Abstract
This article explores Nadine Labaki’s movie Capernaum and its depiction of human suffering in Lebanon, especially of children, thus placing it at the intersection of the human rights discourse and film studies. Utilising contextualised sequence analyses, it is argued that the movie uses the premise of having a boy sue his parents for giving him life, knowing their living conditions, as a metaphor and framing device by which a light is shined on the inequalities connected to a life lived in poverty. The use of differing localities, the contrast of two mothers, as well as the depiction of the kafala system’s repercussions on the individuals involved are shown as various avenues in which human rights are violated despite the characters’ best intentions. The director’s activist mindset is argued to influence this presentation in a number of ways, among them the cinematographic style that borrows from documentaries as well as its scope, which makes it suitable to being included on the film festival circuit and thus reaching a bigger audience.
Contribution: This article thus contributes a novel approach to exploring the depiction of human rights and their violations on-screen by considering both narrative and visual devices, funding and director’s intents, as well as the larger cinematic context in which the respective work of art lies.
Keywords: Lebanese cinema; cinema studies; human rights; Nadine Labaki; Capernaum; Middle Eastern studies; French co-production; popular culture; children’s rights.
Introduction
The article explores the intersection between the human rights discourse and cinematic productions by analysing the movie Capernaum (كفرناحوم [Transliterated: Capharnaüm, English title: Capernaum] 2018) by Nadine Labaki, in which a boy sues his parents for having given him life despite him never asking for it.
Asked about her inspiration for this movie, Labaki pointed to Alan Kurdi, the boy pictured on the shores of Turkey in the photograph that went viral at the height of the refugee crisis in Europe and posed the question of what he would have had to tell us, what his thoughts would have been (Nadine Labaki Talks The Inspiration Behind Capernaum 2018). Expanding her reasoning, she draws a direct line between having to work as a child and being deprived of one’s most basic rights, as she puts it. In the film, the question of children’s rights in the light of a life lived in poverty is presented through the prisms of the plight of refugees, being stateless and gender-specific violence.
This analysis revolves around the movie’s implicit discussion of the Convention on the Rights of the Child (United Nations 1990), to which Lebanon is a signatory state, having ratified it in 1990. Over the course of its expansive 127 minutes, it touches on various human rights, especially with regard to children. The lawsuit framing the movie’s narrative can be understood as a creative take on Article 12 of the Convention on the Rights of the Child (United Nations 1990), which states that a child is to be heard in any judicial matter concerning him or her. It remains deliberately unclear under which section of the Lebanese penal code the parents of Zain appear in front of the judge, adding to the ephemeral nature of the court hearing that will be expanded on later.
In addition, provisions made in the Arab Charter on Human Rights (UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights and League of Arab States 2004) are also of interest to the analysis where they pertain to children’s human rights.1 This especially in comparison to the Convention on the Rights of the Child and the states’ obligations stated therein, where Allam argues that when contrasted with the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (United Nations 1966a) as well as the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (United Nations 1966b), which are evident influences on the document, the authors of the Arab Charter appeared to strive towards ‘minimizing the respective States’ obligations towards their citizens and inhabitants’ (Allam 2014:43).
Further, Article 25 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (United Nations 1948) is relevant to the analysis, as it raises the importance of ensuring a standard of living:
[…] [A]dequate for the health and well-being of himself and of his family, including food, clothing, housing and medical care and necessary social services, and the right to security in the event of unemployment, sickness, disability, widowhood, old age or other lack of livelihood in circumstances beyond his control. (United Nations 1948:art. 25)
Finally, to a lesser degree, Article 7 of the Cairo Declaration on Human Rights in Islam (Organisation of Islamic Cooperation 1990) forms part of the analysis, being the only article therein stating the rights – and responsibilities – of children.
The implicit question of responsibility is explored in a number of sequences, oscillating between the role of the parents, of society and of the state itself in ensuring that children enjoy these very rights. This article contends that these questions are interwoven and condensed into the imaginary lawsuit presented at the very beginning of the movie. The movie appears to lend these disadvantaged children its voice via two channels: firstly, if understood as an activist’s work, via its global dissemination, use of untrained actors and actresses as well as its style, which is reminiscent of documentaries, hopefully prompting the viewers to take action in some shape or form. Secondly, the movie utilises the aesthetical dimension to underscore this, which is achieved via conventional stylistic devices such as the localities used, the characterisation of foils, as well as employing satire.
Research methods and design
The article explores the discussion of human rights in Nadine Labaki’s Capernaum by combining close readings of specific sequences as recommended by Korte (2010) with Hesford’s conceptualisation of ‘intercontextual analyses’ (Hesford 2011:32). Korte uses the contexts in which the film in question was produced, released and received by critics in addition to the film’s contents in order to evaluate its messages, making it a suitable tool for historically contextualised analysis of film material. The focus on specific sequences in which these contexts are intertwined helps in elucidating the arguments. Hesford’s intercontextual analyses, on the other hand, stress the importance of tracing arguments and images across borders, thus highlighting the international nature of film production and aiding in elaborating specific arguments pertaining to the interplay between local and non-local audiences that will be made in the article. Thus, the general contexts of the depiction of human rights on-screen, the development of a Lebanese cinema and the director’s oeuvre will first be examined before moving on to an in-depth discussion of the production at the heart of this article.
Human rights in cinema
While the human rights discourse is well studied from multiple angles, there exists a research gap between that discourse and the visuals accompanying it, as Hesford highlights (Hesford 2011:11–12). This is despite the fact that human rights are discussed frequently and intensively on-screen, be it in documentaries or fictional film productions. While still understudied, human rights in documentaries are comparatively often subject to research (Torchin 2012), especially in conjunction with other formats of media used by human rights activists, which borrow methods from each other, blurring the distinctions (McLagan 2003). However, there exists a veritable dearth of academic enquiries into the intersection between human rights and fictional film, even though, as Loader notes, some productions can be counted among the venues through which society is held accountable, especially as it pertains to human rights (Loader 2023:1). This relegates the viewer from a position of a seemingly passive spectatorship, instead moving towards the concept of ‘witnessing public’ as developed by Nash (2018) based on Torchin (2012). Both argue that with ‘human rights films’, the viewer is to be prompted to firstly, identify with the suffering presented, and secondly, to take action towards contributing to ending it.2
The question of the audience for whom the movie is intended thus gains importance because entertainment is no longer the main aim of the production, sharing the spotlight with an encouragement bordering on activism. As will be demonstrated next, this is especially salient for Lebanese productions, which traditionally depend on international funding and in turn incorporate stylistic devices catering to Western audiences and their preferences (Mouawad 2020). It thus becomes necessary to strike a balance between the artistic choices expected to perform well at film festivals, where most of the films in question have their international debut and the authenticity and relevance required by local audiences to ensure a domestic success.
This interaction between a non-local audience and the respective movies’ contents stands to debate especially in a Middle Eastern context, where the discussion of individual human rights in film has been extensively studied from a different perspective. Forming part of a small slice of film studies with a world cinema focus, they most often discuss the question of refugee rights and internally displaced persons, women’s rights or an intersectional combination thereof (Gertz & Khleifi 2008; Khatib 2008, 2011; Telmissany 2010). It is therefore necessary to foreground inquiries into a movie’s funding sources and intended audience, especially when it comes to films focussing on topics that prompt the viewer to engage with its contents and their implications for the real world.
For Capernaum, this paints a different trajectory: Initially produced only using the funds provided by the director’s husband, Mouzanar (cf. Dercksen 2019), later on the filmmakers of Capernaum did come to rely on small sums of international funding provided by institutes such as the Doha Film Institute (cf. Asfour 2019). The International Movie Database lists a mixture of Lebanese production firms associated with the movie on the one hand and some American, Qatari, French and British ones, on the other, including one company from Lebanon and one from Great Britain acting as executive producers (Capernaum (2018) – Company credits – IMDb n.d.). The film’s initial funding through private means was presented by Mouzanar as a way of making a movie that was not beholden to traditional production company’s structures and operational schedules (Dercksen 2019). In addition, this approach enabled Labaki to employ documentary style filming techniques in her initial collection of materials, drawing from her cast members’ lived experiences and having them express their own feelings as part of the movie instead of imposing a script on them. While she concedes that this is in part because of her casting non-professional actors, it also adds to the movie’s documentary tendencies in that it aims to capture reality rather than fiction (Reed 2018). This resulted in an expansive 500 h long archive of material, which first was formed into a 12 h initial draft and then was whittled down to standard feature film length precisely so it could be submitted to film festivals (Dercksen 2019). This points to considerations of a delicate balance between the initial wish for producing a movie that brings the precariousness of life for some parts of Lebanese society to the screens, which can be understood as the activist perspective, as well as the creative outlook and the demands of making it appeal to an international audience in the context of film festivals.
Rather than ascribing the latter to a mere question of funding, as could be the case for other film productions, the concessions made in that regard can be considered conducive to the activist aim of the film, which is to reach as wide an audience as possible with its depiction of human suffering, especially by using untrained actors from the milieus shown. This also has implications for Labaki herself, who in this case takes on a double role between being a director on the one hand and an activist on the other – the consequences of which will be discussed over the course of the article. The movie’s style, casting choices, funding and orientation towards the film festival circuit, thus all further contribute to the movie’s main point. While the lawsuit acts as a vehicle lending the disadvantaged children a voice within the narrative, the factors listed above do the same in the real world.
Lebanese cinema: An overview
The Lebanese cinema industry has witnessed a strong revival in the past decades. Prior to the Lebanese Civil War, mostly foreign productions were screened in the country, with few local films shown in the cinemas. However, it would be a mistake to correlate the importance of cinema for the local culture with the mere number of films produced in the country, especially in Lebanon, as Elsaket et al. highlight (Elsaket, Biltereyst & Meers 2023:15). As Khatib writes in her seminal work on Lebanese film, cinema remains one arena in which the national history of Lebanon is discussed and reassessed, making it, in her words, a ‘reconciliatory space’ (Khatib 2008:XV–XVI). According to her, while up to the civil war, few productions of note were released, after the civil war, hardly any films premiered that did not touch on it or its aftermath in some way, shape or form (Khatib 2008). White argues that Nadine Labaki’s first film, Caramel, can be understood as the first feature that explores questions related to national identity and gender without immediately resorting to explanations connected to the civil war (White 2015:128).
Already starting in the 1990s with the appearance of filmmakers such as Ziad Doueiri, ground-breaking productions charting the Lebanese experience on screen became more and more common, in part also because of an improvement in production quality and distribution networks that were severely lacking in quality during the war (Khatib 2008:25). Owing to the small domestic market, some scholars attest an orientation outwards, that is, towards the international film festival circuit and market, to these new Lebanese productions, which is noticeable in their use of ‘Western aesthetic’ and resources while marrying them to ‘authentic’ Lebanese dialogue and humour (Tarraf 2020). Similarly, following Mouawad, recent productions most often benefit from a cooperation with France, making Lebanese cinema highly dependent on international funding (Mouawad 2020). While this dependence does improve the conditions under which the films are produced, international funding – especially French funding – is often awarded under the condition that a certain percentage of dialogue be in French, making it necessary to get creative with how to fulfil this requirement in an authentic manner (Khatib 2011:142–143). It also has an influence on the visual language used in the films, orienting them towards auteur movies European audiences have come to associate with ‘world cinema’ (Khatib 2011:142–143).
Nadine Labaki’s oeuvre
Having started out as a director of music videos3, Nadine Labaki’s first feature-length movie Caramel (سكر بنات [Transliterated: Sukkar Banat, English title: Caramel] 2007) already focused on sensitive topics revolving around women’s lives and women’s rights. Presenting a complex story arc from the onset by incorporating several story lines in this directorial debut, it subtly raised questions on lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer (LGBTQ)-interactions in Lebanon, as well as the premium placed on women’s virginity and the difficulty of interreligious relationships. The latter topic becomes a recurring motif in her work, with her second feature film Et maintenant on va où? (وهلأ لوين؟ [Transliterated: Wehalla2 Lawein, French title: Et maintenant on va où?] 2011) intersecting the questions of interreligious sensitivities and hostilities with a forbidden romance against the backdrop of the Lebanese Civil War (1975–1990). Finally, the topics in her third movie Capernaum (كفرناحوم [Transliterated: Capharnaüm, English title: Capernaum] 2018) run the gamut between migrant’s rights, women’s and children’s rights, as well as touching on the relationship between being able to enjoy these rights and living in abject poverty, having no recognition by the state and being subject to oppressive, illegal or arbitrary practices. In an interview, she has stated that this was the intellectual departing point for the development of the movie, presenting it as a vehicle by which she wanted to explore these highly relevant topics (Cooke 2019) and prompted by an emotional response to seeing the viral photograph of Alan Kurdi (Nadine Labaki Talks The Inspiration Behind Capernaum 2018). Jarjoura highlights the cinematographic quality of Labaki’s work, pointing to her usage of techniques and stylistic devices that are quite removed from the commercial work she has performed while directing video clips (Jarjoura 2014:219).
The development of Labaki’s movies can be plotted on a trajectory where the Lebanese context becomes more and more obvious and central to the respective story lines. As White argues, in Caramel, the national context only seems irrelevant: Instead, it runs through the respective characterisations, commenting on the specific group identities dividing the country by incorporating subtle hints within the characters’ story arcs (White 2015:124–125). In Et maintenant on va où?, the country’s recent history is foregrounded in a way that is diametrically different to Caramel – in the newer production, it is primarily the question of sectarianism and religious divisions that is pitted against women’s rights, instead of the latter being explored against the lens of religious conservatism and traditions; the recent civil war is only detectable in traces and hints. In both movies, however, traditionally female coded spheres – in Caramel, the beauty salon; in Et maintenant on va où?, clothing and fashion – are presented as prisms through which larger social issues are refracted and commented on, often satirically. In Capernaum, this perspective is finally integrated into an all-encompassing story, whereby gender-specific injustice is presented as intimately connected to poverty, children’s neglect to lack of resources and (illegal) migrants’ plight to a simultaneous failure of oversight by the state and, at the same time, fear of the latter enforcing its laws. While its narrative is strongly rooted in the Lebanese context, it can easily be transported to other regions in which children live in abject poverty, adding to its global appeal.
Her work as a director thus far always includes thought-provoking premises on specific human rights and all the ways in which these fall short in reality, with the characters being subject to unequal circumstances and life situations.
Results and discussion
Localities and poverty in Capernaum
The following section will explore several sequences highlighting the ways in which the characters fall short of enjoying the full spectrum of human rights. Framed by the first sequences in the movie, in which a child is heard in court, having sued his parents for giving him life, the viewer is primed to watch the remainder of the movie while primarily considering the child’s perspective. Thus, a stylistic device common in works of art is used as a creative take on Article 12 of the Convention on the Rights of the Child: The framing forefronts children’s voices and their right to express themselves in any case and situation pertaining to them while interrogating whether they are, in fact, able to enjoy their human rights considering their living conditions. This leaves the viewer to reflect on the question of culpability: Is society, the state, the respective parents, or simple poverty to blame for that shortcoming? This multilayered nature is already evident in the movie’s title, which the director states is taken from the French meaning associated with the biblical village, in which context it has come to mean chaos or confusion (Reed 2018). However, the original Hebrew has a more positive meaning, as the roots used in it can be translated as ‘village of comfort’ or ‘village of consolation’. This dichotomy between chaos and comfort, confusion and consolation, reverberates throughout the movie, leading to a lightening of its depressing premise.
The first way in which this is achieved is through the presentation of differing localities. In Capernaum, the precarious living conditions of the main characters are reflected not only in the depiction of their living quarters but also find expression throughout the movie in all environments in which they are depicted, to the exception of the courtroom itself.
In the movie, the courtroom becomes a space to voice the character’s complaints: The court proceedings themselves are not as much part of the focus as they are in other productions. Rather, the court provides an arena in which the characters can accuse the system of having no avenue of ensuring their enjoyment of their human rights – the judge himself is only there to ask questions that prompt the respective characters’ responses. That this is the intention, instead of re-enacting a ‘real’ case hearing, becomes immediately obvious in the film’s first few sequences, where Zain, the 12-year-old protagonist, states that he is suing his parents on account of their having given birth to him (كفرناحوم [Transliterated: Capharnaüm, English title: Capernaum] 2018, sc. min. 7–8). This is, of course, no part of any penal code, but rather an imaginary vehicle functioning as the watershed moment from which the film’s story arc proceeds to cover other, very much non-imaginary, rights ensconced in the Human Rights Charter. This can be understood as a visual exploration of Hannah Arendt’s well-known turn of phrase, namely the ‘right to have rights’, already observed in 1949. As Menke, Kaiser and Thiele (2007:741) notice, Arendt’s criticism goes to the heart of the difficulties attached to proclaiming universal human rights, namely by attesting to them having little basis in reality. The courtroom scenes suspend these limitations of the human rights doctrine by exploring the question of what were to happen if someone appeared in front of a court to plausibly argue his case in that regard by making visible the connections between having rights and having others bear a duty to fulfil those rights.
The invisibility of people living in poverty and their day-to-day-struggles are further inverted in the courtroom, with a large amount of media attention being brought to the case. Towards the end of the movie, Zain is shown as having called into a television show with a segment dedicated to child abuse and announced his intention to sue his parents (كفرناحوم [Transliterated: Capharnaüm, English title: Capernaum] 2018, sc. 1:53:00–1:55:00). It is a cinematographically very intense sequence, subverting the invisibility and marginality that until then characterised Zain’s perceived place in society. It suddenly lends him a voice that is heard not only by one or two well-to-do people but rather is amplified throughout the country, with scenes showing other young inmates celebrating in disbelief that one of ‘them’ is being heard on television. The scene showing the television set itself stands in stark contrast to all the other sequences in the movie, in exception of the court sequences – both the television set and the courtroom are the only two contexts presented in which poverty is not immediately recognised as a factor of life.
As one of the film’s reviews highlights, none of Beirut’s touristic attractions or views of its coastline are shown in the movie (Qureshi 2019). Richard (2023:212) argues that Lebanese movies produced after the war usually limit themselves to filming indoor settings, foregoing public space in a subtle acknowledgement of its destruction during the war. Nadine Labaki’s oeuvre implements this trend in several ways, each tying it to the movie’s main premise in a different manner. In Caramel, this is achieved by placing the movie’s main scenes in the beauty salon Si (B)elle, a play on words that suggests an area of agency for the women depicted, ‘if only’ they dared to, achieved by having the ‘B’ in belle hanging down on the salon’s street sign, as observed by White (2015:128). Yet the main plot revolves around the women’s meeting inside the beauty salon, pointing to a dichotomy in which the ‘world outside’ brings risks and unwelcome developments, in contrast with the safety provided by the female space of a beauty salon. Meanwhile, in Et maintenant on va où, Labaki features one street as a meeting point for the still-fragile relations between the former opposing factions in times of war, writes Richard (2023:219). In this movie as well, non-public spaces are a source of comfort and security, shielding the characters from the violence erupting outside. In those cases in which the violence does spill into the private homes, it is a stark intrusion, a violation of previously established norms within the movie’s logic. It is in this context that another main subversion found in Capernaum is to be read: ‘private’ spaces are only ever shown as cramped, shared on account of the family’s abject poverty – most of Zain’s life takes place on the streets even before he leaves his parents. Even though in the first part of the movie, he does have housing; it is exceedingly clear that it is not a safe environment for him or for his siblings. This portrayal of less than satisfactory living conditions reflects the large disparity present in Lebanese society, where 7% are classified as having ‘very low’ and an additional 23% as having ‘low’ levels of basic needs satisfactions, a wording used in lieu of an official definition of a poverty line (Gonzalez et al. 2008:231). The question of poverty, thus becomes a key point in this movie’s exploration of the human rights discourse vis-à-vis the respective characters’ reality.
Parental duties and societal responsibilities
Yet another dichotomy presented is connected to responsibility, namely that of parents and of the state in the care of children, as enshrined in the Convention on the Rights of the Child. The following sequence analyses will show how the movie reproduces the conflicts in enjoying these rights, borne out of a lack of resources.
Zain’s short visit to the jail with his mother is one example of the way the lived reality of the characters is put at odds with the ideals put forward in the Convention on the Rights of the Child, which places the responsibility for securing living quarters conducive to the child’s proper development squarely on the parents (United Nations 1990:art. 27): Smashing up pills in their living room that her underage son acquired in several drug stores, his mother proceeds to dilute them in water and wash clothes in them, which, apart from being considered child labour, is also in direct contradiction of the stipulations of Article 32 of the Convention on the Rights of the Child, which bars children from participating in any kind of work detrimental to their healthy development (United Nations 1990:art. 32), with similar language found in the Arab Charter of Human Rights (UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights and League of Arab States 2004:art. 34). She then delivers these to their relatives in jail, who stand to profit from re-washing the clothes and selling the drug-contaminated water to other inmates (كفرناحوم [Transliterated: Capharnaüm, English title: Capernaum] 2018, sc. min. 00:09:00–00:11:00).
In these short sequences, the disparity between the parental duty of providing for their offspring and the ways in which people in poverty may do so illustrates, again, the large gap between the propagated ideals of the human rights of children and the lived realities of the people portrayed, as well as the impossibility of ensuring the children’s safety in all circumstances in face of lack of appropriate resources.
It is notable that while the Convention on the Rights of the Child does place some of the responsibility for a child’s well-being on the parents, expecting them to act in a way that has its best interests at heart (United Nations 1990:art. 18), the majority of the convention’s text is naturally aimed at binding the signatory states, which are party to the convention. This is to be contrasted with the Cairo Declaration on Human Rights in Islam, which equally binds parents, state and society to care for the children (Organisation of Islamic Cooperation 1990:art. 7). In countries in which either there exists no welfare state, the state is fragile or failed in the first place or in which governmental programmes aimed at ensuring these rights for children do not apply to subsections of the public, a gap appears. It is this gap that Labaki explores in Capernaum, which results in parents shouldering the whole responsibility for their children.
Arising tensions between certain rights, in this case, are depicted as creating a highly hopeless situation for the parents: Neither Zain nor Younis, the son of an Eritrean refugee, are registered with the authorities, in contradiction to the expectations posed by Article 7 of the Convention on the Rights of the Child (United Nations 1990:art. 7) as well as in the latter case, Article 29 of the International Convention on the Protection of the Rights of All Migrant Workers and Members of Their Families (UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights 2003:art. 29), which, however, was not ratified by Lebanon. While for the former, the parents’ reasoning behind this decision is left deliberately unclear, never even indicating whether the family is of Lebanese origin, in which case the only possible reason for not registering the child would be the costs attached to doing so (Aghasi 2021:116), considering that next to all children of Lebanese descent get registered (Block et al. 2023:4). In the latter case, it is more easily understood: Immigrants under the kafala system4 are prohibited from procreating in Lebanon, in which case their immigration status would be deemed ‘irregular’, leading to an imminent threat of deportation (Block et al. 2023:4). The impossibility of resolving this situation in a legal manner not resulting in a possible deportation for either mother or child is illustrated as only one out of many situations in which the depicted families are faced with dilemmas in caring for their children without worsening their situation.
The divisive presentation of parenthood, and motherhood especially, unfolds in two stages within Capernaum’s narrative, in which two mothers – both living in abject poverty – are contrasted against each other. Both are pressed to sell one of their children by someone promising them a better life; however, while Zain’s mother agrees to do so, marrying off one of her daughters in exchange for better living conditions, Younis’s mother vehemently rejects the proposal (كفرناحوم [Transliterated: Capharnaüm, English title: Capernaum], 2018, sc. min. 00:52:00–00:55:00). The central role awarded to motherhood is not unprecedented in Nadine Labaki’s oeuvre. Sinno (2017:620) has already explored how ‘mothering provides a site of non-violent resistance’ in her study of Et maintenant on va où?, arguing that in the latter, mothers act in a way that actively claws back agency from their hegemonic, patriarchal surroundings in order to ensure a better life for their children. This stands in contrast to Aghasi’s analysis of mother-son relationships in Capernaum, where she argues that these relationships reproduce patriarchal structures precisely by suggesting that the suffering of mothers renders them the ‘true innocents’ of conflicts, thus reducing their agency (Aghasi 2021:106–107).
This article maintains, however, that the ambivalence observed by Sinno (2017:625) in Et maintenant on va où?, where mothers oscillate between appropriate and inappropriate measures, is repeated in Capernaum and provides a more suitable frame of reference although in a different manner: Departing from the Convention on the Rights of the Child (United Nations 1990), which states in Article 18 that ‘The best interests of the child will be their basic concern’, referring to parents and their duties, the two mothers and their helplessness in face of their circumstances are set up as foils against each other. This leads to Aghasi presenting them as a dichotomy in which one mother is the embodiment of the motherly, caring archetype, while the other is to be understood as a ‘bad parent’ (Aghasi 2021:118–119). In Aghasi’s analysis, the argument remains limited to the ostensible presentation of their respective mothering capabilities on-screen, with the author maintaining that ‘as Labaki aims to be a voice for the innocent child, she fails to be a voice for his mother’ (Aghasi 2021:117). The present analysis contends, however, that rather than being read as a simplified criticism of motherhood as presented by one and contrasted with the other, the issues raised are to be read in the very specific context of poverty and the unconventional measures undertaken by parents in these circumstances. It thus again suggests a correlation between the enjoyment of human rights and affluency: it is an individual’s financial status that ensures his standard of living, even though it is considered an inherent right – in the absence of financial means and a welfare state, parents may fall short of providing for their children in the idealised manners we expect.
Discrimination and the kafala system
Finally, human rights issues are explored via the kafala system, which is one of the very few avenues for legal immigration to Lebanon. The potential of the kafala system to become exploitative or lead to abusive circumstances is satirised in a sequence depicting the attempts of Rahil, an Ethiopian immigrant, to switch her sponsor. The kafala system’s provisions tie the legal status of an immigrant to a sponsor, who can unilaterally choose to dissolve their employment relationship, thus rendering the immigrant’s status illegal immediately (Moors & De Regt 2008:160). This forms part of the reason why internationally, the kafala system is decried as incompatible with the rights enshrined in the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) as well as the International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights (ICESCR), both treaties having been ratified by Lebanon, in contrast to other countries in which the kafala system is in use, such as GCC countries (Pande 2013:327).
The precariousness of this situation and the volatility attached to being at the mercy of a single person is driven to satirical heights in Capernaum: Enlisting the help of Harout, a man who previously introduced himself to Zain as ‘Cockroach Man’, and another female accomplice who pretends to be Rahil’s current sponsor, Rahil appears in front of a notary in order to officially shift her sponsorship to Harout. Even though the latter is depicted as dreamy at best and not in possession of his full mental capacities at worst, the matter almost succeeds before the bureaucrat makes it clear that he does not buy any of their explanations (كفرناحوم [Transliterated: Capharnaüm, English title: Capernaum] 2018, sc. min 00:58:00–01:00:00). Both his name Harout and his listed address in Bourj Hamoud as well as several lines of dialogue point to him being a member of the Armenian minority in Lebanon, which has its origins in Ottoman times and which significantly increased in size following the genocide (Nalbantian 2018:773). In this context, the disparity between this old community and new immigrants, be it work migrants or refugees, is especially glaring: The Armenian refugees were granted citizenship upon the declaration of Lebanon as an independent state in 1943. This stands in stark contrast to the strong anti-naturalisation tendencies pursued by the country hence, which are owed, of course, to the delicate balances between the sects following the civil war.5 As observed by Gonzalez, official estimates indicate that up to 7% of the population does not hold citizenship – excluding those immigrants not officially accounted for, for example, Palestinian refugees (Gonzalez et al. 2008:203). Syrian refugees, meanwhile, experienced a change in policy in 2015 that led to visas being newly required as well as halting their registrations in the first place, after having the number reach approximately 1.1 million the previous year (Ferris & Kirişci 2016:39). This is especially pressing considering that Lebanon is not signatory to the 1951 Refugee Convention (UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights 1951). With regard to Ethiopian immigrants, in 2004, the Ethiopian government even banned its citizens from emigrating to Lebanon on account of severe abuse (Moors & De Regt 2008:155–156). As to those immigrating under the kafala system, one could argue that it is by design that they are kept in a transitory legal status, with no clear way forward to attaining permanent residency or citizenship as their permit is linked to working for a specific person. Moreover, the ban on procreating and the looming illegality attached to having done so are two more factors interrogating the fairness and morality of this system, as depicted in the movie.
Conclusion
In conclusion, the intersection between the human rights discourse and its cinematic treatment in Capernaum can be approached via a number of aspects. Centred throughout is the issue of lending children a voice, which can be understood as a creative implementation of the imperative found in Article 12 of the Convention on the Rights of the Child. This is achieved by various devices, both within the movie and in its dissemination. Chief among these factors is the director’s strong activist outlook in creating the movie, leading to a complex narrative interwoven with a number of human rights issues found in present day Lebanon. This has repercussions not only for the cinematic style, which at times borrows from documentary stylistic devices, but is also reflected in Labaki’s choice of actors and actresses, where the movie majorly relies on untrained people hailing from the very same or a similar background to the one portrayed. Thus, the disadvantaged people, especially children, portrayed in the movie are given a voice via the film’s international performance precisely because of the choices made concerning the casting, dissemination, funding and style.
Visually, the same topic is explored via the environments chosen for depiction, foregoing any reference to affluent areas of Beirut. In addition, outside the courtroom, no ‘ordinary’ Lebanese person is depicted except for those acting on behalf of the state, such as policemen. This leads to an almost ephemeral atmosphere in those sequences taking place in the courtroom, adding to its imaginative role as an arena in which those whose voice usually goes unheard in the country can air their grievances. In bringing his case of suing his parents before the court, Zain’s character becomes a channel for all the children whose rights go unnoticed or unfulfilled, raising the question of responsibility. While the character places the blame squarely on his parents’ shoulders, the movie’s narrative makes it clear that it is not only his parents but also society as a whole and the state who have failed these characters in the first place. The impossibility of the parents’ situation is further shown by setting up two very different mothers and contrasting the choices they make for their children, presenting two approaches to parenting under less-than-ideal circumstances – either because of poverty, or because of the kafala system and looming illegality. It is this latter point that forms the third main prism through which inequalities and unassured human rights are explored in the movie, namely by raising the issues of citizenship, legal immigration and precarious working conditions.
Finally, this movie can be understood as a continuation of Nadine Labaki’s previous works, even the most grand and complex out of the three. While the first one, Caramel, mainly focussed on women’s rights in Lebanonese society, Et maintenant on va où combines gender issues with war and traumatising experience, thus moving on from an exploration merely on the personal level to including an assessment of society as a whole amid the trauma of sectarian violence posed by the recent civil war. It is in Capernaum, finally, that yet another area is introduced, namely the question of (human) rights possessed by all individuals and their realisation in face of extreme poverty. While Caramel explored women’s rights in face of societally difficult positions, and Et maintenant on va où combined these with religious rights despite the violence brought on in the name of religion during the civil war, Capernaum goes beyond these in depicting suffering on a different scale. Considering not only the narrative but also the choices made with regard to production and global dissemination show how these are intertwined to achieve the movie’s aim. It also speaks to its success in addressing human rights issues in a way that is not limited to a specific Lebanese context but rather is globally applicable.
Acknowledgements
Competing interests
The authors declare that they have no financial or personal relationships that may have inappropriately influenced them in writing this article.
Author’s contributions
V.H.D. is the sole author of this research article.
Funding information
This research was conducted while the author was a recipient of doctoral research funding from the Konrad-Adenauer-Stiftung, Germany.
Data availability
Data sharing is not applicable to this article as no new data were created or analysed in this study.
Disclaimer
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors and are the product of professional research. It does not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of any affiliated institution, funder, agency or that of the publisher. The authors are responsible for this article’s results, findings and content.
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Footnotes
1. While there exists an older, separate document entitled the ‘Arab Charter on the Rights of the Child’ (League of Arab States 1992), it was not ratified by Lebanon and thus does not form part of this article’s scope.
2. In an interview, Nadine Labaki, the director of Capernaum, presents feeling responsible as the departure point for her decision to create a movie on this topic (Cooke 2019). Thus, one could argue that the process described by Nash and Torchin does not necessarily start with the final product and its viewership but rather culminates in them, leading to an exchange between filmmakers who had been prompted by their feeling responsible to take action by producing the film and their audience, who is (hopefully) prompted by the latter to take action in other spheres.
3. She directed the music videos for Akhasmak Ah, Ah W Noss and several other songs by Nancy Ajram, a Lebanese star singer in her own right. The videos directed by Labaki are some of the singer’s earliest popular releases and can be considered as vital for her breakthrough in the world of Arab popular music. The videos’ commercial orientation and simple structure stand, naturally, in stark contrast to her subsequent cinematic productions in terms of visual language and content, owed to the vastly different requirements posed by producing a music video or a movie.
4. The kafala system is a form of sponsorship by which foreign workers can come to work in the country for a specific Lebanese employer, leading to an unequal power balance and potentially abusive circumstances in the majority of cases (Pande 2013).
It is also in use in the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) States (Malaeb 2015).
5. For similar reasons, no national census was conducted since 1932. In this last one, Christians accounted for 55%, a number believed to have decreased significantly since, owing to differing birth rates even when not accounting for non-naturalised demographics such as Syrian refugees (Gonzalez et al. 2008:203).
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