Film on Woman in Taliban Afghanistan, Hope at KVIFF

Afghanistan under the rule of the Taliban is the setting of Cinema Jazireh, Turkish filmmaker Gözde Kural’s second feature. She wrote, directed, and also edited, together with Bünyamin Bayansal, the film, which is world premiering in the Crystal Globe Competition of the 59th edition of the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival (KVIFF) on Thursday evening.

“After surviving her family’s massacre, Leila has just one goal in life: to find her son Omid,” says a synopsis. “But in a country where being a woman means being less than nothing, her chances are desperately slim, and so she chooses an extreme and dangerous solution. She radically changes her identity and sets out on a path where even the slightest hesitation can mean death.”

The KVIFF website lauds the “masterfully crafted second film” that tells “a story of oppression that forces individuals into roles – be it borrowed masculinity or forced femininity – that they would never accept in a free country.”

The cast of Cinema Jazireh, a co-production between Turkey, Iran, Bulgaria, and Romania, includes Feresteh Hosseini (Parting, Tsunami), Mazlum Sümer, Ali Karimi, Hamid Karimi, Meysam Demanze, and Reza Akhlagrad. The producers are Kural, Milad Khosravi, and Bulut Reyhanoğlu. The production firms are Toz Film Production, Seven Springs Pictures, and Kos Kos Films, with co-producers Front Film, Avva Mixx Studios, Orion, and Soberworks.

Kural’s first feature, Dust, focused on a woman who was born and raised in Istanbul but whose family was originally from Afghanistan. After her mother’s death, she follows her last wish to bury her in Afghanistan.

Kural talked to THR about Cinema Jazireh, her fascination with Afghanistan, whether her next movie will also be set there, and why hope is more important than ever in today’s world.

Why did you want to explore the theme of searching for a boy called Omid, which means “hope,” in Cinema Jazireh? 
 
I first traveled to Afghanistan at a very young age, just with a backpack on my shoulders. Of course, many things happened during that time, but what stays with me now, what I find myself returning to, are certain moments and encounters. I met people who, even in the darkest times, never stopped living life, smiling, who clung to life as if there was no other option. War, corruption, injustice, poverty… life had taken nearly everything from them. And yet, there was this quiet defiance, this unspoken resilience that deeply moved and inspired me. 
 
Because when hope disappears, life collapses into a void of meaninglessness. Especially in the region – I come from Turkey, but even more starkly, more brutally so in Afghanistan – I realized something: when a person thinks too much about life, the weight and injustice of it can inevitably lead to thoughts of death. But when death feels that close, that tangible, something else begins to grow inside, a powerful yearning for life, almost a kind of existential rebellion. It’s not unlike bursting into laughter at a funeral. 
 
That contradiction, “the urge to live more fiercely when death is so near,” affected me deeply. This paradox stayed with me and became the emotional core of both myself and the film. If we stop “believing that one day things might get better,” life becomes unbearable. So the right and the freedom to hope become more vital than anything else. 
 
How topical is this theme of hope in a dark world today, not just in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan but also in countries with other regimes – well, even many other places these days? 
 
This is, in fact, the only question that matters today. 
 
Ironically, the film tells the story of a war and of an oppressive regime that seeps through the cracks left in its aftermath. Sounds familiar? These days, we watch missiles being launched from one country to another live on our screens. We consume footage of retaliation, destruction, and death like data: charts, analyses, simulations. But for us, this isn’t distant or abstract. Half of our team has lived through this reality. And now, they are bringing this film to audiences around the world, emerging from that very darkness. 
 
In recent years, the world has been witnessing the rise of regimes that build power through fear, that fuel themselves on war rhetoric. As these regimes radicalize, meanings begin to shift. Language erodes. The space to breathe becomes narrower. And it is exactly in such moments that hope becomes urgent. 
 
One generation ago, the world went through something eerily similar: the rise of authoritarian leaders, followed by a global war. We often say “never again,” yet here we are, witnessing new forms of the same patterns, only now more sophisticated, more digital, more global. 
 
That’s precisely why hope matters so deeply today. Because believing in the existence of hope gives you the strength to resist. It helps you endure as an individual; it helps you hold on as a community. Hope is no longer a luxury or a privilege; it has become one of the quietest, yet most powerful forms of defiance against darkness. 
 
I notice that this is your second feature, and also your second feature about Afghanistan. What is the importance of Afghanistan to you as a person and filmmaker? Did you have an important experience or a connection there? 
 
I don’t have a familial or national connection to Afghanistan, but I do have a deep human bond with it. It is a place abandoned to its fate, left to stagnate, and still largely ignored by the world. This is unjust, and this injustice has genuinely pained me. I don’t know why, but since childhood, I have been drawn to see what is unseen and speak what is unsaid. Truly loving life and the world means understanding it. I believe that if we can feel the wounds and struggles of someone or something, we can form a much deeper connection with them. 
 
I went to Afghanistan to understand the world I live in, to truly love it. And looking back now, I can say that the country has raised me in its arms, both as a human being and as a filmmaker. Walking its streets, breathing its dust, meeting its people, and becoming part of their lives was a profound experience for me. After my first film, I thought my journey was over. But when I returned home, I realized a part of my heart was still there. What I had seen and experienced there was still speaking to me, and this time, I wanted to answer back. At first, I had questions about life and the world, and Afghanistan answered me. This time, in Cinema Jazireh, I wanted to answer the questions it has for me. 

How much is the story in the film based on real stories and, if so, how did you find them? Does a Cinema Jazireh, for example, really exist? 
 
The characters in the film are all based on real people’s stories, even if they lived in different times and under different circumstances. I brought together the lives I listened to, witnessed, read about, or encountered personally, within a fictional structure. These people and what they went through gave me a sense of responsibility as a storyteller. 
 
Cinema Jazireh is not a real, physical place, however, in a way, it exists everywhere. The name stands for more than a location; it represents the need to tell, to remember, and to give form to what often remains unspoken. “Cinema” is a space for storytelling, for preserving and sharing. “Jazireh,” meaning “island,” suggests both a place of shelter and a sense of disconnection. Sometimes it offers safety; other times, it carries a feeling of solitude. 
 
In that sense, Cinema Jazireh is both a place we retreat into and a space we create in order to share what we carry inside. It speaks not only to Afghanistan, but to many other places where similar experiences remain unseen or unheard. 
 
I heard before that there is a tradition of young women being asked to look and behave like men and young boys entertaining men in Afghanistan? What did you know about those two traditions or trends before the film? 
 
Yes, I was aware of both practices before making the film – bacha posh, where some girls are raised and dressed as boys within their families, and bacha bazi, where young boys are often used in exploitative ways to entertain adult men. 
 
These two practices may seem very different on the surface, but they are both outcomes of the same system. And seeing how that same system creates harm in such different ways, depending on gender, was deeply unsettling to me. One child is forced to take on another identity in order to access power; the other becomes a victim of that same power. 
 
What struck me most was not just the practices themselves, but what they revealed about how rigid gender roles can disconnect children from their own identities. My intention as a filmmaker wasn’t to present these issues in a didactic or graphic way, but to reflect the emotional undercurrents, the silences, the strategies of survival, and the subtle forms of resistance. In the film, these realities are explored not directly, but through atmosphere and feeling. 
 
How universal do you see the themes and topics of the film? It’s clearly an Afghan story, but it seems to have implications beyond that one country.
 
This is exactly where I see the advantage of being a filmmaker from Turkey: being in the West of the East, and the East of the West. This position allows me to understand nuances that might otherwise be overlooked and to build bridges between cultures and stories.

While writing this film, I was also deeply affected by what has been happening in my own country. We are living in a system that is becoming increasingly authoritarian, where justice is almost entirely bound to a single power group, and where the state has become completely disconnected from the people and their demands. Citizens no longer feel safe. This system marginalizes, silences, and suppresses anyone who is not one of “its own.” It creates not only political but also emotional and social pressure. Experiencing this firsthand inevitably shaped the tone, atmosphere, and emotional world of the film and its characters. 
 
So although the film is set in Afghanistan, the themes it explores, oppression, identity, resistance, isolation, and quiet survival, are universal and deeply relevant to many other places. These issues are not confined to a single country or region; they echo across different societies facing similar struggles. 
 
I also tried to craft the tone of the film in a way that transcends geographical boundaries. A local story becomes a mirror in which audiences from diverse backgrounds can recognize fragments of their own realities, fears, and hopes. For me, the coexistence of the specific and the universal lies at the heart of the film. And indeed, I want viewers everywhere to ask themselves: Where do I see these same dark patterns in my own life, and how do I respond to them? 

Did you shoot in Afghanistan, and when? How did you get permission to film there?  
 
The film was shot about a year and a half ago, during the time when the Taliban were in power. For security reasons, I can’t disclose the exact time or location. We filmed in isolated areas, often rebuilding sets from scratch. 
 
Regarding permissions, that topic could easily be a story for another film altogether. To respect everyone involved, I prefer not to go into details. 
 
How safe or dangerous was the shoot? 
 
We had experience with this kind of production, having shot my previous film, Dust, right in the heart of Kabul. Naturally, some complications arose during filming, but our team managed them carefully. We worked closely with local contacts and handled challenges through careful planning and communication. 
 
Are the cast members Afghan, Iranian, Turkish, or where else did you find them? 
 
Casting took time and care. I was looking for actors not only talented but also deeply committed to exploring meaningful, real performances. Fereshteh Hosseini, an Iranian actress of Afghan descent, was a natural choice for her role due to both her talent and presence. Hamid Karimi, our Norwegian-Afghan actor, brought depth to the complex character Waheed through close collaboration. 
 
Mazlum Sümer, from Turkey, was recommended to me by a friend, and this was his first feature film. Although Dari [a variety of the Persian language primarily spoken in Afghanistan] is not his native language, after months of dedicated work, he brought a unique authenticity to the role. I had trouble identifying anyone as Zabur until I met Mazlum. The moment I saw him, I knew this was the moment. I remember thinking, “This is Zabur.” His smile and gaze really moved me. 
 
The Iranian cast was largely assembled thanks to our co-producer, Milad Khosravi, who recommended many of the actors. We found Ali Karimi after watching hundreds of children audition. He is from Iran as well. Other cast members, including Meysam Damanzeh and Reza Akhlagirad, all contributed with strong emotional commitment and authenticity, helping to bring the story vividly to life. 

I see the film is a co-production between Turkey, Bulgaria, and Romania. Did the co-producers from those countries come on board because of their interest in Afghanistan or were there other reasons? 
 
None of the co-producers had a personal connection to Afghanistan. From what they shared with me, it was the story itself that resonated deeply with them. I feel fortunate that the film’s themes and message could speak across borders and bring people together around a shared human experience. 
 
What’s next for you, and will it be set in Afghanistan, too?  
 
It’s time to return home. I’m currently working on a new film set in Istanbul, which will be a dark comedy. The film delves deeply into social tensions and the impact of collective pressures on individuals’ lives. While its style differs from my previous work, it still focuses on giving voice to those caught in the midst of political and social struggles, exploring how people navigate identity, freedom, and resilience. With this project, I aim to shed light on the subtle dynamics of community, power, and personal resistance, telling a story that feels timely and profoundly human. 
 
As I gradually find my voice as a filmmaker, I believe I will continue to focus on political and social issues moving forward.