were in Eritrea, but he lived in Sudan before taking a lengthy journey throughout Latin America and eventually to the United States. Those early memories helped shape his artistic style in conscious and unconscious ways.

“In Eritrea, I think there were a lot of [artistic] influences [in people’s] lifestyle… you don’t have to be an artist to live it,” explains Ghirmay. “The way that people live back home, there was a lot of art craft or [art in] the way people decorated their houses or their clothes.”

When he was twelve or thirteen, Ghirmay moved to Sudan, where he lived for four years. As he explains, “[Being in Sudan] widened my experience and interpretation of art, because Sudan also had a very unique culture — a very unique way of living their lifestyle. In hindsight, this was something that probably influenced me to be the person or the artist that I am now, but at that point it was, I was just living.”

Though Ghirmay did not speak Arabic — the language spoken by most people in Sudan — Ghirmay believes that art and music transcended the need for language. A similar experience happened as he traveled through Latin America during his immigration to the United States. English was the most common language shared among all the travelers — and while he had learned English while in Eritrea, art allowed for a different level of connection.

“I had to go through over 10 countries in South and Central America… that adds into your palette; [your personality] as a person,” Ghirmay explains. “Your artistic experience or your exposure gets wide. You see different people use different types of art.”

While Ghirmay has always been artistic, it was only when he reached the United States that he finally stepped foot into a gallery space. He also began taking painting more seriously, initially through art classes at his high school, where he received more clarity about his future direction.

“There is also a culture shock when you move here. There’s so many things that you’re expected to know, but I think that space in my art class was very therapeutic for me,” says Ghirmay. “I always would stay later after class and kind of try to spend as much time [as possible].”

Images from Journey to Serenity & Manifestations show at King Street Station (Photos: Marcus Donner for the Seattle Office of Arts & Culture)

An Amalgam of Scenes, People & Places

Because Ghirmay was exposed to so many cultures from a young age, he naturally spent many years asking himself existential questions about place and his sense of belonging.

“What’s home? What’s your identity? What’s your relationship with one culture versus the other one?” he questions. “Art has been something that was very consistent through different cultures that I’ve been through, and that’s something I would like to convey. I just want to make [my art] as boundless as possible.”

As an immigrant, Ghirmay has long felt pre-defined by labels that are sometimes imposed upon him. Thus, he endeavors to create artwork that can be free of such pains — using stories that might resonate with viewers, regardless of their identities.

“There are always a lot of categories that get put on you, like, ‘Oh, do you have this? Are you citizen yet? Are you a green card holder yet? Are you a refugee or not?'” says Ghrimay. “I feel like we are beyond that.. [yet] we are kind of worried [that it’s too] engrained that you can’t even think outside of that.”

Ghirmay often takes inspiration from an amalgam of inspirations to create a final product that is at once familiar and difficult to place. One of his recent series, The Journey Towards Serenity, was influenced by street photography. He looked at buildings on his travels, and they inspired him to think outside beyond a simple portrait, even though his works are often figurative in nature.

He began to think about the journeys that surrounded the subject matter of his paintings. From there, he crafted the stories of the paintings piece-by-piece, part-by-part, drawing inspiration from random fragments of life.

“Sometimes, when I start a series, I would see people walking around, and I would see interesting colors, and I’m like, ‘Okay, now I have this, and I’m just gonna incorporate this,'” comments Ghirmay. “For some of them, I would use my own clothes as an inspiration. I think one of those pieces has my jacket, so there are snippets of different moments.”

Approaching his work in such a way certainly makes sense for Ghirmay, but he finds that the explanations at times come off as too complex or difficult to understand for some viewers.

“I think people like more of a direct connection, like, ‘Is this your home country, or have you been to this place?’ and it’s like, ‘No, it’s a bunch of different things,'” he shares. “I don’t even know where it is, but it’s probably from places that I’ve seen… it’s a collection of different things, and I can’t even pinpoint one subject.”

TOP: “Dreaming Paradise II”
MIDDLE: “Unrequited Love”, 24″ x 24″, acrylic and oil on canvas
BOTTOM: “Solitary Contemplition”

Finding Inspiration from Within

After Ghirmay graduated from the University of Washington in 2019, he was afforded the time and energy to seek answers about his personal motivations and life purposes. He discovered that introspection, his inner states, and his imagination were the places where he could find “a sense of heaven” — a place that he could control, even despite problems that might exist in the world.

“During my reflections, I thought about my coping mechanisms…” Ghirmay recalls. “When I was in a darker place, I think one of my tools was imagination or just dreaming of a place, and kind of imagining myself as I am in that place.”

The need for coping mechanisms comes as a reaction to many different things. Ghirmay notes that immigrants often don’t have the luxury to sit and reflect, and mental health can be stigmatized in certain immigrant communities. It requires a certain mind — and the gift of time — to find methods to keep themselves mentally healthy.

“Something that I’ve realized was that [when] I think [about] the concept of finding home, or trying to relate to people… there are a lot of external factors that you can’t control…” says Ghirmay. “It’s just too much tied to the system — tied to different institutions that makes you less human or tries to put you in a certain way.”

With his Inner Child series — which is highly tied to ideas of inner peace — Ghirmay recreates some of the imaginary scenes which have helped him through dark times. It’s a tool that he continues to use to this day, and he hopes that by painting them, he will also help others feel a sense of comfort.

“I just zone out… I kind of try to take my mind into the place…” says Ghirmay, regarding the process of accessing his imaginary places. “When I get into that state, I just imagine myself as an inner child… My concept was, ‘Okay, this is you now, but there were some points where you didn’t know anything; you were uninfluenced or unexposed.’… it was kind of like an escape mechanism, in a sense, but it works.”

MIDDLE: “Crimson on Blue”, 20″ x 16″, oil on canvas
BOTTOM: “Flavors of Diversity & Colors of Community”, sculpture

The Irreplaceable Power of Color

Not all of Ghirmay’s pieces are so abstract in their origin story. His first sculpture piece, 2024’s “Flavors of Diversity & Colors of Community,” is one such example. Influences by palpable memories of visiting spice markets in Sudan, the playful sculpture is installed at Jefferson Park within Seattle’s Beacon Hill neighborhood and uses pastel-colored rocks to convey the idea of diversity.

“Everyone kind of comes in different sizes, in different colors to make this life vibrant and interesting…” explains Ghirmay, of the original constraints he placed upon himself. “I think the [Sudanese] spice market was one of the most colorful, vibrant settings or scenes that I’ve seen in a lot of places I’ve been to… and I think those spaces brought everyone — people from different social classes.”

With that concept in mind, Ghirmay explored how he might be able to make a sculpture that wouldn’t require complex fabrication. He settled on rocks that he painted in different colors to symbolize the spices — and naturally, their different shapes and sizes represented different kinds of human beings.

“Having multiple colors in one sack was very intentional, because I think usually, it would be one spice in one bag,” says Ghirmay. “I kind of mixed it in, and was like, ‘Okay… I think that would communicate the idea of diversity [and] community in the most simple form.'”

Ghirmay also experimented with new materials. Not long before his creation of the sculpture, he had broken his arm for the first time and opted for a waterproof plaster cast. When it came time to decide how to make the sack that held all of the spice market rocks, Ghirmay opted once again not to go the route of fabrication, but purchased large amounts of fiber cast.

“I picked the color blue to symbolize the ocean, because I feel like water and the ocean can [offer] a very calming, relaxing effect,” explains Ghirmay. “Also, [I like] the idea of the ocean holding a bunch of creatures together.”

The result is a piece that seems delightfully soft, though it is actually sturdy enough to outlast the harsh elements of the Pacific Northwest. Ghirmay’s choice of colors also connects the sculpture back to his painting practice, though the connections would otherwise not be as obvious. Color theory is something that Ghirmay takes very seriously. He challenges himself by generally working with an extremely limited color palette — one that usually begins with just the primary colors and the addition of one more color.

“I feel very strongly about colors. I think I have a sensitivity toward how colors evoke emotions or certain feelings…” he says. “I think that’s one of my favorite parts of painting: finding the right tone for the right painting.”

Ghirmay admits that if one were to visit his studio, one might see ten to twenty shades of a single color displayed next to another, just so he can better understand how the colors interact with one another. It’s a process he thoroughly enjoys and takes his time with.

“Once I figure out the color, [the painting is] the easy part for me,” Ghirmay states.

“Maybe adding the lines [or] giving more features would help form your ideas, but sometimes, I think you’re also taking the… freedom of interpretation from people,” he continues. “Color is a very simple way to communicate feelings and emotions.”

Perhaps it is Ghirmay’s wide understanding of the world — or his approach to art, which pulls from numerous, often unplaceable influences and mashes them into a cohesive painting that is full of imagination — but it makes sense that Ghirmay prefers to allow his art to speak for itself.

TOP: “Dreaming Paradise”
BOTTOM: Portrait of Nahom Ghirmay with “Dreaming Paradise”

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Maria Barquin, Program Director, Radio Campesina (Photo Credit: Roberto “Bear” Guerra; Courtesy of Quiet Pictures)

A Potentially Election-Swaying Demographic

With over 31 million eligible voters, Latine voters are now the second-largest voting block within the United States. Their populations are highest in states like California, Texas, and Florida – but they also hold sway in the crucial swing states of Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, Nevada, Arizona, and Georgia. Some analysts believe that Latine voters could decide the outcome of the 2024 election between Democratic candidate, current Vice President Kamala Harris, and Republican candidate, former President Donald J. Trump.

“One of the first things we discussed was how to capture the spectrum of Latine voters all across the country. Is it even useful to think about us as a voting bloc?” asks Latine Vote 2024‘s New York-based producer Marcia Robiou. “We are so diverse, not just racially, but also geographically, politically and every way you can possibly think of.”

“At the end of the day, some people are going to be left out because we only have an hour,” she continues.

According to Latino Vote 2024, Latine voters comprise 14.7% of the electorate – with about 17.5 million expected to vote and about 20% of those individuals voting for the first time in 2024. Yet according to Robiou, Latine voters are not easily predictable from election cycle to election cycle.

“Latine voters are very independent or affiliate more with the independent party than a lot of other groups, ethnic or racial groups, so they really focus on the policy – and the specific candidate, not so much,” explains Robiou. “[They] don’t adhere as much to party loyalty.”

Chuck Rocha, Political Consultant and Former Sr. Advisor to Bernie Sanders (Photo Credit: Jerry Risius for Quiet Pictures; Courtesy of Quiet Pictures)

Zaleeae Sierra, Youth Director of the organization Promise Neighborhoods (Photo Credit: Carissa Henderson for Quiet Pictures; Courtesy of Quiet Pictures)

Samuel Rodriguez, Pastor, New Season Church (Photo Credit: Victor Tadashi Suarez for Quiet Pictures; Courtesy of Quiet Pictures)

Maria Teresa Kumar, President of Voto Latino (Photo Credit: Fernando Rocha for
Quiet Pictures; Courtesy of Quiet Pictures)

Finding the Correct Balance & Connections

To ensure that the documentary’s subject matter was relevant to the current election cycle, Latino Vote 2024 relies on polls and research to center top issues of importance to Latine voters. The film opens with interviews of organizers and residents from Allentown, Pennsylvania, where challenges of housing, affordability, gentrification, and other struggles of the working class are ever-present.

“The top [issue] over and over again was the economy and inflation and rising housing costs,” says Robiou. “For the most part, the people I spoke to were very pragmatic about that.”

She continues, “Regardless of what political party they’re affiliated with, a lot of folks I spoke to felt that both parties were being too extreme on social cultural issues, but we’re not advancing any type of coherent policy on the economy, for example, or even immigration.”

On the topic of abortion, Arizona is offered as a case study, as the state currently bans abortions after 15 weeks of pregnancy. Voters will decide in November 2024 whether to expand or protect abortion rights in the state constitution.

The immigration debate is partially framed through religion, as the documentary follows church leaders who are devout and family-oriented, yet represent perspectives on both sides of the aisle. Reverend Gabriel Salguero, Lead Pastor of the Gathering Place in Orlando, Florida, preaches against those who do not welcome foreigners, while Reverend Samuel Rodriguez, Lead Pastor of New Season Church in Sacramento, California, was tapped by former President Trump to be the first such Latino individual to speak at Trump’s Presidential inauguration in 2017.

Such subject matter is made all the more complex when one considers that not all Latine voters are immigrants or even the children of immigrants, which is often the stereotype. Many are U.S. citizens who have been naturalized or were born in the country, sometimes with a family line that has been in the States for generations.

The filmmakers behind Latino Vote 2024 also very much reject that current media narrative that Latine voters are overly Democratic or Republican. One palpable interview segment features Clarissa Martinez de Castro, Vice President of the Latino Vote Initiative UnidosUS, speaking about the current statistics and historical context.

“If you look at Latinos historically, about two-thirds of their support ended up going to Democrats and about one-third goes to Republicans,” explains Martinez de Castro.

While Latine voters’ party alignments have ebbed and flowed, their recent “return” back to the Republican party is not particularly exceptional, according to the long-term data. A visual graph in Latino Vote 2024 corroborates the history. In 1980, the Latine community voted 56% for Carter and 35% for Reagan; in 1992, 61% for Clinton and 25% for Bush; in 2040, 58% for Kerry and 40% for Bush; in 2008, 67% for Obama and 31% for McCain. Most recently, in 2020, they voted 61% for Biden and 36% for Trump.

“We try to keep those historical context in mind, so we don’t make the mistake of… following the news cycle in this idea that there is this rush of Latine folks to Trump or to the Republican Party, but we do want to represent that,” comments Robious.

Moment from Rev Gabriel Salguero’s church, The Gathering, in Orlando, FL (Photo Credit: Bernardo Ruiz; Courtesy of Quiet Pictures)

Clarissa Martinez De Castro, Vice President of the Latino Vote Initiative at UnidosUS (Photo Credit: Fernando Rocha for Quiet Pictures; Courtesy of Quiet Pictures)

Former Texas Congresswoman Mayra Flores (Photo Credit: Bernardo Ruiz; Courtesy of Quiet Pictures)

Adapting to a Chaotic Election Cycle

Other crucial moments in the current election cycle are represented by footage from the Republican National Convention (RNC) and Democratic National Convention (DNC). At the RNC, high-profile Latine politicians – such as Texas Senator Ted Cruz and former Texas U.S. Representative Mayra Flores – are seen promoting Trump and speaking to conservative tendencies of Latine culture, in general.

Footage of the DNC came later, as the Latino Vote 2024 filmmakers had to adapt their narrative to the fast-changing and chaotic election cycle. The film was close to its final edit when significant new developments occurred that sent the team back to the drawing board.

“It’s a challenge doing a documentary on something that’s in the news…” says Robiou. “We were pretty close to delivering a cut when the assassination attempt on Donald Trump happened, and then shortly after that, Biden stepped down, and we were wrapping production.”

Because the final product needed to reflect Vice President Harris’ sudden ascension as the Democratic nominee, the filmmakers had to do a lot of new shoots, and tough decisions needed to be made in the final edit.

“A lot was left on the cutting room floor…” says Robious. “We had to do new interviews with folks now that Harris was at the top of the ticket, [because for] a lot of our film, they were talking about Biden versus Trump.”

In addition to the documentary, the team had enough additional material to create 10 other short films – and under the guidance of PBS, they focused the smaller segments on the stories of young voters and first-time voters. The first one of the ten released follows a young first-time voter in Nevada, who director Bernardo Ruiz had also filmed in the documentary’s 2020 installment.

“We have footage of him when he was 15-years-old and looks very different. Now he’s 18 and voting for the first time,” explains Robiou. “He’s an organizer, or his mom is an organizer, and seeing his political evolution is really interesting… he’s very well-spoken – way better spoken than I was at 18 years old.”

The remaining shorts are focused on different types of Latine voters, whether they be Indigenous, Afro-Latina, young MAGA supporters, or individuals at a Puerto Rican auto body shop. Overall, the multiple experiences portrayed by the breadth that is Latino Vote 2024 performs a crucial task in providing an in-depth yet nuanced snapshot of hard-to-define Latine voters, during a U.S. election of great potential consequence.

Organizer Audrey Peral and son Francisco in 2020 (Photo Credit: Roberto “Bear” Guerra; Courtesy of Quiet Pictures)

Mike Madrid, Political Consultant and Co-Founder of The Lincoln Project (Photo Credit: Antonio Cisneros for Quiet Pictures; Courtesy of Quiet Pictures)

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In 2014, Yanomami shaman and activist Davi Kopenawa co-authored The Falling Sky, a landmark work chronicling the Yanomami’s Indigenous worldview and warning of the dire consequences of environmental destruction. Ten years after the book’s release, his urgent message reverberates throughout a 2024 feature documentary of the same name, co-directed by Brazilian filmmakers Eryk Rocha and Gabriela Carneiro da Cunha.

The Yanomami, an Indigenous group living in the Amazon rainforest of northern Brazil and southern Venezuela, have long faced threats to their land and culture. Their population of approximately 30,000 people inhabit one of the largest Indigenous territories in the world, spanning roughly 37,000 square miles. However, illegal mining, deforestation, and encroachment by outsiders have devastated their ecosystem, introducing diseases and polluting vital rivers and water systems. ‘

The Yanomami’s resilience, embodied by Kopenawa, has been a cornerstone of their survival amidst these crises. Kopenawa has often been called “the Dalai Lama of the Rainforest” for his efforts to amplify the Yanomami voice on the global stage.

A Collaboration Rooted in Respect

As a documentary, The Falling Sky (A Queda do Céu) renders Kopenawa’s dreams and warnings into a powerful visual treatise, inviting global audiences to witness the urgency of the Yanomami’s struggle for survival.

During the New York City premiere at DOC NYC, Kopenawa and The Falling Sky co-director Eryk Rocha spoke about their journey with the film, through translation by the film’s publicist, Juliana Sakae. The film — which was seven years in the making and had its world premiere in the 2024 edition of Cannes in Directors Fortnight — was not an attempt at a direct adaptation of the source material. Well over 600-pages-long, the book’s scope is expansive and took many years to create with co-author, French anthropologist Bruce Albert.

“It all started while [co-director Gabriela Carneiro da Cunha and I] were reading the book,” Rocha explains, regarding the book’s impact on them. “We started searching for Davi and for Bruce to propose the project of making the film.”

Approaching the project with respect and openness, the filmmakers invited Kopenawa to shape the film, which is a co-production with the Hutukara Yanomami Association, an organization led by Kopenawa. Hutukara Yanomami Association works to unite and represent disparate Yanomami communities in Brazil and advances indigenous rights in the country.

Rocha described how the team immersed themselves in Yanomami life. A reahu — or collective ceremony led by shamans in an effort to hold up the sky — became a pivotal moment.

“It reoriented us during the filming, reoriented the script, and the film itself,” Rocha says. “It was during filming this ritual that it changed the structure of dramaturgy.”

The different components of preparation and realization of the reahu ritual serve as the main throughline of the 110-minute film. The Yanomami prepare food for the intercommunal feast and adorn their bodies with ornamentation like macaw feathers and body paint. In one scene, two men shuck plantains at night, with flashlights wedged between their neck and shoulders. They joke and gossip as the sound of a group of women singing can be heard in the distance, and the sound of crickets loud in the foreground. As night falls, Kopenawa addresses his community, cautioning and motivating the younger generation.

“And because we are surrounded by the napë [non-Indigenous] people, you, young people, awaken your wisdom!” he says. “You, who like to imitate the napë, know that I used to imitate them. I even cut my hair like them. I kept copying them and learning their language. And then I began to see myself as a protector of the Yanomami. That became my dream…”

“While I was fighting, you were growing,” he continued. “Look to your dreams! Don’t think: we were born for no reason. We grew up for no purpose.”

For the filmmakers, the process of surrendering control in light of the reahu became an enlightening experience.

“We didn’t arrive with the pre-made film,” Rocha explains. “We actually allowed [surrender] to happen, and it was such an intense, incredible and radical experience for us.”

Media as a Tool to Fight for the Forest

For Kopenawa, cinema represents a strategic opportunity for the Yanomami. He has collaborated with filmmakers before — most notably on the 2021 documentary A Última Floresta (The Last Forest) directed by Luiz Bolognesi — and his interest in using film as a medium to send his message to napëpë demonstrates the Yanomami’s adaptability. They interface with outsiders through nontraditional means, while staying rooted in the integrity of their beliefs.

“Film is not our culture. It’s not a culture from the forest. It’s actually a white culture,” Kopenawahe admits, while at the same time recognizing the medium’s significance and reach. “It is really important for those who don’t know the Indigenous people to get to know them, because we are not able to go to the city, so at least our image is traveling to the cities.

“There are people that don’t believe that we exist,” he adds.

Kopenawa’s life is deeply entwined with the fate of the forest. His activism began in the 1980s when he witnessed the devastating effects of gold mining on his people. Since then, he has tirelessly fought for Yanomami land rights.

Incorporating these experiences, Kopenawa actively guided and shaped the filmmaking process. He explains, “We want to show our suffering, but at the same time, we are protected by the nature, the forest, and the xapiri [sacred forest beings].”

Kopenawa’s decades-long fight to save his people has resulted in major gains, including formal recognition of and government protections for the Yanomami’s forest lands in Roraima and Amazonas states, in 1992. In 1999, Brazilian President Fernando Henrique Cardoso honored Kopenawa with the Ordem do Rio Branco for his efforts advocating for the Yanomami people.

However, the protections gained in 1992 have been under constant threat — particularly during Brazil’s recent political climate, which sees rampant deforestation and weakened environmental enforcement.

Dreaming for and of Survival

Dreams hold a central place in Yanomami cosmology, acting as a bridge between the spiritual and physical worlds. Kopenawa asserts that the destruction of the forest disrupts this sacred balance, not just for the Yanomami but for all of humanity.

The documentary’s structure mirrors the Yanomami approach to storytelling, weaving together dream-like imagery, rituals, and the daily rhythms of life in the forest. The result is a work that feels as alive as the environment it depicts, pulsating with the energy of the entire ecosystem in which the Yanomami live.

Kopenawa offers a stark comparison between Yanomami dreamscapes with those of urban dwellers who are disconnected from their inner lives. “The city is full of light and full of things like a lot of partying, a lot of drinks, and then they go to bed at one or two AM,” he comments.

In contrast, the Yanomami respect the need to sleep and dream. He explains, “We have boundaries. We stop everything in order to sleep. Mother Earth sleeps and dreams on our behalf, and this is very important. Often we dream about the future ahead, whereas the people of the city dream about driving a car, riding in a boat, or being a football player. Our dream is different.”

He laments the loss of this connection to nature in industrialized societies.

“The thing is that the white people don’t speak the language of the planet, but they could,” he say, lamenting the loss of connection to nature suffered by industrialized societies. “People who don’t want to dream: I would consider them our enemy, because they are people who don’t actually want real things from life. They are destroyers of the planet, and the only thing they want is money.”

The Yanomami’s struggle is not merely about preserving their land; it’s about the survival of the planet. The Falling Sky carries an urgent message: the destruction of the Amazon is not a distant tragedy but a global crisis.

The film also underscores the power of storytelling as a tool for resistance. Rocha describes the three “pillars” of the film, saying, “The first is to diagnose the catastrophe of the system itself. The second one is to warn that this self-destruction is really advanced. And the third one is to invite the white people beyond and not only to dream about themselves.”

The goal of the film is also to amplify the message of the book on the global stage, not just the United States. Rocha explains, “The film’s desire is actually what Davi’s desire is in his own book, which is to spread the word, maximizing his word for the napë to get conscious about the collapse that the world is about to have between death and life.”

While traveling the international festival circuit with the film, Kopenawa has observed how the film is serving a purpose.

“It’s the acknowledgement that we exist; the acknowledgement of the strength of nature,” he says. “It is something interesting or beautiful that the non-Indigenous people were putting us in front of other people. So we’ve earned the respect that the Yanomami people deserve.”

Quoting Kopenawa, Rocha concludes, “I want the film to be an arrow in everyone’s heart.”

The Falling Sky (A Queda do Céu) Film Trailer

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Misunderstandings of Grief

In the wake of the loss of his wife, Sonny Lee (Jae-Hyun Kim) uproots his family from their home in Korea to the Canadian prairies in search of a fresh start. Hired to help cull the local feral dog population, Sonny takes up arms against the mongrels that plague the surrounding forests – alongside the behemoth of his grief. As he attempts to build a new life without his wife, his son, Hajoon (Da-Nu Nam), and his daughter, Hana (Sein Jin), try to do the same, struggling to adjust to a reality that does not include their mother.

“Lost dogs seeking for a place of belonging, barking to take up space and to let their existence be known: this felt akin to the central family,” Yoo explains.

A key theme throughout Mongrels is the parallel drawn between the Lee family and the wild dogs that Sonny is expected to hunt and execute. The dogs, wandering in the forest, are greatly misunderstood, just as the Lee family misunderstands one another and are unable to recognize the common thread that runs through their individual pain.

Sonny, who masks the pain of his loss beneath a whirlwind of drunken outbursts and isolation from his children, is misinterpreted as a cold and unfeeling father in the eyes of Hajoon and Hana.

“Deep down, [Sonny] holds a powerful love for his children, but he doesn’t know how to express it or connect in the right ways,” Yoo says. “Vulnerability is difficult or seen as weakness for a man born in his generation, so he may feel the need to teach this to his children as well by raising them harsher rather than nurture.”

As Sonny struggles against a simultaneous resistance to and need for vulnerability, Hajoon and Hana wade through the muddy waters of grief in their own ways. Hajoon deflects the ache of the loss and attempts to focus instead on how to better fit into his new life in Canada. Hana, unable to accept that her mother is gone, spends her days making a wish for her return every time a plane flies overhead. The misunderstandings among the family build up, placing them further and further out of one another’s reach.

“I never wrote the film imagining grief would become such a central theme. I understood loss was a mutual experience that the family was undergoing, but wanted to focus more on each character’s unique situations, perspectives, trials and tribulations,” Yoo says. “Later, I realized that grief actually further drives them into their own worlds of isolation, as they all need to cope in different ways apart from one another.”

It isn’t until the film’s end that this period of isolation finally lets up, making way for familial understanding and reconnection. In two intensely vulnerable moments, the pain in Hajoon’s eyes and depth of loss in Hana’s voice help Sonny realize that his children both harbor the same hurt that he had been hauling all on his own. After tirelessly attempting to protect them from the pain as well as protect himself from having to admit the reality of his own, Sonny is finally able to understand his own loss in the context of his children’s, and the three of them are gifted with the relief of knowing they will never have to shoulder that pain alone again.

Strength in Visual Storytelling

Yoo splits this film into three distinct, character-driven chapters, utilizing both narrative and visual storytelling to paint a picture of the Lee family as they reshape their lives around the family’s missing matriarch.

“We wanted to cater the visual language in a way that really, really depicts each character’s perspective,” says Yoo.

Beginning with Sonny’s chapter, the screen is made to feel like a confined box where Sonny grapples with his grief. The walls close in on him as he fails to be the father he knows he needs to be.

“In the first chapter, the aspect ratio is the tightest, and the movement is also very jarring in a handheld way. It’s meant to evoke a feeling of suffocation,” Yoo says.

Like his father, Hajoon struggles to fit into the context of a new world, away from Korea and without his mother. Notably, Sonny’s perspective closes in from the sides of the screen, and Hajoon’s from the top and bottom, indicating the subtle differences in their inward battles, as both cope with the gravity of their losses in their own ways.

In the film’s final chapter, which captures Hana’s perspective, the aspect ratio expands to fill the entirety of the screen. It is a liberating effect after the condensed nature of both Sonny and Hajoon’s chapters.

“Everything’s captured wider to bring in a lot more of the world around her, so that we can see a girl in a natural habitat, with this naive lens of how she looks at the world optimistically,” Yoo explains.

Mongrels‘ toggling of aspect ratios effectively places the audience in the mindframe of each character. The technique is a result of the combined talent of Yoo and Vancouver-based cinematographer Jaryl Lim. Together, the two develop a very strong visual narrative throughout the film.

Notably, Mongrels often takes on a very surreal and atmospheric feeling throughout, with soft colors, blurred edges, and moments of stillness creating a sort of daydream effect. Each chapter has a unique feel to differentiate the character’s individual struggles, but this surreal aspect that underlies the entire film works to unite their separate parts in the same hazy sense of unreality inspired by deep loss.

“The visual language — whether aspect ratio, character focused chapters, and surrealism — was all intentional to paint each character’s unique experiences and world,” Yoo says. “I can only hope that it served each character well and did its job in allowing the audience to connect deeper and intimately with these characters.”

Explorations on Identity

Yoo often centers his works around Korean culture, placing an emphasis on the question of identity in relation to one’s background. Mongrels is no exception, as the characters work to understand their newfound identities as Korean-Canadians – an experience not too different from one that Yoo faced growing up as a member of the Korean diaspora in Canada.

“Growing up, I really wanted to know what it was like to be Korean, or what it would have been like if I grew up in Korea…” Yoo explains. “I’ve just used filmmaking as a vehicle to explore these ideas and thoughts.”

In Mongrels, Yoo takes us through the different manifestations of what embracing a new identity might look like. Sonny doesn’t wish to assimilate at all, Hajoon desperately tries to, and Hana does so without really realizing what’s happening. Each of them presents a different answer to the question of identity, while simultaneously pointing to the fact that there might not really be one right answer. What is clear, though, is that identity is a complex thing, woven deeply within the personal — especially for Yoo, who admits to having embedded much of himself into the heart of this film.

“[There’s] little pieces of me in every single character,” Yoo says. “[I had] the realization that I needed to put something so personal into a film of mine before I can move on to something that’s completely separate.”

Whether one resonates most with the film’s meditations on identity, or comes away with a better understanding of how to parse through the complex emotion of grief, Mongrels holds a lesson for anyone looking to understand how our emotions connect us to one another, and how this connection is one of the most valuable ones we may come by in our lives.

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Socially Engaged Practice Art as a Means of Code-Switching

Originally from New Mexico, Méxcal first moved to Seattle in 2000, due to its creative environment and its connection to music and technology. He fell in love with the landscape and decided to stay. Méxcal is a classically trained painter; he studied for 3 years at Gage Academy of Art, has a BFA from Northwest College of Art and Design, and recently completed his MFA in Social Environmental Practice Art from Prescott College.

Much of Méxcal’s work appears in the form of publicly-accessible murals or public art. One includes his collaboration with Japanese American artist Erin Shigaki in Seattle’s Chinatown-International District (C-ID). During the COVID-19 pandemic, many shops and businesses located in International District were boarded up. This incident was reminiscent of another time in history, when, following World War II, Japanese-Americans were unfairly and cruelly put into internment camps due to racism and fear on the part of the U.S. government.

To help facilitate healing, Méxcal and Shigaki painted murals uplifting marginalized communities and portraying their humanity in a way that was deeply rooted to culture. Méxcal and Shigaki worked extensively with the C-ID community to make a Black Lives Matter solidarity mural, which featured images of those who had been unjustly murdered by the police, adorned by traditional Japanese design elements.

Méxcal also incorporated elements of his Mexican-American heritage into a C-ID building called Uncle Bob’s Place, which is named in honor of Bob Santos, the late Filipino community leader and member of the activist group, The Gang of Four. Méxcal created pieces that drew from Mexican folk art traditions of papel picado, or cut paper, to showcase visual narratives dedicated to the theme of international struggle, which was a theme of Uncle Bob’s activism later in his life.

Méxcal equates socially engaged practice art to code-switching. Throughout his life, he has interacted and worked in various corners of society. These include stints fixing up low-rider motorcycles with his brother in a garage, then as a tattoo artist and street artist, until eventually moving into more gallery work, public art, and serving as an educator. All have influenced his expansive approach.

“If I’m working with different communities, the look of my work shifts,” Méxcal explains. “It’s code switching — not in a way that’s deceptive, or in a way that’s meant to present myself as somebody I’m not, but in a way that’s just meant to kind of connect with the community, the way I’ve always done.”

Art Rooted in Culture, Resistance & Struggle

Méxcal didn’t always see himself as a “political artist,” but over time, that stance has changed. He points to early frustrations over being frequently asked about the political implications of his artwork, while his white peers didn’t have to face the same type of questioning. As he developed as an artist, however, Méxcal began to more openly embrace his identity and use his platform to confront difficult social and political realities.

“I just love the belief that… all creative work is political,” Méxcal comments.

This is evident in his work with the nonprofit organization, La Resistencia, which fights against discriminatory immigration practices and actively works to shut down the Northwest Detention Center, which is a U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) facility in Tacoma. He has worked with the organization to create a number of colorful protest posters, and through these images, Méxcal has been able to directly engage with impacted communities, ensure that his art is grounded in their needs and perspectives, and find ways to connect their struggle with his own family history.

“In my work with undocumented folks experiencing the contemporary violence and indignities of the U.S. government, I feel a connection with their struggles,” Méxcal comments. “I see the interconnectedness of my own family and personal history with the struggles of those who are committed to shutting down the for-profit Northwest Detention center.”

While Méxcal recognizes that his own family immigration is complex and different from those of many that La Resistencia serves, it has nonetheless been greatly impacted by U.S. policies and legacies of settler-colonialism. Presently, Méxcal is creating a new body of work centered around his familial and personal history, which will tackle topics regarding Latinx identity, immigration, and masculinity. He hopes the series will help him uncover and explore more about his family roots.

“On my mother’s side, we are the mixed-race Indigenous-Spanish (Mestizo) people who never crossed the border but witnessed the border crossing us, following the signing of the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo,” he reflects. “After becoming ‘Americans,’ we were never seen as full citizens and lost our lands and wealth through theft to white settlers.”

“On my father’s side, our family lived for generations in a small border town, Boquillas del Carmen,” he continues. “My ancestors survived the unrest of the Mexican Revolution, only to be forced to navigate la Matanza and Juan Crow in Texas. When the Big Bend National Park was created, we were forcibly displaced by U.S. government agents. My grandmother and other family members of her generation never talked about the trauma they endured.”

Méxcal’s activism also extends beyond visual art; he has helped facilitate healing circles for frontline activists in need of emotional support and solidarity due to the challenging nature of their work. He has also been involved in art activations — such as a collaboration between La Resistencia and Tsuru for Solidarity — a nonprofit of Japanese American social justice advocates who support communities that are targeted by unjust immigration policies. He worked with Shigaki and the Purple Puerta Collective to craft art kites which symbolize hope for those incarcerated within the facility.

Bringing the Artistic Practice into the Classroom

In addition to his own artistic practice, Méxcal is also an educator at South Seattle College, where he is a full-time member of the art faculty. He also works with nonprofits such as Urban Artworks to teach youth about murals and street art.

No matter the setting, Méxcal views teaching as an exchange of sorts. While he draws from his experiences to educate students, he also learns from his students through their engagement and the questions they ask. Méxcal believes in the praxis during the learning process — of synthesizing what one is learning, and then putting that out into the world.

“The teaching I try to create the space that I never had, and I think that’s what really motivates me as a teacher,” Méxcal says.

As an educator, he expands on questions that he asks himself during the instruction process, such as, “What does teaching look like when it’s human-centered?” and, “What does teaching look like when relationships are prioritized over just getting certain outcomes right?”

Méxcal sees his role as an artist not just to make aesthetically-pleasing work, but to use his platform to confront difficult social and political realities. Whether it’s through education, socially-engaged practice art, his studio practice, or working with any number of diverse communities, he brings himself to the experience, while being mindful of where he is while he’s there.

“This idea of finding beauty in daily life is a part of the communities that I work with,” he explains, of working in varying settings. There’s inherently a visual culture that I step into… my job is just to kind of bring my own voice to that conversation and then help execute.”

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