KUFIYA

In just five minutes, "Kufiya," directed by Shahd Shahroor, unearths the complex tangle of identity, prejudice, and quiet resilience that exists in everyday public spaces. But this isn’t a film about confrontation in the traditional sense—it’s about presence. About what it means to be somewhere, visible and unapologetic, while the world tries to shrink you into silence.

Set against the hushed backdrop of a deserted night-time bus stop, Kufiya opens with a portrait of stillness. Shams, played with gentle gravity by Mariam Albishah, is reading—silent, composed, wearing a keffiyeh with neither defiance nor display. It’s part of her. It is this stillness, this self-contained dignity, that invites intrusion.

When another woman enters the frame—hurried, flustered, loud—something shifts. Played with unnerving realism by Kelly Wehrer, the character's tension is less about lateness than it is about displacement. She doesn’t belong in this still moment, and she knows it. So she asserts control. But the keffiyeh becomes her target, a symbol she’s been conditioned to fear, and so she lashes out—not with curiosity or concern, but accusation masquerading as casual commentary.

What unfolds next isn’t a shouting match. It’s far more uncomfortable than that. Shahroor’s strength lies in restraint: she doesn’t choreograph the encounter for maximum drama but instead lets it unravel with the awkward cadence of real life. Words are exchanged, but they’re not just words—they’re echoes of history, misunderstanding, colonisation, and inherited bias.

Shams doesn’t win the argument—because there is no argument to win. Instead, she reclaims the space that was always hers. Her response isn’t loud or performative; it is steady, measured, and deeply felt. When she speaks of her family, her land, and her right to simply exist as she is, Kufiya becomes something rare: a film that honours not just the political implications of identity, but the emotional labour of carrying it through hostile spaces.

Visually, the film leans into minimalism—dim streetlights, a static and isolated bus stop, shadows playing across skin and fabric. It’s in this austerity that the film finds its power. There’s nowhere to hide. Every word counts. Every pause is a confrontation. Every silence says, “You were not supposed to see this, but here it is.”

"Kufiya" doesn't ask for empathy—it demands recognition. And that’s what makes it so quietly devastating. In a world obsessed with binaries and binaries alone—right/wrong, good/evil, peaceful/violent—this short film dares to depict the uncomfortable grey: a young woman’s dignity pitted against an everyday entitlement that wears the mask of moral authority.

Some films roar. Kufiya listens, watches, waits—then pierces.