Dr Sophy Lasuh Kesiezie
I had just five days at Berlinale—a short window to explore one of the world’s biggest film festivals in Berlin, Germany. With so much to see, I needed a plan. As I browsed the festival’s website for screenings, one title caught my eye: Stories from Igloolik. At that moment, I knew exactly what kind of films I wanted to follow—Indigenous cinema.
That decision set me on an unexpected journey through the fractured remnants of history. The venue, a place called HAU, lay beyond the jagged edges of the Berlin Wall in a city still carrying the weight of its past. Snow crunched under my feet as I struggled to find my way, flipping a physical map like an artefact from another time. Google Maps had made me helpless, and without wi-fi, I was left to the unreliable instincts of a first-time traveller. Precious time slipped away as my friend and I wandered in circles, our fingers stiff from the cold. Eventually, we gave in and called an Uber from a public wi-fi, which disappeared if we moved two steps away from where we received the signal. When we finally arrived at HAU 2—breathless and late—the doorkeepers mercifully let us in.
We rushed inside and hurried up the stairs, anxious not to miss any more of the screening. That was when I saw it—a poster on the wall, bold against the pale surroundings: Listen Courageously. The words seemed to pulse with urgency as if offering a quiet instruction. There was no time to stop, but something about it stayed with me as if it had been placed there for this moment.
But before stepping into the screening hall, there was a ritual. Coats, caps, mufflers—every extra layer had to be shed. “So as not to disturb the audience,” we were told. It seemed like a simple courtesy, but as I hurried to my seat, I realised it was more than that.
The Berlinale Talents session, featuring the acclaimed Inuit filmmaker Zacharius Kunuk, was in progress. As the moderator probed into his cinema, their words mirrored the moment I had just lived. They talked about stripping away—removing the layers imposed by colonial history, a new religion, and returning to what was underneath. They spoke of land, language, memory, and the slow, deliberate act of reclaiming what had always belonged.
And there I sat, still feeling the cold against my skin, as if I had been peeled back—exposed just enough to listen and understand.
During the session, selected scenes from his films were screened, each followed by his reflections on the scene and the film itself. Through this, I began to understand his filmography—a body of storytelling deeply rooted in his origins. I learned he was from Igloolik, a filmmaker who redefined ethnographic cinema in Canada and pioneered the Inuit use of broadcast technology through Isuma TV.
But the heart of his filmmaking became visible during the Q&A session. This was where his vision took shape—not just through the films he made but also how he spoke about them. A few audience members offered opinions instead of questions, but others asked what I had been wondering. One question, in particular, stood out: “Is there an expectation from the non-Indigenous society about how Indigenous films should look?”
He nodded as if he had heard this before. The expectations were always there—unspoken but present. The idea is that Indigenous cinema should look a certain way, follow a particular aesthetic, or conform to an outsider’s perception of authenticity. But his films weren’t made to fit those assumptions; they existed on their terms.
That resistance to being boxed-in extended beyond style and into language itself. His response carried pride and sorrow when asked whether the language spoken in his films was still in use. “Not many speak it anymore,” he admitted. Some words were nearly impossible to translate because they had faded from daily life. Language, he explained, wasn’t just about words—it was about meaning.
“Translation fails to convey the real meaning of spoken words,” he said. His filmmaking was an act of preservation, a way to keep something alive that might otherwise be lost.
His rejection of imposed expectations was evident in his casting choices as well. “I don’t want to cast look-alikes,” he said. “Or have people who just look like us do the role.” There was a quiet defiance in his voice, a refusal to let representation be reduced to something merely visual. His films had to be lived, not just performed. The expectation that Indigenous actors should “fit the part” visually was another imposed standard he wanted nothing to do with.
At one point, he referenced John Wayne, surprising many in the room. “I love those films,” he said, “…but we want to tell stories our way.” The statement was simple but powerful. Hollywood had spent decades dictating how Indigenous people were portrayed on screen—often from an outsider’s perspective, shaping narratives that rarely belonged to them. Now, he is reclaiming that power, reshaping and reinterpreting history through his cinematic lens.
Even the logistics of filmmaking were shaped by this refusal to conform. He spoke about how seasons dictated the rhythm of production. “Summer is easy on the filmmakers,” he noted, acknowledging the harsh realities of Arctic conditions. Then he added, almost as a statement of purpose, “I stick to my region.” It wasn’t just about practicality—it was about place, about anchoring stories in the land they came from. Filming elsewhere would tell a different story altogether.
The conversation deepened. Someone in the audience asked about a death ritual scene involving shamanism, questioning the accuracy of its portrayal. The tension was familiar—the same unspoken demand that Indigenous cinema prove itself, justify its choices and defend its authenticity. It is tied back to the same central tension: who decides what an Indigenous film should be? His answer was unwavering. “One hundred years from now, when we are six feet in the ground, the children will be studying these archives, so it is important to get these right.” His films were not just for the present; they were made with the future in mind. “I speak to my elders and get their approval. If they approve, I go ahead with it.” This was a rejection of outside expectations—his work was accountable to his people first, not to the industry, not to festival audiences, and certainly not to outsiders who wanted a particular kind of Indigenous story.
He was archiving through cinema, capturing a world that might otherwise fade, preserving not just images but ways of being, speaking, and knowing. Sitting there, I realised his films weren’t just stories. They were records, arguments, and testimonies—a way of ensuring that, even as time pulled his people forward, something of their past—their voices, their rituals, their way of seeing the world—would remain intact.
As I listened, I couldn’t help but think about my Indigenous society. The weight of history, the erasure of language, and the fight to preserve identity weren’t just his battles. They were ours, too.
In our Naga community, storytelling has always been oral. Our history, our myths, our way of understanding the world—they were never meant to be confined to ink and paper. But like his people, we are losing speakers of our language. There are words I have heard only from my elders, so deeply rooted in place and time that they resist translation. When they pass, will those words pass with them?
And then there is the question of how we are seen—and, more importantly, how we see ourselves. Too often, Indigenous films are expected to look a certain way: either burdened with nostalgia or dressed in the aesthetics of ‘the naked Nagas’. Festivals, critics, and audiences sometimes want Indigenous cinema to serve as a document of loss rather than a living, evolving expression. And so we are caught between two pressures—the need to represent ourselves truthfully and the expectation to fit into a mould that was never ours to begin with.
The words of Zacharius Kunukat the Berlinale echoed my frustrations. In our community, casting is often shaped by an external gaze—by the assumption that our faces must match a specific “authentic” image. But like him, I wonder: Shouldn’t the focus be on the people who live these stories rather than those who merely look the part?
And then there is the question of place. He sticks to his region; our stories are tied to our land. Our landscapes, seasons, and way of moving through the world shape the rhythm of our storytelling. But how often do we see films that truly reflect this? How do filmmakers from our communities usually feel pressured to set their stories elsewhere, to make them more “universal” in a way that dilutes their essence?
Most of all, his words about archives stayed with me. One hundred years from now, what will remain of us? What will our future generations watch, read, and remember? Will they see themselves reflected, or will they inherit only fragments? His insistence on consulting elders before filming resonated deeply. If our traditions, rituals, and ways of being are to be recorded, shouldn’t they be done with the guidance of those who still hold that knowledge? Shouldn’t they be done right?
As I walked out of the hall that evening, I passed the same poster I had crossed on my way in: Listen Courageously.
I had listened. Before I left Berlin, I sat in a darkened theatre again at the long-awaited fourth screening of Zacharius Kunuk’s Uiksaringitara – Wrong Husband. But that, too, is a story of its own.
Now, I carry a question: What kind of cinema will we leave behind?
This reflection comes from my time at Berlinale, an experience made possible through the support of the Ministry of Information & Broadcasting, National Film Development Corporation, DIPR, and the Film Association of Nagaland. I remain deeply thankful for the opportunity to witness, learn, and question—an experience that will continue to shape how I see cinema.
*Zacharias Kunuk’s debut feature, Atanarjuat (The Fast Runner), won the Camera d’Or at Cannes, six Genie Awards, and was ranked the No.1 Canadian film by TIFF in 2015.
