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선이정2025-10-03 14:21:35

[30th BIFF daily] A voice remaining through time

Interview with Sepideh Farsi, director of

May 2025, just before the opening of the Cannes film festival. More than 380 figures in film industry published a letter declaring "We cannot remain silent about the genocide unfolding in Gaza". Among the signatories were Hollywood actors like Susan Sarandon, Ralph Fiennes, and Mark Ruffalo, renowned directors including Pedro Almodóvar, and Jonathan Glazer, who had mentioned Gaza with trembling hands right after winning an Oscar for 〈The Zone of Interest〉. These names came together to honor one name: Fatima Hassona, a Palestinian photographer and journalist.

 

Fatima Hassona’s story is captured in the documentary 〈Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk〉, which had its world premiere in the ACID section at Cannes, and its Asian premiere at this year’s Busan International Film Festival. I met the film’s director, Sepideh Farsi, in Busan. She is Iranian, a woman who lived through revolution and imprisonment, and had to leave for France at the age of 18. She is also a close friend of Fatima Hassona.

 

I struggled with how much of this story to include—where to begin and where to end. But unusually, I decided to share everything I heard in this interview, just as it was told. It’s going to be a long read, but some stories must be simmered slowly, like medicine, and taken in gently, no matter how long they are. If your heart has been wounded by the horrors unfolding in Gaza, if you’ve ever felt helpless wondering what you could possibly do—then I hope you’ll read this.

 

세피데 파르시 감독

 

It’s such a pleasure to meet you here at the Busan International Film Festival. You had your first Q&A session with the audience yesterday—how did it feel?

It was great. The audience’s feedback was really strong and it was also a new experience for me to show the film to the Korean audience. Also, it was the Asian premiere so it does feel very special. The film has been going around the world a lot but this was the first time in Asia and in Korea.

 

I think the audience would feel closely connected, as Korea has also experienced deep historical pain.

That’s exactly what I felt. When I mentioned that in Q&A session— there are experiences of hardship, famine, and siege during World War II (under Japanese colonization). I'm sure people could relate to it very strong.

 

Still, the ending of this film was unpredictable. Of course, documentaries are unpredictable about its ending when starting it, but this film ended with a particularly difficult for everyone and especially for you. It wasn’t part of your original plan—so when you first began, how were you planning about the ending of this film?

Well, the film you see now apart from the very last minutes which I added afterwards was the one already it was ready. When Fatem—I call her Fatem like close friends— sent a video that she did to me, I know that I had the ending of the film.

I worked with Fatem for a year. We had video calls and became close very quickly as you see in the film. It was basically interviewing her while filming her, but it was rather our conversations than the interview. I knew that the main line of the film would be our conversations. Very quickly I started editing and the film emerged quite quickly.

It was early spring that I'd sent it for the Cannes. The film was there already when selection happened. I learned it, I told her, and following day she was killed—assassinated by the Israeli army—I'll tell you later how exactly we know that it was a target at that time. It was a target attack usually done similarly for other journalists in Lebanon and Palestine.

I was firstly very shocked and of course and I didn't expect it at all to be, but I thought that I would not change the film, that I would not change anything in the file. I left it as it was. Then I decided just before the Cannes screening—the world premiere— to add this little bit of our last conversation to the film.

 

The word "assassination" is not used lightly—it’s backed by a detailed investigation that it was not a random strike. But even before that, it’s important to acknowledge that the bombardment was so relentless and indiscriminate that dying from a “random” strike wouldn’t have been surprising either.

In 《Gaza Catastrophe: the Genoside in World》, Gilbert Achcar cites a New York Times article from November 25, 2023, describing the scale of the attacks: 15,000 airstrikes between October 7 and the declaration of a ceasefire. It’s not just the quantity—it’s the deliberate cruelty behind those numbers. If that number feels too abstract to grasp, consider this: look at what Fatem’s world had become.

Israel is using 2,000-pound bombs rarely seen since World War II, far larger than those typically used in modern urban warfare. As a result, Civilian casualties in Gaza within seven weeks are already two-thirds of those in the nine-month battle for Mosul. Strikingly, about 70% of the victims are women and children, a rate unmatched in recent wars.

 

The reason I say that it is an assassination, a targeted attack it that there was a study conducted by an NGO called 'Forensic Architecture', based in Goldsmiths University in London. They investigate the extrajudicial assassination in different countries and they've done a lot of work about Palestine and Gaza. They had access to some photos and videos of her house filmed from inside after the attack, and through the ballistic studies and 3D modeling, they concluded that it was a targeted attack.

They sent a drone and the drone dropped two missiles on the top of the building where she was living. The missiles were designed not to explode as they hit, but to go through three floors and to explode only on the second floor where she was living. They knew it would kill everybody. They knew it perfectly because the blast was so strong that the concrete column is curved and the floor was wiped, but the building itself is okay. Everybody died except her mother. It was not just a random bombing. They really planned it and they did it. It's so diabolic and I feel strange to describe such an act.

I don't know if it was just linked to her photography or the selection of the film. Even though her name was not announced for the protection. I was afraid and I thought we have to get her out, as we've discussed in the film.

 

Fatem was living in 2nd floor. (source: FA report, https://share.google/LAJxPYmphqVIqnDk2)

 

I’ve read several articles about the targeted killings of journalists, but I had vaguely imagined it as simply locating someone’s home and bombing it. That alone is terrible... but to calculate someone’s death with such precision—to design and execute technology that reflects such intent—is so terrifying that I found myself stunned, unable to think for a moment.

Does the people who carried out this operation know that they, with their own hands, have enacted "the banality of evil"? Why does history keep repeating itself in such monstrous forms?  People who once read the diary of a young woman who feared death “just for being Jewish” are now looking into the eyes of a woman who died “just for being born Palestinian in Gaza.”  And this horrific repetition is not the first time.

 

 

In the film, you mentioned that seeing her was like looking into a mirror. As an audience, I felt that too. You, unable to return to the place where you were born, and Fatem, unable to leave hers—it felt like a mirrored reflection. What was it like when you first met this mirror-like Fatem?

I can't explain it exactly but we really felt it in the first conversation. The conversation that opens the film is the very first one that we had together. It was not logical but I think it was more in terms of feelings that emotionally we knew immediately between us.

I know the feeling of being blocked. I was blocked in my own country. I was jailed when I was 16 for almost a year. Then I was blocked. I could not go back to school. I could not go to the university. I had to just sit at home and read books or so, and once a week I had to go to the revolutionary guards and sign up to say what I had done for a week until I was later able to leave the country at the age of 18 and a half. So, for more than 2 years, I was totally like a prisoner—first in prison and then at home.

It goes back to a long time ago and I can't compare it with what happens to Palestinians in Gaza, but I do have a notion of this; how it feels to be blocked. Also, I started with photography when I was 16. These helped a lot to relate to her and perhaps she felt that; that's why she opened to me.

 

The emotional connection between you and Fatem was clearly visible to the audience. Another mirrored aspect I felt was this: you, as the director, travel widely around the world through your films, yet those places are not shown much in the film—instead, we mostly see screens. On the other hand, Fatem lives in one of the most closed-off places in the world, Gaza, but through her photographs, she opens the streets and alleys to us. It felt like a reversed reality, like a mirror image. Through this film, it felt as though you were expanding and opening up Fatem’s world. Fatem often spoke about wanting to travel, mentioning places like amusement parks and Rome. If you could take her somewhere—beyond the places she mentioned—where would you want to go with her?

I really wanted her to come and see my places. Of course, Tehran is also one of the places but I myself cannot go back for now… but I wanted to go to Gaza. First of all, that was our common plan.

And yes, I would have loved to bring her to the festivals I was going to. The initial plan was Cannes but generally, I wanted her to see. I was also concerned that she might be shocked by the contrast, but this was part of life and... I was prepared to accompany her to face the outside world but never happened. 

 

 

It felt even more heartbreaking because it was so close. I see this film not only as a precious record of your relationship with Fatem, but also as the conversation and documentation of two artists about the madness of this era. And it's not the first madness that the humanity sees and experiences. Thinking about your life and experiences, I’d like to ask—on behalf of the next generation—do you still believe that society and history are moving toward something better?

Well, that's a hard question. When I arrived in France 41 years ago, it was kind of “free Europe” that was going away from all the authoritarian fascism of 30s and 40s. It was an opening world to many things. I certainly got welcomed in that Europe, in France namely but generally in Europe, and I could find a place in the society while remaining who I am—an Iranian woman.

But nowadays the space of freedom is shrinking. Europe is closing and the world also generally—I don't have much experience about Asian countries, and there's also cases like what happened in Korea last year; the resistance that Koreans did against the strange movement and the martial law. It was great that people realized how important it was to resist immediately and stood up quickly. This awareness is that we're lacking in many societies, such as in USA and Europe generally. I think the world is going towards a more protectionist and conservative stance, political stance and human stance both.

It's bad that we've never had so much access to technology, knowledge, and to so much richness and resources, yet they are not divided properly. The social gap is ever bigger. Some are even richer and many are getting poorer. Also, we have the genocides and the wars. Technologies is being used against the people, instead of being used for people.

I've lived most of my life in Europe, and the "European values" are something that I used to believe in but I think now it's very hollow and they're doing something different with what they were saying. This is very disappointing, and I think really it's time for people to wake up. Of course there are some people resisting, not quite a few, but in terms of governments and the leadership, we are very far from where we should be.

We should be responsive, for instance, against the genocide towards Palestinians in Gaza. This is totally inacceptable. But we see the opportunism and blindness from the politicians. It's the bad side of the politics—maybe politics has become a profession, a business or a career. Earlier for many decades or centuries, it was more like a matter of conviction and faith. I'm not saying that all were great people but there always were people who would show what they believe and what they fight for. Nowadays many working for their own careers and this is very disappointing.
  

While many politicians remain silent, we’re also seeing more voices from those in the culture industry. Recently, French actress Adèle Haenel joined a flotilla for Gaza, saying, “I could no longer bear doing nothing.” Some people, like her, take immediate action. But many others—though deeply disturbed by what’s happening in Gaza—not knowing what they can actually do. Some say even mentioning Gaza feels politically charged and makes it hard to act.

This is the problem. You see: we've been brought to believe that Palestine is an exception— it is NOT an exception. If—wherever in the world— you kill children, if you kill civilian and innocent people, if you kill journalists, it's a war crime. It doesn't matter who is. The law should be same for everybody. When Israelis do, it's because "they needed to do it", "they had to", for the "self defense". This is not true. That's not correct and this is the problem.

I think there has been a propaganda that has been imposed after the World War II and I understand that what happened there was a total horror and it had to be stopped and punished. But it's not that one genocide had happened so that we have to allow another one to make up for the first one. And it's even worse because we know it now and we see it live. It's streamed. People say that they don't know what to do, but I think there's always something you can find to do.

 

What would be, for example?

Well, finding NGOs working in Gaza, talking about Palestine, writing about Palestine, sharing news about Palestine, demanding that something need to be done about Palestine, rallies, protests, asking for the government to take stands... You know, it's not easy but I think it's doable for sure.  

Think of when Vietnam War was happening. It was not easy to stop it but people were fighting for a long time until the American government change the stance. Same for Apartheid in South Africa. It took decades but people from inside and outside were fighting together. It's also far but I remember clearly that people were fighting in Europe, too.

Civil right movement in America for the "Black Lives Matter", and "Women, Life, Freedom" in Iran... which had a lot of support—and requires a lot more. I don't see any difference with the case of Palestinians. I think we have to do the same thing.

 

 

I think imagining something beyond what we’ve always done can be difficult at first—but there are so many references in history we can draw from. With this heart, what keeps you going as an artist? Fatem once said she had a voice in her head telling her to “capture” with her camera. What is your motivation or inspiration for you?

Well, it's more like an obsession in my case. When I work on a project, at some point it takes over my mind and I have to take care of it or I get busy with it. So I get in this case.

The main reason was that I was very, very disturbed by the dominant narrative in the media. They talked about Palestinians as thought they were not human beings. They disregarded their rights, talking instead of them. They were not even interviewing Palestinian victims' families on how they were feeling about this. They were just assuming and other people were talking about them, instead of them. It became very disturbing to me. As an Iranian, I also know that, because it does happen to Iran, to Iranians. I mean Western media; they presume that they know what we feel and what we think. They talk instead of us. And this really got on top of my head and I needed to find out a personal answer for myself.

So, the idea of film started from a personal need, and then I needed to share it with the audience and that's usually how it works. It comes from my heart or my guts and then I share the results with the world.

 

You’ve shared a story the world truly needed to hear. That question and that heart have reached mine as well. Lastly, could you describe how Fatem was? I hope your description on her would stay with the audience.

First of all… every time I watch the file, I feel she's still alive—beyond life. It's hard for me say that she "was", because I feel she still "is" here somewhere watching us. She was a believer of God—I don't, but I respect her faith—, so I hope she's somewhere watching all that's happening.

And she is a solar, very solar person. When I think of her, I think of lights and illumination. She had such a force and energy in her—a lot of hope, energy and resilience. And the very particular eye: the way she photographed her country and her people is very particular, a mixture of something very rigorous and as intransigent but also very tender. She had these two things mixed in her works and her photography. She was also a great poet. She used to write and she shared quite a few texts with me. I really liked a lot.

I think she had so much to give to the world. She was curious and wanted to travel. She was open-minded. For instance, she believed in God and I said I was not, but I never felt she had kind of a negative reaction. She was very open and respectful and I felt the same way towards her. This was the beauty of our relationship.

She was a great and extraordinary person, and at the same time, a young woman—also a very ordinary one. She had desires like many other young women in her age. By the way, yesterday after the screening, there was a young Korean lady who asked me a question about what to do in Gaza told me that she was Fatem's age that she felt very impacted by what happened to her. Most of us are so lucky to be living the life that we are living, while the Palestinian youth are deprived from all their rights.

She was born in Gaza in 2000 and she was killed in Gaza in 2025. She never left that piece of land. All that she did, all that she learned—she gave to the world from that little room of Gaza as she used to call it in the big house of the world. This metaphor is from her text. I think we lost a great person.

 

 


I saw deep affection and sorrow in Director Farsi’s eyes as she spoke about who Fatem was.  It reminded me of the days, years ago, after watching the film 〈The Dream Song〉, a movie inspired by the Sewol Ferry tragedy, when I couldn’t sleep for a week.
 I’d lie down trying to get asleep, only to suddenly sit up in tears, thinking, “But my love is out there, in that sea—how can I go on living?” It was a time when I truly realized that some people have lived with that feeling for years. And that feeling returned as I looked into the eyes of Fatem and Director Farsi through
〈Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk〉.

I think of Fatem—someone I might have met that day, greeted with a bright smile, shared a conversation with. Someone I might have become friends with. Someone who already feels like a friend.

I imagine her walking through the alleys of Gaza, holding her camera as if holding a soul in her hands. I hear her voice—resonant, unwavering—wanting to send a message to the world. And I believe that writing and reading this article is, in itself, an echo in response to that voice.

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출처 . https://brunch.co.kr/@sunnyluvin/403

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