The film “Heval Birako” by Numan Yiğit, opened the 5th Rojava Film Festival. The film reveals the challenges of Rojava cinema, its collective spirit and how resistance intertwines with art.
Based on the story of fallen journalist Nazım Daştan, Heval Birako is a successful example of communal film production. Numan Yiğit, the director of Heval Birako, which will be screened as the opening film at the Rojava Film Festival, said that the story of the film and of the Rojava Film Commune is not only an effort to make a film, but an effort to keep alive the memory and spirit of struggle of a people.
Cinema in Rojava is not only art; in the harsh geography of the region, it becomes a powerful expression of political resistance, memory and collective struggle. One of the voices of this resistance is director Numan Yiğit. His new film Heval Birako brings to the screen the real struggle of two Yazidi siblings trying to escape ISIS captivity, based on the touching story written by fallen journalist Nazım Daştan.
The screenplay was written by Önder Çakar, and the film will be screened on 13 November as the opening film of the Rojava International Film Festival. Planned to be shown in the coming months both in Kurdistan and in many other countries, Heval Birako was filmed in the village of Sebahiya, between Raqqa (Reqa), Qamishlo and Amude (Amûdê).
ANF spoke with Numan Yiğit, who is also the Co-Chair of the Rojava Film Commune, about how Heval Birako came into being, how communal production shaped the film, the contribution of fallen journalist Nazım Daştan, and the excitement and challenges of making collective cinema in Rojava.
How was the story of Heval Birako born? How did you connect with the story of Nazım Daştan?
About three years ago, three screenplays reached us. The writer of these screenplays was Önder Çakar, and each of them would be filmed by different directors. I took on the directing of Heval Birako. Later, we learned that this story actually belonged to Comrade Nazım. Therefore, the film became the product of a collective effort from beginning to end. This story, which Comrade Nazım sensed, researched and shared, was transformed into a screenplay through a collective production process.
By conducting deep research on Yazidism, we strengthened the historical and emotional dimension of the story. This is what made the film special: a story that Nazım felt, coming back to life through cinema.
We did not meet Nazım, but we found many reflections of ourselves in his articles and in his life. He was not only a journalist, but also someone who had studied cinema and had a high aesthetic sensitivity. He had experienced imprisonment, and he was a researcher who documented the stories of the people across Kurdistan. Through his work in Shengal, he conveyed the voice of the Yazidi people.
As someone who is both a filmmaker and someone who has gone through similar experiences, including prison, I meet him on many shared emotional grounds. This connection created a deep sense of responsibility in me, both towards the film and towards Nazım’s story.
Unfortunately, Comrade Nazım fell as a martyr shortly before the film was completed. We finished this film with a sensitivity as if completing the unfinished sentence he left behind.
How did Nazım accompany you throughout the production process of the film?
This film’s screenplay is based on a real story. Both the witness and the writer of that story was Comrade Nazım. We never intended to turn Comrade Nazım into a character in a film. In my view, he was already the camera itself.
In Heval Birako, Nazım exists as a gaze that observes the story and witnesses the emotions of the characters. While telling the separation, the search, the longing and the hope of reunion of two Yazidi siblings, he is like an eye guiding these emotions.
He is also a witness who followed the freedom fighters in Raqqa, accompanying their resistance. Perhaps in the story of those two siblings he is a researcher, perhaps on the war fronts he is a comrade documenting resistance with his camera… Comrade Nazım, in this film, ‘is the camera itself’; a consciousness that sees, feels and narrates.
We know the shooting took place along the Raqqa–Qamishlo–Amude line. What was it like to produce a film under these conditions?
I have been in Rojava for about four years, and this period has taught me a lot. Every film, every location and every condition gives you a completely different experience, a completely different layer of understanding. When we were filming in Raqqa, the traces of war were still very visible. While walking among the ruins, on the one hand you feel that enormous destruction, and on the other hand you hear the sound of a life being rebuilt. Sometimes the camera turns towards a ruin, sometimes towards a newly built structure right next to it; this duality makes you feel many things emotionally and politically.
This also reflects the reality of Rojava: on one side, the wounds of war; on the other, a new life built by resistance. Of course, security concerns were constantly present. Sometimes you have to take risks during shooting, but the collective awareness of the team, the trust in each other and the support of the people helped us overcome these difficulties.
How do the security risks in Rojava and the limited technical resources shape your film production?
Producing art in Rojava is a struggle in itself. Sometimes even flying a drone can be risky. During the shooting of one scene, we had to pull our drone back due to warnings coming from the other side; in fact, on one occasion, it hit a wall. Although such situations may appear as ‘technical’ problems in cinema, they actually represent a political and geographical reality. Despite this, we did not give up on our aesthetic concern. Even within all these limitations, we tried to preserve the visual power of cinema and remain faithful to emotion.
How did your relationship with the people take shape under these conditions?
The most instructive part for us was that. In the places where we filmed, the people stood with us with great curiosity and a strong sense of ownership. In Amude, people opened their houses, their villages and their hamlets to the shooting. It was the same in Raqqa: some offered their homes, some cooked food, some became part of the set. This solidarity made the film become a form of ‘collective production’. In Rojava, cinema is not only an art; it is a way for the people to express themselves. Everyone embraces it by saying, ‘this film is my story’.
Is it not difficult to produce art under the conditions of war?
Of course it is difficult, but precisely under these conditions the meaning of art becomes even deeper. Because we see art as a way of expressing oneself and a way of aestheticising the reality one lives in. Perhaps an environment of freedom and prosperity makes art easier; but art produced under conditions of war turns into a deeper, more human form of resistance.
Today, filming in Rojava is no longer a major obstacle. Because there is now an experience, a method and a collective memory. Everyone is aware that cinema is part of this revolution. This solidarity is in fact the form of resistance of both the people and the artist.
What role did the cast and the local people play in the film, and how did the communal production model operate in this process?
Not all of our actors are professionals. Some are friends who have taken part in theatre or gained experience in a few works. But the majority, around 70–80 percent, are people who had no experience at all before. Despite this, together with the existing story and labour process, we try to educate them and produce as professional a result as possible. There is a mother, a worker, a teacher, people who have never taken part in this kind of work before. Especially soldiers from military institutions also started to take part in this work. So they have a serious contribution.
Based on these experiences, we brought them together around a common concern through training processes, in a way that would complete the main meaning, message and emotion of this film; in a sense, we wanted to complete the film. In this respect, they have a very serious labour in this.
In the trailer of the film, we saw action scenes that we would expect to see in big-budget action films. The action scenes and technical craftsmanship in the trailer are quite striking. How did you reach this level?
Komuna Filma Rojava is an institution with ten years of experience and knowledge. We have worked on films such as the Kobanê film, the Jibo Azadiyê film, and two series projects.
In this process, there has been an intense search especially for how we could make big productions with low budgets. We had friends experienced in this field and we benefited from them. The support provided by the military forces for our films was particularly important. We benefited from experienced people for large explosion and conflict scenes. This support was reflected not only in directing but also in acting and in creating mise-en-scène.
Especially in explosion scenes, the experiences on how we could create impressive effects without causing harm guided us. The Komuna Filma Rojava team also developed experience and knowledge accumulation in this field.
Was it the collective spirit or the communal spirit that overcame these difficulties?
Absolutely. Managing big productions with small budgets has stopped being a difficulty for us. Thanks to this experience, we are now able to put three feature-length projects on the agenda each year. Our aim is not only to make big-budget works. Whatever the story or topic may be, our priority is to produce in the best possible way with the existing resources. Creating the collective spirit is the foundation of this.
When we say collectivism, we do not only mean filmmakers; mothers, soldiers, teachers and children also take part in this process. Everyone who commits themselves to the story comes together with common aims, goals and concerns. When we are able to turn the story into their story, the budget stops being important. We experience this collectivity concretely during the shooting process, and it gives us great strength.
The Rojava Film Commune defines cinema as “a tool for the people to tell their own story”. Where does the film Heval Birako stand in this?
In Kurdistan and in the world there are shared values, pains and stories. In Kurdistan as well, there are concerns, values and sorrows that everyone shares. Heval Birako tells the story of the Yazidi people, who are an important part of the Kurdish people. Yazidism is one of the most unique and pure components of Kurdish culture. The pains and massacres they have experienced are deeply felt in our society.
Also, people and families separated and torn apart by war are part of our story. We also know the cultural destruction that colonialism has created over Kurds and Yazidis. This is the shared story of all of us. Yet against this, the struggle of culture to keep itself alive and to resist is also our shared experience. Therefore, this story belongs to everyone who holds moral and conscientious values.
War is an unavoidable reality for the people of the Middle East and the Kurdish people. The battle of Raqqa in 2017 was an important struggle against the fear created by ISIS. The fighters of the People’s Protection Units (YPG), the Women’s Protection Units (YPJ) and what is today known as the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) eliminated this shared fear.
ISIS was once the nightmare of the entire world, and everyone was afraid that this threat would reach their own country. The struggle in Raqqa ended this dark period.
While Heval Birako tells this reality, it must also transmit this message to the whole world. This is an important emphasis for us. The great threat that the world thought would come for it was eliminated by the children and fighters of this people. For this reason, the film is not only the story of the Kurdish people, but a shared story of all humanity.
Is it a conscious choice to work with local people rather than professional actors in your films, or is it a result of circumstances?
Undoubtedly, every filmmaker, in a sense, wants to work with experienced and skilled actors. In our case, however, we are actually acting with the reality of existing conditions. Especially in Rojava, cinema itself is a new process; in fact it is a process that emerged together with the revolution. It is not yet settled as an organised and permanent profession in which people devote themselves completely. There are very few people who sustain their lives with a filmmaker identity.
As the Rojava Film Commune, we try to lead this process; but due to the current conditions and the wartime environment, cinema is not yet fully organised. Therefore, the experience of actors is not sustainable; sometimes we can work with one actor only once, and each time we have to start again with new actors.
Although we sometimes find the opportunity to work regularly with passionate and committed actors, in most cases we have to move forward with new faces. In the beginning, the ratio of experienced actors was very low; however, this ratio has now started to increase. As more films are made and cinema develops and becomes institutionalised as an art, the experience of actors will become permanent.
In summary, working with local people is both a necessity of conditions and a conscious preference in terms of the naturalness and authenticity achieved in cinema.
How do you evaluate the current position of the Rojava Film Commune; what is the picture in terms of new projects, educational work and young filmmakers?
The Rojava Film Commune was founded on 14 July 2015 with a collective spirit and solidarity, together with the revolution. During the establishment process of this collective, the labour of internationals and some friends who had previously carried out cinema work played a role.
Afterwards, academies were formed and students were trained. In the beginning, short films and documentaries were the starting point, and feature-length films could rarely come onto the agenda. In the early periods, there were concerns such as ‘Can we make big-budget and strong productions?’ or ‘Do we have to constantly receive support from outside?’. Today, we have overcome these concerns. Now we can put more than one film project on our agenda at the same time, not only once every 3–4 years. This is an important distance in terms of cinema.
Of course, war, economic difficulties and the different living conditions of people make it difficult for cinema to institutionalise and become widespread. For cinema to be fully organised, the existing experience needs to be gathered systematically.
As Komûna Filma Rojava, we have expanded cinema-related work to almost every region of Rojava and we actively make efforts to attract young people to this field with film screenings, short films and workshops.
At the point we have reached today, we are able to bring series and feature-length film projects onto the agenda. Of course, there is still a long way to go. With the opening of cinema departments for the first time in Derik and Hasakah (Hesekê), a three-year academic education process has begun. This will allow more young filmmakers to be trained in the future and will enable cinema to develop further and become institutionalised.
How is communal cinema, or, in other words, collective cinema, received internationally. Do you have collaborations with filmmakers from this field?
Our understanding of communal cinema is received internationally as a process of sharing and solidarity. With the Rojava Revolution, the works produced by Komûna Filma Rojava have created curiosity and interest in many parts of the world. These relations have been strengthened through festivals, individual contacts and joint projects; filmmakers from outside also join our work. We have invited participants from various parts of the world to the festival we will organise soon. In this way, experiences and knowledge are exchanged mutually.
In general, communal cinema and Rojava revolutionary cinema receive significant support and interest at the international level.
How do you see the future of Rojava cinema?
Cinema has developed in different forms across Kurdistan, but fragmentation remains. Bringing these strands together under the umbrella of ‘Kurdish cinema’ is essential if we are to form our own cinematic language and identity. With the Rojava Revolution, cinema gained a new pulse, it organised itself through collective consciousness, and interest has grown steadily.
What we want is for cinema to become part of daily life. We believe we can achieve that by constantly making films, holding screenings and training young people.
The feature films and series we have completed in recent years clearly show how quickly talent and experience are growing in the region. And with the opening of cinema departments in Derik and Hasakah (Hesekê) and the launch of a three-year academic programme, we are certain this growth will accelerate.
Our message to all Kurdish filmmakers is straightforward: bring your experience, your energy, into the revolutionary cinema of Rojava. Rojava is a land reborn from its ashes and cinema will be the strongest language of that rebirth. It is an art form that grows through collective labour, shared consciousness and committed struggle and it will continue to grow.
What is cinema for you? How would you describe it?
Cinema holds two inseparable dimensions: it is art, and it is political responsibility and these two complete one another. You cannot detach art from politics, because politics is simply life itself. My search for art through cinema began with the films of Yılmaz Güney and Halil Dağ. While thinking about how I could express my own life and stories in the most truthful way, I realised that art is the act of conveying truth through an aesthetic language. When an artist breaks away from politics, they break away from life.
Especially for a Kurdish individual, politics is not external, it runs through every layer of life, and through art itself. That is why I do not see cinema as a ‘political responsibility’, but as something required, a necessity. Art is a way to present social realities in a sensitive and aesthetic form. If we detach ourselves from social realities, then the question ‘what does art express?’ inevitably emerges. I approach this as something that cannot be abandoned. This is an essential process, and I believe all artists should approach it this way. To break away from politics is, in a sense, to break away from life.
You live in Rojava. For a people shaped by war, loss and resistance, what does cinema mean?
When we look at cinema in the context of the Kurdish people, we are talking about a people who, for a century, were denied the right to express themselves, fragmented under four different states, subjected to assimilation, repression and attempts of erasure. In such a reality, expressing oneself visually is not a luxury, it becomes a requirement of existence.
Kurdish people have, of course, expressed themselves through their struggle, through music, through dengbêjs, through govend and theatre traditions. There was a deep oral tradition. Writing came later and after writing, perhaps the most necessary language that emerged was the visual one.
One of our greatest advantages today is that we can tell Kurdish stories, this still unmined source, through images. Maybe that is our fortune. There are thousands of untold stories, untouched material and bringing that to light is our responsibility as filmmakers.
Visual language has become the language of the 21st century. Cinema is its most artistic and most aesthetic form. And our task, as Kurdish filmmakers and as revolutionary filmmakers, is to express this reality in the most powerful and truthful way we can.
Finally, those who knew Nazım Daştan say he carried a humble yet very deep character. What does Nazım mean to you personally?
I do not see Comrade Nazım only as a filmmaker or only as a journalist. When I look at his journey, he was a comrade whose purpose was to express, in the most meaningful and most beautiful way, the story of this people.
In that sense, his pursuit, his concern, now remains almost like a will. Acting with that responsibility and treating this visual language with care and conscience as filmmakers, becomes our obligation.
The name Heval Birako, and the story of the two siblings, carries a personal meaning for me as well. It is a story in which I recognised and felt parts of my own life. Maybe this is one of the reasons we were brought together. I will not go too deep into details, but the story of the two siblings in Heval Birako, despite its different emphasis and themes, mirrors an experience I have shared in my own life: the search for brotherhood, the longing, the reunion, the shared memory.
One of the most important elements of this film, perhaps, is that people connect with one another through shared memories and shared experiences. To reveal again the people we lived with, the emotions we shared and to make them alive once more today is one of the most meaningful contributions Comrade Nazım made to this work.
And we approached the film with exactly that consciousness and that responsibility.
Who is Numan Yiğit?
Numan Yiğit was born in 1989 in Adana, to a family originally from Diyarbakır (Amed). He graduated from the Radio, Television and Cinema Department of Ege University, and at a young age spent nearly five years in Turkish prisons due to his political activities. That period became a defining stage in his life, not only deepening his cinematic perspective, but also shaping a political consciousness alongside an aesthetic one.
After prison, Yiğit continued his cultural and artistic work in Diyarbakır, and with the Rojava Revolution, he shifted his path towards these lands. Today he continues his work as Co-Chair of the Rojava Film Commune. For him, cinema is not simply a field of aesthetic production, it is also a tool of social transformation, resistance and memory. This approach is strongly present throughout his filmography.
Yiğit has worked on documentary, series and feature-length projects such as Evîna Kurd, Payizok, Pêlava Sor and Tava Sor. In each of them, he foregrounds the stories of the people, the spirit of resistance under the shadow of war, and humanity’s search for freedom.