All language subtitles for The.Mother.Of.All.Lies.2023.1080p.WEBRip.x264.AAC-[YTS.MX]

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Try now.

Can you hear anything?

I'll set it to level 2.

Is it working now?

Say something to see if this thing works.

Or if it's just crap.

Why don't you allow photos, Grandma?

It's fine, it works perfectly.

Enjoy.

I remember it was Laylat Al-Qadr

which is in Ramadan.

"Laylat" means "night."

And "Al-Qadr" means "destiny."

It's the night when the Quran was
revealed to our Prophet Muhammad.

It's also the night
when God erases all sins.

But for me,

it was the night I erased my mother's lie,

and got a real photo of myself taken.

WELCOME TO
"ARRABII" PHOTO STUDIO

Until age 12, I had no pictures of myself.

I pestered my mother to give me one.

Children playing in a garden.

A little girl sitting behind them,
her features barely visible.

My mother says that little girl is me.

But I never believed her.

My grandmother forbade pictures
in our house.

She said it was a sin.

I colored my lips with red chewing gum.

I slipped out of the house
with a dress in a black plastic bag.

I dashed through the streets,

worried my mother
would find out about my plan,

or my father would find me gone
when he got back.

It's a night of celebration.

All the children dress up
as grown-ups in traditional clothes.

On the Night of Destiny,
our neighborhood lights up.

Who's with this little girl?

On the studio menu,

girls can be photographed as brides

on the "Amaria" throne,

and boys on horses.

But for those who can't afford
the throne or the horse,

there's another choice of background.

For my first photo, I went to Hawaii.

I arrived at the studio covered in sweat,

drowning in an oversized white dress
I stole from my sister.

With lipstick smeared on my mouth.

I put three dots of toothpaste
on my forehead

to copy Indian girls.

All that mattered was that I was happy

and that I had
the very first photo of myself.

After years of silence,

my father and I

built this place

to free our memories and their words.

A place for those who are afraid to talk.

A place where things that don't exist
can come to life.

A place where secrets can be revealed.

My father has a lion!

I still remember.

Whenever we had guests,

my dad would stand up
and tell them about his adventures.

He only had one story,

the same one he repeated every time.

We built the first local football pitch.

My neighborhood friends
and I played there.

For years, we played there.

I hoped to become a professional player.

I was such a good player!

They called me "Louri." I was goalkeeper.

The best goalkeeper.

Whenever I played,
the field was crowded with fans.

Louri! Louri!

Go Louri!

His friends called him "Louri"

because when he was goalkeeper,
he'd cheer, "roulez," roll on.

But he'd never been to school,

so he pronounced it "lourez."

That's why his friends called him Louri.

Louri the lion.

Because my father
had a lion made of stone.

Those were the days, right Louri?

I remember a game
we played against team Salam.

That day, we beat them 2-0.
Do you remember?

We made history that day.

Dad, what's left to finish
in the neighborhood?

What's left?

I have to paint the house numbers,
check the lights,

and wait for our house to dry.

- Where will it be?
- In its place, on the corner.

How many houses did you build
in our neighborhood?

Too many to remember,

and I've built them all again
here for you in miniature.

Come and see with the lights on.

Look, that's the "Arrabii"
photo studio, see?

And this is the hammam.

See?

Let me show you all the houses.

Look.

Turn it off.

No, turn it off.

Now, turn it on.

In the 90s,

Hawaiian backgrounds in photo studios
were a symbol of memories.

There wasn't a studio

that didn't take your photo
with a Hawaii decor.

Anyone without a picture
in front of Hawaii

couldn't claim to have memories.

Is it nice?

Push it a bit further back.

Who was the first to go out that day?

I was the first to go out.

No, it was me.

You both went out
and left your kids alone at home?

He was the one who went out first.

Lying is a sin, you went out first.

Stop quarreling.

You're at it again?

When my grandmother speaks,

everyone freezes in fear,

like live photos.

This is a picture of Hassan II,
may God rest his soul.

It's my grandmother's favorite picture.

The only one hanging in our house.

For my grandmother, all photos
are forbidden, except this one.

When I was a child,
we all lived at my grandmother's.

The entire family.

My grandma was tough.

Every day at 6 PM,

she'd put her chair out,

sit with her cane

blocking the front door,
and begin her surveillance.

Like a customs officer.

She'd control everyone

except my uncle Jamal,
"the bearded one."

It was her favorite place.

In front of the door,

to keep an eye on everything.

She hasn't been up to the roof
for about 13 years.

I used to share my candy
with her at the door,

and tell her
exactly what she wanted to hear.

"I'm going to wash my feet, Grandma."

To avoid any trouble with her later.

One step at a time.

Welcome.
Come in, Abdallah. Come in, Saïd.

The light is beautiful here.

It's very nice.

Do you recognize this girl?

Don't you?

Isn't she...

Fatima,

our neighbor Malika's sister?

- Yes, that's her.
- So it is her, then?

What about her?

Did you see who killed her?

Did you see who killed her?

Here you go.

This is you.

And this is your cane.

They've deformed me!

They've deformed me, look.

Is that my nose?

Is it like that?

They've deformed me.

I've been deformed.

This is you, Saïd.

And this is you, Abdallah.

Why are you giving me this thing?

I wish I were lifeless like it...

In our house lived three types of people.

My grandmother,

the big boss.

Always on lookout at the door
so she'd miss nothing.

Us.

My little family.

The common people.

We lived in the middle, on the first floor.

We enlivened the house.

We listened to and carried out
my grandmother's orders.

Above us lived Uncle Jamal.

Most people called him
"the bearded one."

My grandmother hated that nickname.

He represented the religious power
in our house.

Since Uncle Jamal's death,
my grandmother always says...

I'm left living with traitors.

She was, of course, referring to us.

When my grandmother finished
her customs inspection at home,

she'd move on to foreign affairs.

She'd spy on the neighbors.

She'd stick her ear to the wall
of our neighbor Saïd's house,

and eavesdrop at night
while he wrote protest slogans.

She didn't like Saïd

because he was a protester.

She forbade us to
go near our neighbor Abdallah.

She said he wasn't normal.

And when we asked why...

"Walls have ears."

That was always her answer.

Malika is the only one
Abdallah really talks to.

I've always known her to be silent.

She rarely speaks.

No, I don't recognize anyone.

Look at the little girl at the bottom.

She's not visible at all.

Let me see. I can't see a thing.

She's there, sitting at the back.
Look properly.

I can still see better than you.

Where is she?

The little girl sitting at the back...

Where is she sitting?
There's nothing there.

Nothing at all.

- You can see her hands and feet.
- I can't see her.

- Here, look.
- No, she's not visible.

Next to the girl in blue.

There's nothing there at all.

Can you see her, Saïd?

Yes, I see her, but I don't recognize her.

I can only see with one eye.

This one or the other?

This one.

The other one is blind.

OK. Tell me if you recognize
this girl in a white dress?

Isn't that you, Asmae?

Come and listen to my woes.

Please come and feel sorry for me.

Dolmi passes the ball,
Faras makes a beautiful shot...

but the goalkeeper stops it.

Is this what I look like?

Am I deformed like that?

You and your daughter
got me to come here

just to give me
a deformed figurine of myself?

Is this my lounge?

Mine is royal blue, not this shitty color.

They have deformed everything of mine.

Where did he hide?

Why is my lounge dirty?
The dishes are still on the table.

I'll change it, Grandma.

You and your father have to arrange
my figurine and my lounge, now.

I'll clean the lounge

and call an artist to correct your portrait.

Your dad must fix your hair,
but the dress is pretty.

Where did you meet?

- What did you say?
- You and Dad.

At the cemetery.

We met at the cemetery.

We walked and talked.

You met him by chance?

Yes.

It was love at first sight.

Was it the first time you saw him?

Yes, the first time.

Did you love him?

I used to, but now...

it's over.

Thank God.

What changed?

Everything has changed.

Everything has changed, my daughter.

I still love him a little bit.

Look.

She heard everything,
she's going to tell him.

- What?
- She's heard it all.

She's going to tell him.

Look, she's spying.

Go listen there,

see if you hear anything.

Aren't you tired
after years of spying on people?

She left her cane.

The customs officer cane.

Hand it over.

This green dress looks too big.

Yes, I'll adjust it later.

And I don't really like this one.

Did you take measurements before sewing?

Yes, I did.

Hello.

Hello.

When I called the artist
to draw my grandmother,

he asked me to describe her.

I didn't describe her face,

I described her nature.

I told him she was a dictator
who oppresses everyone.

Maybe I wanted to provoke her.

As a way of protesting about what I felt.

I've finished, Hadja.

Is my mouth like that?

Are these my eyes?

Get out!

Rubbish.

Grandma, why did you tell Abdallah
that I'm a journalist?

What's my job?

- What?
- What do I do for a living?

You're a journalist.

No, Grandma, I'm a director.

I'm a filmmaker.

Stop saying you're a filmmaker.
Filmmakers never leave the bars.

You shame us.

But I studied cinema.

You are a journalist!

I am a director!

You are a journalist!

- Take a little more.
- Like this?

No, not that much.

Just a little bit.

Is this too much?

- Here?
- Go ahead.

- Is it enough?
- Yes.

Who's that slut you put there?

Who's that slut?

That's me.

- That's a slut.
- It's me.

It's you?

Yes, I have interviews to do in the bar.

Come, let's take a picture
and send it to Malika.

Come on.

Line up.

Sit down.

Line up for the picture.

Grandma, come for the picture.

Take another photo.

Come take your picture.

No.

- Take a photo with them.
- No, I won't.

- It's for Malika.
- I don't have pictures taken.

Hello.

Hello, sister Malika.

- How are you?
- I am fine, thank God.

How are things?

Good, thank you.

I swear to God you are missed here.

Is that you, Saïd? How are you brother?

So, you recognized my voice?

Yes, I didn't have your number.

Are you all well?

Yes, we're all fine.

I was saying, since you didn't come,

you left a big empty place
among us here.

Something came up.

You know, we prepared
a big surprise for you here.

It's a pity you didn't come.

We've built the entire neighborhood
here for you. Do you hear?

Our old neighborhood.

We've even got your house.

You've made me regret now.

We've got a photo of the martyr Malika.

Fatima!

Pay attention, Saïd.

Concentrate.

Malika is talking to you now.
The martyr is Fatima.

Where is that book about the March?

This is the first letter
my father wrote to the papers

to denounce my sister's death.

This photo was taken when they dug up
the bodies with a bulldozer.

I don't think Saïd has a copy.

They dug up the mass grave,

to separate the bodies.

This is a letter my father sent

to the Equity
and Reconciliation Commission.

And this is my poor sister Fatima,
may she rest in peace.

This is the witnesses' statement
that she was shot dead.

It was rejected.

They said,

to declare her death, you must state
it was due to natural causes.

And this,

is the prize she won
for passing her fifth-grade exams.

It's about the Green March. I think.

May she rest in peace.

Nothing is left of her,
except these papers.

Hello.

Our sit-in will take place

in front of the National Council
for Human Rights in Rabat.

My rights are the blood
that runs through my veins

I won't give them up
even if they execute me.

What happened, cousin of mine?

Do you understand what happened?

What happened?

It was a massacre! A butchery!

It was a massacre! A butchery!

Don't you know what happened?

Do you understand what happened?

What happened?

What happened in 1981?

It was a massacre! A butchery!

Every neighborhood has a martyr!

It was a massacre!

THE EXECUTIONERS
ARE IN IMPORTANT POSITIONS,

WHILE THE MARTYRS
ARE BURIED IN MASS GRAVES

Come along.

Moustapha Hassib.

Miloud Khalfi.

Abdallah Cherouh.

Atif Ben Youssef.

Bouchaib Bikri.

Houcine Bou Hassoun.

These are the ones who died
of suffocation in their cell.

And these holes mean
that these ones were shot.

This one was shot, Saïd Hilal...

Moustapha Gedmi.

So, this is our neighborhood?

Yes, it is.

- You mean our old neighborhood?
- Yes.

Yes, it is.

Where's my house?

Here it is.

Where?

See that house there?

It's the house in which
Mustapha Mezgour died.

Do you know how he died? He was shot.

He was shot in the head.

When he was killed, fear spread

and almost everyone fled.

You know, when he was shot,

his family quickly pulled his body
inside the house.

Five minutes later,

soldiers broke in, put the body in a truck

and took it away.

It was next to the photo studio.

Yes, it was there, you're right.

You're on about it again!

That story again!

You always interrupt us.

What do you think we're saying?

What we say is the truth!

Let's go talk about it, just you and I.

Listen to what I have to say.

Listen to me, please. See this house?

The deaf and dumb man's house?

He saw the soldiers coming
and ran into his house,

he went upstairs
and opened the window,

but they shot him from below,
right in between the eyes.

A bullet between the eyes,
it was really awful to see.

Let's move away from the neighborhood

so we can talk.

I want you to tell me about the things

that I still don't know about.

What is it you want to know?

I want to know where all those
who were killed in Casablanca...

Where they were buried?

Where they took them, yes.

My rights are the blood
that runs through my veins

I won't give them up
even if they execute me.

Do you understand what happened?

What happened?

What happened, cousin of mine?

It was a massacre! A butchery!

The graves, you dug them up.

But the truth, you've shut it up!

The graves, you dug them up.

But you've hidden the truth!

Oh martyr, rest in peace.

Stop this racket!

Do you understand what happened?

Stop this right now!

That old woman

makes me sick.

I ran away from oppression,
but I found worse here.

Go away, leave us alone!

Shit!

Abdallah, wait!

Leave me alone!

- Calm down.
- You're the one who has to.

Please calm down.

- In God's name, leave me alone!
- Please calm down for me.

I don't care about anyone here anymore.

Forgive her in the name of her son.

I don't know anybody anymore.

I don't even know myself.

In God's name, just leave me alone.

I'm leaving.

Give me my stuff, I'm leaving now.

- Abdallah, calm down.
- Forget about Abdallah!

Let me go, please.

For her son Mohamed's sake.

I don't care about Mohammed
or anyone else.

He left.

You told us to come here
so we could speak freely,

but we found this old woman
who's like a dictator.

Do this, don't do that...

Don't take notice,
she's just an old woman.

We've been patient enough with her.

- Where's Abdallah?
- He's gone.

What did he do to you?

Why were you rude to Abdallah?

What did I do to him?

He wants to leave.

- They both want to.
- Good riddance!

Grandma, this place is not like our home.

Over here you don't get to decide
who stays and who leaves.

It was a Saturday.

My life ended

on that painful day of June 20th, 1981.

I woke up that morning
and had breakfast as usual.

It was a public holiday.

At lunch time,

I was having lunch with my mother,

my wife who was 8 months pregnant,

and my two younger brothers.

Suddenly,

I heard a loud banging at the door.

Very loud.

I heard them

breaking the door down by force

and suddenly,

soldiers were in front of me
wielding sticks.

They pulled me away
from my mother and my wife,

and started to beat me with their sticks.

On my head and all over my body.

I was in terrible pain,

but I stayed strong.

They took us to the station.
A long line of soldiers were waiting.

They were carrying sticks
and wearing heavy boots,

like mallets.

When we passed in front of them,

they'd beat us up randomly.

Then,

they threw us all into a cell.

That cell

was very small.

Made of brick and cement.

With no openings.

Except for the door.

Its width was no more

than twelve square meters.

They crammed us all in.

"Get in!"

They pushed us in forcefully.

"Get in, motherfucker. Get in!"

"You wanna make trouble?
Get in there now!"

After 10 minutes,

we were having trouble breathing.

We were suffocating.

We were gasping for air.

I started shouting:

"Help me! Help me!"

"Help!"

We were all shouting
at the top of our voices.

It lasted

for about two hours.

At one point,

I tried to get up
but I fell straight back down.

I started to crawl

like this,

over a pile of human bodies.

I crawled like a spider.

I realized I was very close to the roof.

The cell was full of steam.

Absolutely full.

Because of the sweat and heat.

The cell became very dark,

and full of steam.

That's when I heard

the sound of the soldiers outside.

The sound of their boots.

Because complete silence

had fallen over the cell then.

For a brief moment,

I saw some light,

light from the door.

I was hot.

I saw the door

being pushed open violently.

It was thrust open

and it pushed the bodies
of the people behind it.

Some were unconscious and some dead.

When the door opened...

I came out

into a yard,

in front of the cell.

And I collapsed.

Exactly like that.

After a while,

a soldier came to me.

He stood in front of me like this

and said: "Get up, motherfucker, get up!"

I said: "I won't get up, I refuse to get up."

"Get up
and help us carry the bodies out."

I said: "You can kill me if you want",

"but I won't go back into that hell."

"You can kill me here."

"Do what you want."

And I grabbed onto his legs.

In the end,

he beat me up savagely,

mercilessly.

Then, I saw a group of soldiers,

pushing the door again,

just as they had before.

They were pushing the dead.

Soon after,

they started to take out the bodies

and to line them up like this.

They lined them up in front of me.

That's when
I started to see my neighbors.

And to count them at the same time.

They dragged out 36 bodies.

The way they dragged them out

was inhuman.

They pulled them out
by their legs, like this.

Like sheep being dragged

to the slaughter.

From the other cell,
they brought out children.

Among them was a father.

Dadi Abdelkebir.

He had two sons.

As he came out, he saw them

dead at his feet.

They were lying dead in front of him.

He just put his arms behind his back

and started walking to and fro.

He didn't say a single word.

He just kept walking like this.

He didn't utter a word.

Not a word.

He was in shock.

I don't want to remember
any of this anymore!

They destroyed me.

Miguel tackles the ball,

he shoots from a distance...

He misses!

Ah, he missed!

Fathi passes to Saïd,
who's in front of the goal...

And he scores!

I always stopped those shots
when I was goalkeeper.

But thank God for us he didn't.

Miguel has given Raja their second goal.

- 2-0.
- That Miguel is a great player.

Of course!
Raja Casablanca is the best team.

I loved football.

So why did you stop playing?

We no longer had a pitch to practice on.

One morning

when I arrived, it was gone.

I packed my ball

and had to find a job.

I spent my life building, laying tiles...

My father arrived one day to practice

and found the field had been dug up.

There was a big hole in the center.

And a high wall around it.

The field became something else.

That day,

my father's dream of becoming
the best goalkeeper ended.

Do you remember that shot

I stopped just in time?

I stopped it, right?

Look, he's smiling. He remembers.

Years went by.

One Saturday night in 2005,

they brought floodlights
and bulldozers to search the ground.

That night,

they dug up dozens of bodies
and buried them in individual graves,

in the appropriate Muslim manner.

They say this is where Fatima
and the other martyrs were buried.

The football field became a cemetery,

and my dad's dream
was buried with the bones.

Now, as you see,
I've become a handyman,

and football is forgotten.

Did you finish the graves?

Did you finish all the graves?

Yes, I did.

That night, the news went round that
bones were found in the old pitch.

Malika came running, so happy.

She'd been waiting almost 30 years
to find her sister's remains,

to bury her at last
and know where she lay.

I still don't know
if my sister is dead or not.

I know she was killed by a gunshot,

but I have no body.

They have to do

the DNA test and confirm her remains,

so we can have a grave to visit,

and pray on like all the dead.

As long as there is no grave,

it's as if nothing happened.

From the day I heard Fatima's story,

it hurt me less to see Grandma
burn our photos in the cemetery.

I've never met Fatima,

but I feel like she's an old friend of mine.

I see myself in her.

At 12, I was a body with no memories.

At that age,

Fatima became a memory with no body.

Nothing more
than a black and white photo.

Grandma, you still don't know
what happened that day?

Those years were known as
the "Years of Lead."

In Casablanca, there was
a raise in price of basic products.

And particularly flour.

Normal citizens could accept
any rise except the price of bread.

The unions called for strikes.

Many people took to the streets,
especially the poorest neighborhoods.

None of them imagined
they could die on that day.

Saturday June 20th, 1981.

Our neighbors went out
to protest the price of bread,

but the demonstrations
were repressed by force.

Many children were among
the 600 victims, that day.

The bodies disappeared,
hidden not far from our home.

The first victim
in our neighborhood was Fatima.

Two bullets in her neck.

It was forbidden to collect bodies,
even from one's own family.

On that day,

survivors were reborn
and the dead went missing.

Some were lucky enough
to hide their loved one's bodies,

but the horn of a truck
shattered their hopes.

The truck that came back
to erase all memories and images.

The only thing that still links us here

is that each of us
has a story with a photo.

This is the only existing photo of that day.

It was summer, most doors were open
because of the heat.

That same day, the postman
brought Fatima's school report.

She had passed her exams
but her soul had risen to the sky.

Fatima was no longer here.

It was forbidden
to cry or weep on that day.

Families had to mourn in silence.

"Every soul has to taste death.

"God Almighty has spoken
the truth." (Quran)

My grandmother got scared,
she locked everyone up that day.

It doesn't matter if bodies disappeared,

if pictures went missing,

our memories are alive.

Now that so many souls have gone.

Take your gold, exchange it for copper

I'm talking about you, worthless scum.

Take your gold, break it into iron.

What you did is disgraceful.

Now taste my words,
as painful as your bullets.

Like every Saturday,

there was a popular song show on TV.

Not a word was said
about what happened during the day.

End of broadcast.

- Saïd?
- Yes?

We have to call an electrician
to check the breaker.

I noticed it was not stable yesterday.

You should've told me.

Grandma,
where were you on June 20th, 1981?

That day was a day of danger!

There was no going out on that day.

And you know why.
You know why I locked you all up?

It was the day of the strike.

Whoever went out never came back.
Do you hear?

All I did was close all the doors.

I locked you up to protect you.

That day!
No one should have gone out on that day.

Grandma,

I just want to know where you were.

Where were you on the day of the strike?

I was in my house.

What did you see?

I saw nothing. I didn't see a thing.

And even if I had...

I didn't see a thing. Not a thing.

I closed the windows
and went to knead my bread.

There was a lot of commotion outside.

I closed the curtains

and went inside to knead the bread.

I didn't see a thing.

I saw nothing.

Nothing at all.

Now go away.

Go away.

Go!

One day after the strike,

the soldiers came back to arrest men
and young boys in their houses.

Saïd was taken from his bed.

They dragged him out blindfolded.

He spent 13 years,
one month and one day in jail.

Abdallah was also taken away
on that day.

And he still doesn't know why.

He says that he didn't even
take part in the strike.

Oh, wretched life.

What do I expect from this wretched life?

No rest and no order.

Only chaos...

Oh, wretched life.

Oh, you wretched life.

How many times do we have to die?

Dear audience,

you were listening to "Narjak Ana"

by the eternal band Nass El Ghiwane.

Happy birthday, Mother.

Let me enjoy life as long as I still can.

How old are you today?

Let me live my life,
mind your own business.

Happy birthday, Hadja.

Tell us how old you are.

I'm alive and never counted.

God give me a long life.

Long live the king!

Long live the king!

When I brought my family here,

I thought the new walls
would change them.

I hoped to restore our memories,

to free the words
that had been hushed for years.

I hoped to see them like this,

reconciled,

happy,

enthusiastic, laughing and enjoying life.

But my grandmother is an expert killjoy.

Is this the photo you stole
from the school

to give to your daughter?

This is the photo you stole from the
school and gave to your daughter

behind my back, lying to her.

Which one is me?

You're not one of them, it's a lie.

You're not there.

She's my daughter,
I'm free to do what I want with her.

You're a thief, a thief!

You stole a picture from the school

and lied to your daughter.

- It's between my daughter and me.
- You liar! You thief!

- It's none of your business.
- You're a liar, a thief.

You lied to her, you lied to her.

She's my daughter.

So you lie to your daughter?

You manipulate her
with a fake picture of herself?

She's not even in that picture.

- Shut up you thief!
- She's my daughter, it's between us.

All your life, you've oppressed,
been violent and abused us...

Enough! It's enough.

You've gone too far.

It's beautiful. You did well to hide it.

- It's the only one I have.
- Good for you.

Do you have any photos?

No.

She burned them all.

Or threw them out.

Not even of your wedding?

No.

No pictures of the wedding.

- You didn't take pictures?
- No, we didn't.

When she was 12,
your grandmother was married.

She had twins.

She took pictures of them.

Then they died,

and her husband tortured her,

and she took it out on us.

She made us pay for the pain
of losing her children.

It's all right, please stop crying.

Forget about the past, erase it.

My heart is crying inside me.

Erase everything. Forget it.

Erase everything.

Dad, today is the first time
I've seen grandma cry.

Your mother.

Do you love your mother?

I love her more than anything.

My mother is the most
precious thing in my life.

How could I not love
the queen of our home?

She watches over me.

She protects us.

She doesn't let us go astray.
May God preserve her for us.

Life is unfair.

The past is gone.

You who still believe in the past,
know that it's dead.

Eyes have cried over the past
And the candle has gone out.

And the past is gone.

Just one night, one night

I only wish for just one night.

To be gifted back to us from the past.

Carry it carefully, Saïd.

Please, Abdallah,
help me measure the miniatures

to see how many tables I need to line up.

All right.

Put them side by side.

Did you used to sing?

We used to sing while camping...

- Adele.
- Let's sing it together.

Adele?

There was a young sailor.

Coming back from war.

Coming back from war.

With his regiment.

To go and see Adele Adele his beloved.

The young sailor went to see his captain.

Hello, my captain.

Give me leave please.

To go and see Adele Adele my beloved.

The captain said to him.

Go up to your room.

And pack your bags.

And go see Adele Adele your beloved.

The young sailor went.

To see Adele's parents.

Hello, dear father and mother.

Brothers and sisters.

But wherever is Adele? Adele my beloved.

The father replied.

There is no Adele.

Adele, Adele, Adele.

Adele is far from here.

Her body is under the ground.

And her soul in heaven.

Open your eyes.

Let them go!

New walls have no ears.

It's hard for me to leave this place

and forget about it.

It's become a part of me.

I ask myself...

Will I feel the need to come back
when I'm my mother's age?

Or will I be afraid to come back
when I'm my grandmother's age?

I don't know.

I thought a lot
about the fate of this place,

but it's become a memory
we live with every day,

like a common dream
we have every night together.

I decided to destroy it,

so that walls will no longer have ears.

I haven't been up to the roof in 14 years.

14 years since I've seen the sun set.

But since you all left,

the sun has set on me.

Grandma,
come and take a photo with us.

We don't measure the pain of silence
until we speak up.

I realized the best way
to understand what happened

was to dig deep inside myself.

Don't tell my grandmother

I am the filmmaker.

Whoever says the pot is cold.

Should stick his hand in it

LA MADRE DE TODAS LAS MENTIRAS