When Dishes Break, So Do Families: The Unspoken Tensions in *Hijamat*
There’s something profoundly unsettling about the sound of breaking dishes. It’s not just the noise—it’s the symbolism. Shattered plates, after all, are often metaphors for fractured relationships, unspoken resentments, and the fragility of familial bonds. In Nader Saeivar’s Hijamat, edited by the inimitable Jafar Panahi, this metaphor becomes a haunting reality. Personally, I think what makes this film particularly fascinating is how it uses the mundane—a broken dish, a family dinner gone wrong—to explore the seismic shifts that occur when long-held secrets are exposed.
A Family on the Brink: When Tradition Collides with Truth
At its core, Hijamat is about a deeply religious Muslim family in Berlin grappling with their son Kerem’s secret relationship with a man. What many people don’t realize is how universal this story is, despite its specific cultural context. It’s not just about Islam or homosexuality—it’s about the tension between tradition and individuality, between duty to family and duty to oneself. From my perspective, the brilliance of Saeivar’s storytelling lies in its ability to make this conflict feel both intimate and monumental.
One thing that immediately stands out is the character of Murad, Kerem’s brother, played by Kida Khodr Ramadan. Murad is the bridge between two worlds: the traditional expectations of his family and the modern realities of his brother’s life. What this really suggests is that the struggle isn’t just Kerem’s—it’s everyone’s. Murad’s internal conflict is a microcosm of broader societal pressures, and it’s a detail that I find especially interesting. If you take a step back and think about it, Murad’s dilemma is a reflection of how many of us navigate our roles as mediators in our own families.
The Power of Silence and Secrets
What makes Hijamat so compelling is its exploration of silence. The film doesn’t just focus on what’s said—it’s equally interested in what’s left unsaid. The exclusive clips released by THR are a masterclass in this. In one scene, Murad confronts his father, Ibrahim, and the tension is palpable. No one raises their voice, but the air feels heavy with unspoken accusations and disappointments. This raises a deeper question: How much damage can silence do?
In my opinion, the film’s greatest strength is its refusal to take sides. It doesn’t villainize the family for their traditional views, nor does it romanticize Kerem’s struggle. Instead, it presents a complex web of emotions and motivations. What this really suggests is that there are no easy answers when it comes to identity, faith, and family.
A Global Conversation in a Berlin Living Room
What’s particularly striking about Hijamat is its ability to feel both hyper-specific and universally relatable. The setting—a Muslim family in Berlin—grounds the story in a particular cultural context, but the themes transcend borders. Personally, I think this is where the film’s true power lies. It’s not just a story about one family; it’s a mirror held up to society’s struggles with acceptance, change, and love.
One thing that’s often misunderstood about films like this is their purpose. It’s not just to provoke or to preach—it’s to invite reflection. Hijamat doesn’t offer solutions, but it does ask important questions. What does it mean to be true to oneself while honoring one’s family? How do we reconcile our personal desires with societal expectations? These are questions that resonate far beyond the screen.
The Future of Storytelling: Saeivar and Panahi’s Collaboration
The collaboration between Nader Saeivar and Jafar Panahi is a match made in cinematic heaven. Saeivar’s raw, unflinching storytelling combined with Panahi’s meticulous editing creates a film that feels both visceral and thoughtful. What makes this particularly fascinating is how their previous work, It Was Just An Accident, set the stage for Hijamat. Both films explore the ripple effects of unexpected events, but Hijamat feels more personal, more intimate.
From my perspective, this film is a testament to the power of collaboration. It’s not just about two talented individuals coming together—it’s about two distinct voices merging to create something greater than the sum of its parts. If you take a step back and think about it, this is what cinema should aspire to: a space where diverse perspectives collide to create art that challenges, moves, and inspires.
Final Thoughts: When the Dust Settles
As I reflect on Hijamat, I’m struck by its ability to capture the fragility of human connections. The breaking dishes aren’t just a plot device—they’re a metaphor for the cracks that form when we’re forced to confront uncomfortable truths. What this really suggests is that healing, if it comes at all, will be slow and painful.
In my opinion, Hijamat is more than a film—it’s a conversation starter. It’s a reminder that families, like dishes, can break under pressure. But it’s also a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. Personally, I think that’s what makes it so powerful. It doesn’t offer easy answers, but it does invite us to think, to feel, and to question. And in a world that often demands certainty, that’s a rare and precious gift.
