By Yun-hua Chen.
While Cigaal’s coming of age is marked by the loss of his dreams, the surrounding’s seems to be a brutal and irreversible transformation—one driven by machine-led globalization….”
“My whole life I try to make things better, but I keep making mistakes,” says Mamargrade (Axmen Cali Faarax), the protagonist of The Village Next to Paradise. The film begins with him digging a grave for a victim of U.S. missile-firing drone attacks and concludes with his imprisonment alongside his soon-to-be brother-in-law for smuggling weapons. The narrative journey between these events is often absurdist and tragicomic, yet simultaneously sociorealist and deeply heartfelt. Mo Harawe’s feature-length debut, The Village Next to Paradise, distinguished as the first Somali film featured in the official selection of Un Certain Regard at the Cannes Film Festival, is crafted with keen cinematic sensibility and remarkable restraint. It consciously avoids self-exoticization or easy clichés that frequently appeal to festival circuits. Garnering special mention at the Luxembourg City Film Festival and subsequently winning the Best Fiction Feature Award at the Diagonale in Graz, this film breathes fresh life into the landscape of Austrian cinema—not only by expanding its geographical scope but also by pushing aesthetic boundaries.
First-time actor Axmen Cali Faarax convincingly embodies Mamargrade, exuding strength, melancholy, and relatable vulnerability in his portrayal of a well-intentioned, struggling single father who is neither heroic nor saintly. Mamargrade earns his living primarily through odd jobs, notably grave-digging in the parched desert soil of a rural Somali village—a service families are often unable or unwilling to pay for, yet paradoxically lucrative during times of drone attacks. His son, Cigaal (Ahmed Mohamud Saleban), described as a prodigy by his teacher at the village school teetering on closure due to insufficient funding, faces the prospect of attending an expensive boarding school far away for further education. Meanwhile, Mamargrade’s sister Araweelo (Anab Ahmed Ibrahim), having moved in following her divorce triggered by her husband’s desire for a second wife and children, begins her new life with determination and ingenuity. As Mamargrade struggles to secure employment, with his manual grave-digging increasingly rendered obsolete by machinery offered by larger firms, the resolute Araweelo relentlessly pursues unpaid debts for her seamstress work, all while confronting entrenched sexism directed toward divorced women. These three individuals, residing under the same roof, navigate their given circumstances and seek personal resolutions amid the absurdist backdrop of post-drone-attack Somalia.
Their daily realities feel authentic, uncontrived, and refreshingly devoid of exoticization. Rather than depicting them as sanctified victims of poverty, Harawe allows their humanity to unfold with nuanced complexity. Through the film’s understated tone and astonishingly natural performances from its first-time actors, these characters are rendered in shades of grey. The potentially clichéd narrative of a father-son struggle, a theme recurrently explored in cinemas from the global south, is here rendered intimate and profound. Harawe succeeds in delving deeply into the psychological landscapes of his characters—their hesitations and determination, vulnerabilities and missteps, and the morally fraught decisions they must confront. These are fully realized human beings, driven to err for deeply personal reasons. This ability to vividly depict human complexity is Harawe’s rare gift. He narrates through precise, unembellished images devoid of mysticism. By employing Western cinematic language—yet firmly anchored in his lived experience—Harawe crafts a distinct and assured blend of formal training and an intimate, semi-outsider’s perspective of his homeland.
The emotional climax of the film occurs with the disappearance of Araweelo’s hidden stash of money. Yet the narrative refrains from turning into a conventional whodunit or assigning blame. Instead, the scene exists simply to underscore the morally ambiguous decisions individuals face when desperate—a reality accepted as it is.
Egyptian cinematographer Mostafa El Kashef brings a singular visual sensibility to the film, capturing Somali landscapes and light with elegance and restraint. The palette of blue and green garments and interior decor contrasts strikingly with the ochre tones of the sand and natural landscape, creating carefully curated tableaux. Characters are thoughtfully situated within their environments, their identities shaped equally by their surroundings and their inner worlds. Here, the mise-en-scène serves not merely as a backdrop but as narrative texture, a natural habitat mirroring the interior lives of its inhabitants.
At the film’s conclusion, Cigaal’s friend from their former village school calls out from the other side of a river, “Do you still tell the other children stories?” To this, Cigaal replies by shouting, “No, I haven’t remembered the stories from my dreams lately.” While Cigaal’s coming of age is marked by the loss of his dreams, the surrounding’s seems to be a brutal and irreversible transformation—one driven by machine-led globalization and further marginalization of a small village next to paradise.
Yun-hua Chen is an independent film scholar and critic and associate editor of Film International Online. Currently, she serves on the board of the German Film Critics Association.