Original subtitles

This is a film made of 1001 images

shot by 1001 Syrian men and women

And me

I saw it.

Syria

After a school day, this boy wrote on a wall:

"The people want to topple the regime."

He was detained.

His nails were pulled out.

This happened in Dar'a.

His family ran to the officer, demanding his release.

"Forget him"�, the officer said.

"Go make yourselves a new one!"

If you can't,

send your women here, we shall help you.

And cinema began

Freedom! Freedom!

I don't know how to film.

Free our children!

This is my first time.

"No to detaining children!"

Pacifist! Pacifist!

The people want to topple the regime!

Down with emergency laws!

Freedom! Freedom!

The Dar'a train departed.

"My uncle lent a hand to our neighbor."

"Sami has clocks in his shop."

I remembered that old reading lesson.

"The Dar'a train departed."

When I was a child,

I loved it.

The first martyr

Oh Heaven, open your gates!

Revolution!

Against injustice!

Against tyranny!

There is no God but God!

Don't be scared, Imad! Pray, Pray!

This morning...

someone took the camera from me

and cinema started.

I ran after him to get it back.

I found myself directive to him:

"Don't move the camera!"

"Stabilize it!"

A static shot is beautiful.

The new filmmaker became a martyr.

At night, while trying to sleep,

I heard his voice:

"Why don't you film?

Come and film!"

The first night

Traitors!

Traitors!

Why do you kill your own people?

We're brothers!

Victory is ours, traitors!

Don't shoot!

Other soldiers are shooting at your families now!

The same thing is happening to them now!

Your fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters,

they suffer the same fate!

The world is not yours alone! There's a place for all of us!

You don't have the right to own it all.

Marathon

Banyas

From Banyas to Dar'a, the Syrians marched.

Damascus

Hama

Hama

Latakia

Our souls and blood, for you, Dar'a.

They marched thousands of kilometers.

In reality and in metaphor,

direction Dar'a,

We don't want bread or fuel, just a bit of freedom!

direction humanity.

God, Syria, Freedom!

One, two, Syrians where are you?

The Syrians marched history's strangest marathon.

For 42 years,

they carried the portrait of "The One".

It was their worshipping of survival

and peace.

We love you, we love you...

Today, they started a march in reverse.

March, counter march.

A shot and a reverse shot.

42 kilometers,

(ironically)

is the distance between their villages

and Dar'a.

Distance that the farmers marched...

to break the siege

and unchain freedom.

Our souls and blood, for you, martyr!

Death rather than humiliation!

Spartacus

I am Soldier Walid Qashami, serving in the Arab Syrian Army.

Republican Guards...

Qasioun HQ, Camp 227.

This is my military ID.

And this is my metal ID, distributed only in war times.

We were summoned to HQ

and were told an armed gang was killing civilians near Damascus,

in Harasta.

Our army uniforms were replaced with...

the black uniforms of the anti-terrorism unit.

We were transferred to Harasta

equipped with live ammunition.

There, we saw no armed gangs.

Only a demonstration, calling for the fall of the regime

chanting: "For you, freedom, our blood and souls."

We were surprised to see intelligence agents shooting live ammo

towards the demonstrators, at women and children.

Me and five of my colleagues, we didn't shoot.

We just ran to the demo.

We threw our weapons down

and the men and women protected us.

When the CO saw this, one of us was shot.

In the army, we pledge

never to betray the homeland, the people or the leader.

But we saw that there were no gangs!

Only people. We didn't even see a knife!

They only chanted for "freedom" and "toppling the regime".

I call on every soldier

to save the blood of our people,

citizens... children.

You still want to demonstrate, bastard?

These boots are your mother's honor.

Kiss it.

Kiss it.

Lick it.

- What size is it? - 43.

Kiss it.

You were demonstrating?

Who's your God?

- Who's your God? - Bashar.

Kneel to your God, low life!

You want freedom?

Here's freedom for you!

You want freedom?

You want freedom?

Kiss your God!

The First Musical Notation

Freedom!

Bravo.

Proud of yourself, bastard?

Someone who kills his people is a traitor!

Don't be afraid!

But they're using live ammo!

They're using live ammo!

Yesterday, I met a young man at the film club.

I met Fuad Balleh at the film club.

Yesterday, Thursday...

After we've watched "Hiroshima, mon amour",

he was waiting for me.

Very politely, he asked for a minute to talk.

He said:

"I want to establish a film club in my neighborhood,

would you help me?"

I said to him:

"It's better you start without a filmmaker.

"Watch and discuss.

"That's best.

When you need me, I'll be there."

I walked, then stopped,

and asked him:

"Where do you live?"

He said:

"Douma."

"Douma?!", I said.

Douma, mon amour

"You find that strange?"�, he said.

The Film Club

Cinema of realism.

Cinema of the marvelous.

Cinema of the murderer.

Cinema of the victim.

Cinema of the poetic.

Fantasy.

"People and fish, we want to topple the butcher."

My name is Ossama Mohammed.

I left Syria on May 9, 2011.

On May 9,

the day of triumph over fascism.

Heading, now, to Cannes...

without a film.

I am the film.

A Syrian filmmaker,

carrying 1001 images.

I carry them

to tell the story.

To speak.

"The boy kissed the officer's boot."

Image counter image

Two protagonists in the scene:

A teenager and a boot.

The teenager is clear in his nudity.

He is just who he is.

The other protagonist is a boot.

This is how he presents himself in his own film.

We can't ask the teenager

about his daydreams anymore.

What was he imagining yesterday night...

before he entered this hell?

Kissing his girl,

like we all did?

Who would he have kissed instead?

When I saw what I saw, I saw myself in him.

I saw myself in him.

And with him, I kissed the boot.

The Dar'a train departed.

"Dodes'ka-den".

"Dodes'ka-den".

I came with the idea of returning

and I didn't.

I didn't return...

to myself.

I was told I was in danger.

I believed I was in danger.

I didn't believe.

I wanted to be in danger.

So that I'd become one of my people.

At night, I say to myself:

"I'll go back tomorrow."

In the morning...

I buy

a microwave.

I want to go back

but I don't.

I dreamed that I was dead.

In a static shot.

I saw myself dead.

And I heard the voice:

"Such a pity...

he was still strong,

but he couldn't bear

the distance."

I died.

Are you Ossama Mohammed?

The filmmaker?

Merry Christmas!

I will call you "Havalo",

Kurdish for "my friend".

Good evening!

Or is it a morning?

I'm not sure.

In Homs,

clocks have no hands.

I have a story.

Do you like bedtime stories?

I lived.

I'll die a free woman, my friend.

I won't flee.

I live in Homs,

I'm Kurdish.

I love my Kurdish name:

Simav,

"Silvered Water".

SILVERED WATER

After a month of searching for a cameraman,

I realized no one but I will do it.

For the regime, a camera is a weapon.

I had to cross over 500 km,

smuggling it in my coat's hood,

to get it into Homs.

I step back in panic

when I see the army to our doorstep.

This is Homs.

I folded my femininity and I walked.

Searching for meaning in the images that flee into my small camera.

The First Shot

Where are you now?

Here, in Paris.

If your camera were here in Homs, what would you have captured?

Everything.

You haven't answered

The senses

I would see with my senses.

You haven't answered.

I haven't answered.

She asks, then disappears.

I search for her in images.

In the cinema of the murderer.

In the cinema of the victim.

Take my heart.

For Homs, the audacious

I am so sad, my tears are falling

O Lord, our young have fallen

Your minarets are destroyed

O Lord, look at this country

O Lord, we need a miracle

Like Moses, with one look, made a mountain fall

A Musical.

O Bashar, if I got drunk

Don't blame me for that

I'm just a soldier, this poem is my promise

O Bashar, in your military habit

For you, Syria stands up!

The musical of the murderer.

We'll prevail against all enemies.

O Lord, protect our hero Bashar

May his banner fly High in the sky

O Our Free Army!

The musical of the victim.

The oppressor bombs us,

he destroys everything.

Come to our rescue, deliver us.

The murderer... the victim.

The murderer.

The victim.

Wounded is my heart.

I lie on the ground and my heart no longer knows who my friends are

God is on our side,

we who defend our women and children.

Simav!

The Unknown Soldier

Our souls and blood are yours, Bashar!

Simav!

Assad, or we scorch the country!

Good morning, Havalo.

How are you doing?

Do you think words still have meaning?

Words are dead.

Yes, words still have meaning.

It is the traces,

the soul leaves, blowing onto cold glass.

Write! write!

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of them.

Saturday

Good morning.

Dearest Simav,

I think of you.

Of where you might be now?

Are you OK?

My friend

The sixth day

The sixth day was a crazy inferno.

Soldiers are everywhere,

on our stairway.

I run inside the apartment,

and shout:

"Everyone out, move!"

My brother's wife, who is in the bathroom.

My sister answering the phone that suddenly rang.

And what it remains of who I am...

My old father crying like a cat.

I bid him farewell

like a mother to her child.

Ah, Yade!

"Yade"

is Kurdish for "mother".

Yes, Havalo.

I always called him my son.

The bullets didn't want to kill us.

My tears prevented me from grasping...

all those pain and terror.

On legs made of wind, I ran.

A single look back would've killed me.

I saw mom fall down,

I didn't see her stand up.

Poor mama...

where was humanity on that day?

The road went into a curve,

for these words

to be written.

Like all expelled people throughout history,

we were collected into pickup trucks

and sent into the unknown.

Havalo,

I won't forget.

They killed my son, my mother, my brother!

Animals are eating the corpses!

They're burning the young men!

Worms are eating the wounded!

Nobody's left!

Mass graves! Full!

"Bashar, or we scotch the country!" they say!

Damn you, Bashar!

Abdou Addoumani was burned!

I was infected by you,

by your words: "Write, write."

I weep

and I listen, Havala.

And mother...

Yade

O mother!

"Pur zahmet."

"It was very difficult."

I am scared my pain might hurt you.

The Siege

"Roj Bash."

"Good morning."

Havalo...

Hows now, our burned homes now,

the stones,

everything is scattered,

the corpses left in the streets to memory,

and washed clothes waiting on lines.

All have left no heart in me.

Havalo...

"Homs the slaughtered,

May 9, 2012."

May 9,

the day of triumph over fascism.

I am homeless,

without a family.

All homes have become mine.

People who remains are now my family.

On every street, remains smile at me.

I don't know what madness this murdered city is leading me to.

Nor to what madness I lead her with my small camera.

If I didn't survive,

I'll leave all my footage to you.

You will survive, I'll leave for you, and you for me.

Survival is the strongest of life choices.

Meow

Are you in pain ?

Memory of the Body

In a random house,

I found a treasure.

In the house that lives in me now,

I found novel by Mosteghanemi.

I eagerly rode it again.

The experience of reading under shelling is... unique.

Is it "Memory of the Body"?

"Memory of the Body".

Havalo...

Do you like novels?

Do you like stories?

Did you sleep ?

The story,

it's me who walking and filming.

I realized that I was walking towards home,

in my quarter which is now in the occupied part of Homs.

I cannot help but see it.

There,

our home sees me...

while I filming it.

A lethal fear,

an overwhelming pleasure.

The war

and love.

Havalo, I was shot.

I film myself shot.

I film myself injured.

I am injured.

Translate me. What are you singing in Kurdish?

I am sweating.

I am back to filming.

What's the secret of this lens?

June

What's the camera's secret?

A soldier holds it

and starts ordering the officer.

Fuck him up, sir!

He leads him, directs him...

Controls his desire.

On the head, Sir!

Film it!

Simav,

Soon, I'm trying to start making

a film about this homeland of ours.

I want it to be yours and mine.

What do you say?

When Simav didn't answer me,

I was afraid, she'd gotten bored of me.

Since I left Syria,

I've become a coward.

I try to be courageous...

July

Havalo, I invented a school.

I film and I hide the footage for you.

Khaled, open the door.

Good morning, pretty ones!

Come on, laugh into my camera!

We're under siege, but nobody can besiege our brains, right?

"The Syrian people cannot be humiliated."

"Good morning", Rebels!

Sunday

Yassin and Mariam.

Monday

Mariam and Yassin.

Yassin, Mariam...

Wake up.

I need to show them some films.

What do you suggest?

Didn't the butterflies reach you from the siege of Homs?

Didn't birds chirp for you?

Today

It's one of my pupils.

Papa, my lovely papa...

There's no more room for flowers.

His father was recently martyred.

Another child said he committed blasphemy.

I held him in my lap.

"Where's your dad?"

"In heaven."

"Do you miss him?"

"Very much."

How are you, papa?

"Fine, son."

I miss you, I brought you the best of roses

to make you happy.

Ah, you burnt my hand, papa!

The soil is so hot here.

How can I tell a bird of heaven that he might go to heaven soon?

I'll put many flowers.

Don't tell me to stop.

What do you have to eat, papa? Tomatoes?

"Yes."

He gave me one, I ate it.

"Lord, Thee We Worship, Thee Alone We Seek For Help

Show Us The Straight Path..."

Damn flies!

Mama, look how deep this grave is

...and without flowers.

Heaven, heaven, heaven...

You are heaven, Our Homeland.

Good morning.

Such a wonderful morning!

I'll film you.

- Going to school? - Yes.

School of revolution or Assad's?

Revolution school.

School is at 11, it's 10 now.

Really? I didn't know!

What did I tell you, Hammoudi?

I woke up at 6!

Black

They attacked

At the school door, he shouted:

"Everybody, move out!"

- "What do you want?" - "Get the girls out!"

"Omar, too."

"The little blasphemist."

It was their Uncle.

He won't let them study anymore.

Especially as I am not veiled

and too outgoing for him.

Should I become a black cloud to be accepted

by those who try to veil even the siege of Homs?

Havalo, I won't accept!

Syria is a homeland to all Syrians,

even the sinners.

Syria is a mother

and a mother, it gathers.

Can you imagine I might be detained by rebels?

Will the revolution eat its own children?

Will I be condemned?

Will I die under torture?

In the basement of a militia leader?

I am a stranger.

You know what I filmed, at dawn?

My lamentations

during the early morning bombing.

Everything stirs in me a desire to leave.

Should I risk going through the tunnel?

Don't hesitate!

Imagine...

We seek for the sun of freedom

and die in the sewers of black reality.

I don't know if I'll leave the tunnel.

Where is the meaning of life?

In the Here?

Or in the There?

Simav, move faster than your fear!

You're a heroine.

Life loves you.

You are life.

I didn't sleep.

I was afraid.

I was afraid for Simav.

I was afraid,

I who am in Paris,

of having pushed her,

towards death.

I realized

that I was gladly pushing her to leave the siege,

so that she would become less heroic

and less courageous.

So she'd be closer to me.

So that we would meet.

I want to come out of the tunnel.

Havalo...

If you were told I fled,

would you have believed it?

How could I have betrayed our death and run away?

The Film

The siege sounded the alarm one last time.

Are they leaves?

They're so big!

That's true.

My God...

- Let's pick some. - Why?

For Mama.

She'll stuff them.

You mean vine leaves?

No, you can't stuff these.

They're bitter.

- They're what? - Bitter.

Not even if we wash them?

I am gasping behind images.

The soldier shoots his own "Ballad of a Soldier".

Tragedy of a Soldier.

He kills

when he doesn't like to.

He gets killed

when he doesn't like to.

Syrians have made

history's longest film.

1001 days.

History's longest funeral.

A hundred thousand lives...

And a life.

The Dar'a train has left.

I started uploading.

Look, there's a flower!

5%.

This way or that way?

Whichever, it's the same.

That way there's a sniper. Let's go there.

Is there a sniper there?

20%.

What you see

isn't as it was.

It seems like night, but there's light.

At night, there is no light at all.

70% uploaded.

- Here we run, there's a sniper. - Here?

Here we have to run?

I have to run with all these?

- I can run. - Just pray.

He's not shooting.

Hurry up!

The fear of all fears!

Did Omar arrive to you?

Havalo,

what is the color of life?

What is the color of life?

What is the color of life?

What is the taste of sand, Havalo?

What is the taste of sand?

What does the world look like?

What does the world look like,

outside the siege of Homs?

Outside the siege of Homs?

The fear of all fears.

We are dying every day,

The fear of all fears.

What is cinema?

We are dying with all the majesty of life.

What is beauty?

We are dying with all the majesty of life.

This is what life is like, here...

I search for time in time.

All the peoples I keep inside my chest...

I search for my time.

Who am I?

...are dying now, slowly.

Who is he time?

The 1000th night

I hope you're sleeping, breathing in your dream.

No, Havalo.

I fear sleep.

I dream of my body in pieces.

Where are you?

I am sitting inside a closet.

A child's closet.

A closet of siege.

A womb.

I miss my mother,

my father,

Syria.

Will I die?

Am I a coward?

You are a miracle.

Should I tell you about a dream I had?

In my dream,

I was walking in Homs, or somewhere which looks like it.

Walking in a jungle of curves, glass,

pieces of windows

and car doors.

Suddenly,

I saw a newborn child, naked,

left on the hood of a bus.

I carried him in my arms and walk on.

I met a veiled woman wearing black,

with her children.

She asked me why I was carrying the baby.

I answered that I'm searching for his parents.

She said he was her child.

Merry Christmas!

This day, a year ago, I received your first message.

I'll celebrate both anniversaries, Jesus and the Messiah.

It's our day.

We met each other a year ago, day to day.

Good morning

Good morning

"Bonjour"

How did you know I was online now?

How not?!

Teach me "human" in Kurdish.

"Mirov".

"Color"?

"Rang".

"Red":

"Sour".

Freedom

White...

to Omar

by Wiam Simav Bedirxan 1001 Syrians

and me

Subtitles: mos3n