War tears lives apart, but can art bring them back together? ‘Khartoum,’ a kaleidoscopic documentary, dares to answer that question. Amid the devastation of Sudan’s 2023 civil war, five ordinary yet extraordinary individuals—a civil servant, a tea stall owner, a resistance volunteer, and two street boys who survive by collecting plastic bottles—unite to share their stories, dreams, and fears. Directed by a diverse collective of Sudanese and British filmmakers, themselves displaced by the conflict, the film blends oral storytelling, staged reenactments, and personal drawings into a powerful narrative that premiered at the Berlin Film Festival and later graced the 69th BFI London Film Festival (LFF).
But here’s where it gets controversial: While the film celebrates resilience and unity, it also confronts Sudan’s identity crisis head-on. Khadmallah, the tea stall owner, poignantly observes, ‘We really have an identity crisis,’ highlighting the divide between those who identify as African and those who see themselves as Arab. Majdi, the civil servant, grapples with his own moral dilemmas: ‘Have I been a coward or a brave man?’ Meanwhile, Lokain and Wilson, the street boys, offer a stark yet hopeful perspective: ‘The rubbish is our treasure, plastic bottles are our gold.’
Co-director Phil Cox reveals the film’s transformative journey. ‘It started as a cinematic poem of Khartoum before the war,’ he explains. ‘But war broke out, and everything changed. We had to use all our resources to save the participants and ourselves. Everyone fled to Kenya over four or five months.’ With only pre-war footage and the raw stories of their subjects, the filmmakers turned to green screens, reenactments, and the boys’ drawings to complete the project. ‘The stories were all inside our participants,’ Cox adds.
And this is the part most people miss: Finding the right voices wasn’t easy. Rawia Alhag, the only woman on the filmmaking team, shares the challenges of filming street children. ‘There are many street children, but finding two I could feasibly film was difficult,’ she says. Even with permits, filming in the streets proved uncomfortable for locals, who questioned why the children weren’t in school.
The chaos of war unexpectedly brought diversity to the team. ‘These are people who would never have met otherwise,’ Cox notes. ‘But displacement forced us into the same room, on the same mattress. Behind the camera, we were a mix of genders, ethnicities, and religions, all united by circumstance.’ Alhag adds, ‘The conflict brought us together in Nairobi in a way nothing else could.’
Khadmallah’s journey to the film was equally compelling. Approached by director Anas Saeed, one of her tea stall customers, she faced resistance from her family. ‘I had to convince my mom,’ she recalls. ‘Eventually, she accepted my participation.’ Yet, reliving her experiences on camera was traumatic. ‘Whenever I started talking, I just cried,’ she admits. ‘But I think all of us who faced the war share that feeling.’
The collaboration didn’t end with the film’s completion. ‘It’s been the start of something new,’ Alhag reflects. ‘We’re still displaced, still rebuilding our lives in Nairobi. This film is just the beginning.’ Cox agrees, calling it ‘a catalyst for everyone involved and a cathartic experience for audiences, especially Sudanese people who rarely see themselves represented on screen.’
Now, here’s the question: Can a film truly heal the wounds of war and bridge divides? Does ‘Khartoum’ succeed in its ambitious goal of fostering understanding and unity? Share your thoughts in the comments—we want to hear from you!
