Nafura, Nafura

It was in 2020 that I first became interested in the Jeddah Fountain, a 312-meter-high water feature built right out in the sea in the 1980s. It’s a water jet considered to be the tallest in the world. I felt that this water jet, through its sheer scale and magnificence, could tell us something about power. A mad power of control over the territory, especially when you consider that more than 80% of Saudi Arabia is desert. And far beyond this engineering madness, I imagined—first through writing a poem—how control over water speaks to us of political control over bodies.

Once I arrived in Saudi Arabia, I realized that the Jeddah Water Fountain was, in fact, merely a starting point—and perhaps just a pretext. That this iconic water feature, visible and known to everyone in the city, was telling us other stories. I then set aside my poetic writing to focus on meeting people, wondering what Saudi youth might have to tell me about this fountain. I met the film’s actresses one winter evening on the Corniche, which is one of the few places for socializing. From the Corniche, you can see the water fountain—it was no coincidence. After several moments of discussion and experimentation, I proposed the scenario to them: a road trip by car, in search of the imaginary source of this water jet. There was a starting point and an ending point. Between the two, I invited them to engage in fictional discussion games that allowed them to tell their own stories.

In parallel with the characters’ journey in the film, I wanted to trace the path of water and shift the focus of my documentary approach elsewhere. There were no shots filmed underwater, but rather 3D re-enactments of aquatic scenes. I used photogrammetry to scan sections of streets, as well as ancient and industrial elements I encountered during my research in the city. The graffiti I photographed in the southern neighborhoods of the city, which were in the midst of destruction, reminded me of the poem I had written. I was documenting neighborhoods that were on the verge of disappearing. I also scanned the king’s abandoned palace in the city center—its immense reception halls, wide corridors, and the rooms of what had once been his harem. I then placed these elements within a setting of a water-submerged tunnel: this was the city’s hidden side coming into view, its untold stories full of unspoken truths, violence, but also a desire for freedom.

Yes, it’s a game I came up with together with the co-writer, Quentin Faucheux-Thurion. It starts out as a lighthearted game but turns into a serious one.

We worked for a year and a half with the film’s actresses on a project that the FID selection committee was able to discover and include in its program: a fictional film driven by its characters. Just a few days before the film’s premiere, the actresses became concerned for their safety. Two options were on the table: cancel the screening or anonymize the protagonists. I was determined to show this film so as not to give in to fear. I decided, in agreement with the FID, to showcase a stage of this process of anonymizing the characters. Rather than using blurring or dim lighting—which felt macabre to us—we played with lighting and overexposure to conceal the characters. After the festival, I will work on the final version of the film, in which the voices will be less robotic, more human, and the masks of light will flit about like fireflies.

In fact, it’s also a film about a city in the midst of radical change, one that tells the story of its aggressive urban development. It was the first time I’d encountered a city entirely shaped by oil—a city of major highway arteries where public spaces and gathering places are virtually nonexistent. The only meeting place for Saudi youth: the car. At one point in the film, I also wanted to document the southern neighborhoods of the city, which were undergoing major restructuring. An entire way of life, with its winding little alleys, was disappearing, and the authorities were drawing up a new, more grid-like plan to serve capitalism—and to allow for greater surveillance as well. The neighborhoods and new streets were even being renamed, causing a loss of bearings and identity.

The songs stem from our shared passion—mine and the film’s protagonists’—for Arabic music and language. The girls introduced me to Cairokee, an Egyptian band whose songs I’d suggest they sing during our road trips, and I, in turn, shared with them the melancholic trap music of Triplego, a band from Montreuil that sings in Darija and French. When I returned from filming, I got in touch with Triplego, who offered to let me use their song “Yamaha.” At the beginning of the track, the singer Sanguee repeats “f’el ma” several times, which means “with water.” I decided to use this music to accompany that aquatic journey.

I believe the film Nafura is more about Saudi youth than the status of women. A youth that is mistreated and abused more than anywhere else. That is why I decided to dedicate this film to my friend Doody, a young poet who helped me in the making of this film. Doody committed suicide a year ago because she was being persecuted, because she was facing imprisonment.