During the first few years of filming before her daughter’s birth, Waad Al-Kataeb didn’t know what sort of scope her documentary would eventually take. At the time she worked as a journalist for the United Kingdom’s Channel 4 News, while living in Aleppo to document the Syrian Civil War. The product of her labour is For Sama, a harrowing look at civilian lives that have been irreparably damaged by the ongoing conflict, and a deeply personal reflection on childhood and parenthood in the midst of war.
Waad spent five years filming, from 2011 to 2016, and over this period we watch her relationship with her best friend, Hamza, develop into a romantic relationship, and then a marriage. Hamza is a Syrian doctor, one of the few in Aleppo, and his burden is heavy. He treats the sick and the injured, many of whom are victims of bombings by their own government. Waad and Hamza eventually give birth to Sama, and around this time the documentary fully comes into focus. Waad turns her camera inwards, capturing the moments of motherhood that are abundantly joyful, and those that are painfully frightening. Both Waad and Hamza feel a duty to their fellow Syrians, and yet having a child complicates everything about their situation even more.
Every so often a new opening to leave Aleppo presents itself, and each time the couple faces the choice to either stay and help their fellow citizens, or to find somewhere safe to raise their daughter. We watch Sama as she grows and plays, but we also watch her as she stares in confused anguish at the horrors surrounding her. Waad wonders whether that look in her eyes betrays a deeper understanding of her surroundings than we would hope she has, and at the same time she lets her camera linger on the faces of the hundreds of thousands of Syrian children who each bear similar tortured expressions. This portrait of innocence amid devastation is heartbreaking, not just because the children are the ones who will ultimately suffer the most, but also because they are the ones who are least at fault.
In perhaps the most confronting scene of the documentary we watch a woman give birth through emergency c-section. Gradually, the baby comes into focus, limp and noiseless. Some things are just too painful to watch for long periods of time, and so throughout the following minutes spent desperately trying to revive the child, I had to look away more than once. Yet Waad persists, pushing in on moments that are merely uncomfortable for us, but realities for those trapped in these circumstances. This scene ends in a miracle that leaves us apprehensively optimistic for the rest of the film, though sadly the same cannot be said for every tragedy we witness here.
Somehow it feels wrong to draw too much attention to the artistry of the film when there is so much real suffering contained within it, and yet I would not be doing it justice if I neglected to praise the poetry in its editing and narration. Constructed as a letter to an older, wiser version of Sama who might someday be able to grasp the full context of her early childhood, Waad’s voiceover distils her life into quiet ruminations on her family’s place within it all. She reflects on the joy of moments spent with loved ones, and it is in these scenes that we are reminded of the lives that Waad and her family have lost, and hope to one day live again.
“Our wedding was small but beautiful, Sama. The sound of our songs was louder than the bombs falling outside.”
Chloe Lambourne and Simon McMahon’s editing uses juxtapositions of tragedy and solace to give narrative structure to the film and move us in unexpected ways, but is the direction by Waad Al-Kataeb and Edward Watts that provides insight into the identities of the victims and survivors at the centre of the ongoing Syrian Civil War. For Sama effectively shines a light on both the best and worst parts of humanity, making for a viewing experience that is challenging, heartbreaking, and most importantly, hopeful.
