At the 49th Toronto International Film Festival, I enjoyed watching a plethora of intriguing films across various categories, including prominent films that had premiered in competition at the 77th Cannes and the 81st Venice Film Festivals. The Festival’s highlight for me, though, was the opportunity to watch debuts from all over the world in the Discovery section as part of our jury responsibilities. Without my involvement in the Fipresci jury, I would probably have concentrated on acclaimed works by established directors or festival favorites, considering TIFF’s time constraints and the vast selection of films. Critically assessing completely unfamiliar films with unknown filmmakers can be challenging and exciting. I highly value the unique experience of engaging with these promising indie movies, among which the Fipresci prize winner was Mother Mother by K’naan Warsame (2024), the Grammy-winning Somali-Canadian artist.
The first part of the film, which lasts approximately 30 minutes, portrays a mother and her son who operate a camel ranch in the remote regions of Somalia. Qalifo (Maan Youssouf Ahmed) is a tenacious, devoted mother striving to oversee the farm amidst a challenging environment and protect her young son Asad (Elmi Rashid Elmi) in a tribal society governed by hostility. Qalifo’s worst fear revolves around Asad, as she worries that his soft demeanor may hinder his ability to protect himself. She is also skeptical about her son’s girlfriend Ifrah, who resides in the city and whose photo appears early in the film. Concerned about the potential for violence from people in that area, Qalifo reluctantly hands Asad his father’s gun for self-defense, and Asad accepts it with a tender smile as if he is convinced he will never use it.
Until this point, Qalifo and Asad are perceived as the main characters, and we anticipate seeing Asad struggle as he decides between two paths: staying with his mother on the farm or pursuing a restaurant business alongside Ifrah. However, in contrast to our expectations, a sudden act of violence shifts the storyline, transforming it into a tale of vengeance that centers on the relationship between Qalifo and another young boy who might also be viewed as a mother-son duo. As implied by its title, Mother Mother features numerous instances of duality and similarities, between two mothers, between two sons, and also among humans and animals.
The film starts in darkness at night, as Asad, guided by the dim light of a lantern, tries to catch a camel calf for slaughter. The captivating opening scene, masterfully shot with a handheld camera by Oscar-nominated City of God cinematographer César Charlone, is pivotal as we later realize that Asad had mistakenly killed camel Dawo’s calf instead of an orphan one, leading to Dawo’s inability to produce milk. Dawo cannot accept the other calf as her own. To make Dawo accept the orphan calf, Qalifo and Asad conduct a traditional fire ritual, which proves ineffective. The only solution left is sewing, as per Qalifo’s suggestion, but Asad rejects the idea, considering it a savage method.
Dawo’s reluctance to accept the orphan calf parallels Qalifo’s predicament following the killing of her son by a Somali-American boy, Liban (Hassan Najib), in a confrontation over Ifrah. The tribal chief presents Qalifo with three choices regarding the murderer: the first two involve compensation in the form of land and money for sparing Liban’s life, while the third option is to take his life. Qalifo rejects all of the options but proposes an alternative: Liban would come to live with her and help with her daily farm labor. This seems an unusual proposition for both the chief and the audience, we are left wondering how Qalifo can accept the person who took her son’s life. It’s hard to ignore the sense that the film is taking an excessively sentimental and unrealistic route.
However, once Liban arrives at the farm, the intricacies and nuances of his relationship with Qalifo are explored with depth, subtlety, and grace. Unable to speak the native tongue, Liban relies on a dictionary to communicate with Qalifo, who initially plans to be tough on him. Gradually, a humane bond develops between them, as Liban’s naive expression and gentle personality effortlessly captivate the audience.
A particularly striking moment occurs when Qalifo spots him at Asad’s grave from a distance. When she enquires about his presence there and whether he sought Asad’s forgiveness, Liban replies that he is the one who has forgiven Asad! Liban claims he witnessed a murderous intent in Asad’s gaze, yet Qalifo refuses to accept that his son could resort to violence, insisting that Liban was the initial aggressor. By the end of the movie, we come to understand that the identity of the person responsible for the conflict is irrelevant, and that is why this detail is intentionally left out through an effective cinematic ellipsis.
In a country haunted by civil war, genocide, and famine, violence can be passed down through generations, leaving behind lasting wounds and emotional traumas. Despite being brought up in different environments, with Asad in Somalia and Liban in the United States, both boys are victims. Moreover, each mother bears her emotional burden; Qalifo endures the pain of losing her gangster husband at a young age while raising Asad alone, and Liban’s mother has a physical scar on her arm, which serves as a tangible reminder of her escape from her motherland to evade danger.
Through this poignant, intimate story, the filmmaker explores broader themes in Somalia’s political and social landscape, where tribal laws still prevail. The increasing reliance of the nation on the United States is evident as the president of Somalia intends to visit Qalifo to persuade her to free Liban, an American national. Concurrently, the government cannot enforce legal regulations, leading individuals to act independently.
Qalifo’s gesture of forgiveness, which concludes the film, conveys a wishful sentiment to replace revenge with compassion. Warsame describes the film as ‘an exercise in empathy,’ suggesting that this could be the sole way for future generations to rise above the abyss of their collective past.
By Azadeh Jafari
Edited by Anne-Christine Loranger
© FIPRESCI 2024