“An engaging and feminist portrait of sisterhood in restrictive societies that shows that Ishaq has a bright future in narrative film”

“As men vanish into battlefields, women are left to hold society together”

Last year, Hasan Hadi’s The President’s Cake was a bit of a breakout succes out of the Cannes festival. It won the audience award in the Directors’ Fortnight, had a healthy festival run, and as Iraq’s submission to the Oscars it was tipped as a dark horse for a nomination (which ultimately didn’t come to fruition. For this year’s possible breakout we might need to go a little further down the Croisette, and look for Critics’ Week title The Station, directed by Sara Ishaq. A film with a similarly contained narrative, a socio-political angle, and a comparable tone. While occasionally a bit didactic, Ishaq casts a light on the role of women in Yemeni society through a fictional narrative that is a clear reflection of the volatile situation that has held the country in its grip for more than a decade.

A war between the (fictional) Maghawir and Sanadeed factions hold Yemen in its grip. Somewhere in this vast desert of violence is a small oasis of peace: the gas station run by Layal (Manal Al-Mulaiki). Behind its steel access gate, only women are allowed. Even then, it’s the kind of place where you leave your weapon in an oil drum at the gate. The only male figure is Layal’s younger brother Laith (Rashed Khaled), a young boy close to the age of 12, which means he has to go into military service. Layal wants to prevent this by paying the hefty fine, but strapped for money she is forced to contact her estranged sister Shams (Abeer Mohammed) to demand her part if the inheritance of a brother that died in the war. Shams runs a field clinic in Maghawir territory, while the safe haven of Layal and Laith, secretly Maghawir supporters, is in a area under Sanadeed control. Accompanied by a 13-year old assigned male chaperone, Ahmad (Saled Al-marshasi), Shams concocts a plan to reach her sister, because she has a confession to make: she spent the money already.

The cleverest trick Ishaq pulls is how she positions Layal’s safe haven in what surrounds it. For long stretches of the film it is as if the outside world doesn’t exist; the film rarely ventures outside the gate, and when it does it doesn’t go far. Only on a few occasions do we see that, yes, the world goes on beyond the gas station on the neighboring village. We sparingly hear or see the war, only about the deaths it has caused, which makes the film’s final scene amidst an enormous graveyard all the more powerful. The story is akin to a fable, also because outside Laith and later Achmed male figures, in particular adult ones, are rarely seen. When the fighters finally return to the village, we only hear them.

The Station doesn’t shy away from the harsh realities of the civil war it reflects though. Every woman in the film has lost a husband, a brother, a son. And for what? The film deliberately never makes that clear, and subtly hints that there is very little difference between the two fighting parties; the posters urging young boys to enlist are essentially the same, only differing in background color. The metaphor of Laith’s pet, a chameleon, is not lost. And even Layal and the other women display this similarity: while all the others are Sanadeed, Layal is secretly Maghawir. But is there really a difference between them? Behind Layal’s walls they are all just women, a sisterhood that enjoys certain freedoms from religious dogma while the men are away and nobody has an eye on them. The film frequently highlights the plight of these women is a strict Islamic society, having to conform to rules that are obviously enforced by men: covering up at all times, being deprived of contraceptives (though there’s a thriving black market), having to pop out baby after baby, seeing their sons taken away to fight on the front. Yet the absence of men offers a small reprieve from an otherwise dour life. If The Station makes anything clear it’s that for women the will to live freely can thrive when they stick together. Especially in times of war, when society depends on them while the men are off killing each other.

Ishaq packages this message in a technically sound film, with a good eye for composition and a lush cinematography (by Amine Berrada) that pops off the screen. By keeping the locations mostly confined to Layal’s home and its immediate surroundings, the effect of when we do venture further away can be disorienting (the first time we see Shams for instance, it’s unclear where exactly she is in relation to her sister), in particular because whether those other places are in either Maghawir or Sanadeed territory can only, and not always, be gathered from context. A set of fine performances by Al-Mulaiki and Mohammed keep engagement high though, and the gaggle of women that frequent Layal’s safe haven are all distinguishable not just by the writing but by the fun supporting cast. It’s not often that we get a look into Yemeni society on film, especially when there’s no Westerners involved in the story (Salmon Fishing in the Yemen this is not), so if anything The Station is a way to gain some understanding in its functioning. But even outside that goal, the film is an engaging and feminist portrait of sisterhood in restrictive societies that shows that Ishaq, so far only known for her documentary work, has a bright future in narrative film.