THE INTERNATIONAL SAHARA
FILM FESTIVAL

Annie Gibbs was invited to take the films from the Ragdoll Foundation’s ‘what makes me happy’ international initiative to the Sahara Film Festival….

This Festival is an initiative to bring film as an entertainment and cultural form to the thousands of Sahrawis whose community has lived for more than thirty years in relative isolation in the Algerian desert.. I had been invited to show my television series ‘what makes me happy’ to the Sahrawi children. This series uses short dramatised films to represent disadvantaged children from around the world, by capturing their positive spirit and resilience. Their response would be interesting and would be used within presentations to secure financing for the project.

I open my eyes and stare at the cockroach that is running past me and heading at amazing speed over to the corner of the room. The scared, weak, part of my personality is hoping it might not reappear, and that it hasn’t found a home in my clothes bag. The confident side tells me that they don’t like humans and are only looking for food. I repeat this over and over again as this one cockroach is now followed by another and another and another….. I don’t make a sound, although I quite wish to scream…but then, of course, that wouldn’t look good, that wouldn’t look brave, that wouldn’t look English. I am surprised how comfortable the floor feels and spend a few moments marvelling at the fact that yesterday I was in Hornton, and today I am in the middle of the Sahara Desert sleeping in a jaimas (tent). A tent structure made up with patchwork covering. I am here hoping to inspire local refugee children with viewings of the ‘what makes me happy’ television series.

I am living, courtesy of a local Sahrawi family, in a refugee camp in Tindouf, situated in the western region of Algeria near the occupied territories, one of the most inhospitable regions of the desert. The refugees are spread among four distinct camps or wilayas (provinces) and each has a population of between 45,000 and 50,000 inhabitants. The camps don’t have electricity, or portable water. They are a completely forgotten group of people and live in total isolation, with little contact with anyone from outside their territory. The world coverage of their plight is minimal, and most are unaware that they even exist.

In 1976 Spain withdrew from the territories of Western Sahara, allowing the military invasion “Green March” of the Sahrawi territory by the Moroccan kingdom. The Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic was consequently formed. War then commenced between the Polisario Front, the legitimate representative of the Sahrawi people, and Morocco. In 1991 this war reached a ceasefire. Thousands of Sahrawis since that year, who had left their land before the invasion crossed the border between Western Sahara and Algeria, and settled in the region of Tindouf “the desert of the desert”.

And here I am, half in and half out of my sleeping bag. Overcome with the intense heat – 40 degrees Celsius, watching a slight breeze blow the fabric hangings that are in front of the tent openings, and enjoying the coolness that blows across my body, but at the same time losing count of the number of cockroaches now running across the floor.

Yesterday…or maybe the day before…I left home and travelled to Heathrow where I boarded my flight to Madrid. After a ten hour wait at Madrid I flew on a charter flight to Tindouf taking a total of 4 hours and landing at a military airport in the early hours. This was followed with a bus journey lasting a further 5 hours, across the desert. Not the most comfortable of trips, but actually nothing to what I was going to experience on the homeward journey a few days later. On arrival at the refugee camp I realised with a jolt, that there was no one who spoke English. I was to spend the next 5 days in complete ignorance as to what was going on and with no offence to ‘sheep’ was going to learn how it felt to just follow. It is in fact quite a daunting prospect, when the communication tool is taken away…

However, in this refugee camp, Tea was the verbal currency…Our host was determined to make tea whether we wanted tea or not and at all times of the day, evening, night and morning, or whenever there was a lull in the proceedings, or indeed not, she would settle herself down in a cross legged position, in the top corner of the room and tea would be offered and no one would dare reject. Making the tea was an elaborate affair, as was the drinking of the tea. First a small charcoal burner would be brought into the room and a kettle placed on top. Our host would sit crossed legged smiling and going about the complicated task of tea making, but at the same time keeping her eye on her guests. Small glasses would be laid ceremoniously onto a metal table. Once the water/tea is hot enough it is poured, from an outstretched arm length held in the air, into the first glass and then poured from this glass into the second, then to the third and so on and back and forth between the glasses until a froth appears on the top…this in itself takes quite a few minutes….the glasses of tea covered in froth are then passed for us to drink and meanwhile a second cup is made under the same pouring procedure and ultimately a third. Apparently the first is bitter like life, the second cup sweet like love and the third peaceful like death….hmmm…gives me a few thoughts…eventually I was going to come to dread this strange sweet frothy tea. I survey the scene of numerous people sitting staring at me, and who were obviously wondering why this strange English lady couldn’t sit still and crossed legged, on their floor, and was smiling like a Cheshire cat…or rather sheep.

And so I was initiated into the refugee camp. Conversation flowed, although I understood none of it and the tea flowed….and more tea flowed. Quiet for a couple of hours, my incessant need to talk dragged me forward into conversations/charades and guessing games. I don’t think anyone understood anything I was saying, but enjoyed watching me falling about and remonstrating with my hands. I earned the nickname ‘London’, but I have no idea why! The room was full of smiles and laughter and once again, as I have so often discovered on my travels, the world really is made up with a majority of extremely nice and humane people.

For the next few days, I suffered the intense heat, walked across hot deep sand, which burnt through the soles of my shoes, talked with people who didn’t understand what I was saying, ate camel which would not be my preferred choice, lost my way on numerous occasions – the camp looked identical no matter which way you walked – climbed on board trucks and got motored out into the dunes for a pop concert…which came as a complete surprise… watched films late into the night on a huge screen, none of which I understood, mastered my fear of cockroaches, and wandered aimlessly like a sheep after anyone who seemed inclined to lead my way. In addition to the tea, which continued to come in threes, at all times, smiling became the main source of communication and by the night time my jaws would ache and I’d let my mouth drop into my normal scowl. Please no more tea.. not even to cheer me up.

In the afternoon in the Sahara everybody goes to sleep or remains motionless…except of course when there is tea on the go. There is no energy to move and the heat is extremely intense. What is so strange is that there are no sounds from outside…just the occasional goat bleat. No sound of children, no chatting from women at the water well, no crying from babies and no bird song at all. There is an absolute and haunting silence. The place becomes a living morgue. Within every jaimas is a huge family, but there is no sound. The quietness is quite disturbing.

I filmed the children enjoying four films from the ‘what makes me happy’ series – some of these children had never viewed a children’s film before – and I was transported into the joy of working and making films for children. To see row upon row of refugee child sitting laughing and smiling at the films was a huge pleasure for me and huge recompense for the work I do. Here were children who just saw endless stretches of sand and dunes laughing along with and enjoying the neighbourhoods and stories of children from Sir Lanka, United Kingdom, China and Palestine.

As I sat on the overheated and non air conditioned bus and bounced my way homeward across the desert, I marvelled at the fact that these people lived within this heat…how did they stand it day after day, this bleak never ending landscape? What would their future hold? .What did the past few days inspire in me? How was I going to cope with the intense heat of the bus? How were the Sahrawi people going to survive? What future was there for their children? Then just as I was wondering how to tolerate a bus which had now reached inhuman temperature, just as I was beginning to count down from 27 for the fifth time (yogic calming) there was a huge bang. The bus jolted to a halt. Oh no, I thought, terrorists…just what I had been warned about……
But no….it was a burst tyre and us bedraggled passengers, so overheated that our clothes were stuck to our bodies, disembarked onto the desert floor and suffering with the heat waited for a replacement coach to arrive…..How long would we end up waiting….how long could we end up waiting….thirst was beginning to take over….Tea…give me tea…..

I was hot, dusty, tired and oh so desperate to return to the comfort of the Midlands where we can enjoy green landscapes, mild weather, hear the birds, dogs barking, the sound of cows on the hill, where we can resume communication and oh yes of course ….

Tea

But only one frothless cup at a time!

Annie Gibbs