Director of The Lions by the River Tigris, produced by Thorvald Nilsen.
A documentary about the aftermath of war
I first met Zaradasht Ahmed in 2016, when he premiered Nowhere to Hide at IDFA (produced by Mette Cheng Munthe Kaas). We collaborated on the film’s launch, which went on to win the main competition award for its unflinching portrayal of war’s human cost. That film marked him as a filmmaker with a rare ability: to capture the aftermath of conflict—not through statistics or spectacle, but through deeply personal stories that give terror a face and memory.
When his producer Thorvald Nilsen at Indie Film reached out about The Lions by the River Tigris, his new documentary set in Mosul, I was both honoured and intrigued. Nearly a decade later, we found ourselves working together once again, returning to the themes he knows best—resilience, memory, and the fragility of cultural heritage. What follows is a conversation about craft, the emotional weight of returning to a war-torn region, and the enduring power of storytelling in the face of destruction.
Dimitra Kouzi: How has your background influenced your approach to this story?
Zaradasht Ahmed: Even though I am Kurdish, Iraq’s culture is deeply familiar to me. We grew up with the same history—Assyria, Mesopotamia, the rivers, the mountains, the deserts. These are embedded in my identity. I understand how people there think and feel. It’s not foreign to me. I don’t experience culture shock. Instead, I carry the pain of seeing my country go through so much change and hardship. That emotional connection shapes my filmmaking. I don’t just observe; I feel. That’s why my approach differs from that of an outsider.
Q: You once said, “I come from the Middle East, and it will always be a part of me.” Yet after making Nowhere to Hide, you said you would never make another film in the region. What changed your mind?
Ahmed: When I finished Nowhere to Hide, I was deeply traumatized. So much was at stake, especially the life of the main character, Nori, and his family. He could have lost his life. I lived with constant anxiety, fearing that something might happen to him and that I would bear some responsibility. Beyond that, working in Iraq is extremely difficult. Security is unpredictable, and you are immediately viewed with suspicion. People assume you might be a spy or have ulterior motives. Authorities don’t like you, and neither do many locals. As a filmmaker, you are often unwelcome. Filming in Iraq is always a challenge. People are suspicious of cameras. Authorities fear being exposed. They forbid you to film without explanation. You are constantly accused of having hidden motives. When I first started researching in 2020, people thought I was crazy. Mosul was still considered a minefield. But I found people who helped me—locals who trusted me. That trust made all the difference. They saw I had traveled thousands of kilometers from Norway to Iraq to tell their story. Being a member of the Iraqi Journalist Association also helped. Even so, I was stopped by police and security forces many times. There were aggressive encounters—questions like, “Why are you filming my wife? Why are you filming me?” And beyond the physical challenges, there was the emotional weight of going to a war zone. Working with people, witnessing their feelings, seeing Bashar’s pain—his tears welling up so often—those were the hardest moments. Yet, no matter how far I go, Iraq is always a part of me. It isn’t a chapter that simply ends.
Q: With global conflicts ongoing, do you see parallels between Mosul’s story and other war-torn regions?
Ahmed: Absolutely. When I started this film, there was no war in Ukraine or Gaza, Lebanon had not erupted, Syria was relatively quiet. I visited Mosul as part of research for another film and was shocked by the devastation. When the war in Ukraine began, I saw the parallels in the destruction of cities and the human casualties. And then, an even more brutal war started in Gaza. Journalists reporting on Gaza even used Mosul as a reference point: “bombed like Mosul.” Eventually, the destruction in Gaza surpassed what we had seen in Mosul. War—like in Sudan now—brings the same devastation everywhere: displacement, destruction, and death. It is a brutal cycle that keeps repeating.
Q: The two lions in the film hold deep symbolic meaning. What do they represent?
Ahmed: The lions are more than just stone carvings—they are a link to the past. For Bashar, they are the last piece of his home. As long as they stand, the house still exists in his memory. They give him hope that his house can be rebuilt one day.
For Fakhri, they are artifacts in danger. He fears they will be lost like so many other ruins. He sees them as part of the city’s identity, a cultural inheritance that must be protected.
Q: Bashar, Fakhri, and Fadel each have unique relationships with the city. How do their stories reflect the larger themes of memory, loss, and identity?
Ahmed: All three belong to Mosul. They were born there, and their families have lived there for generations. The city is their home. It defines who they are. ISIS destroyed that shared identity. They split people into “good” and “bad.” Musicians like Fadel were silenced. Collectors like Fakhri were marginalized. Fishermen like Bashar were only tolerated if they complied with harsh rules. Bashar never wanted to leave. His life, his memories—everything was rooted there. He represents the everyday victims whose stories often go untold. Fakhri returned after the fall of ISIS and saw a cultural vacuum. The museum was destroyed, artifacts looted or turned to dust. That loss ignited his passion to collect and preserve what he could—not for profit, but for preservation. Fadel, forced into silence for years, finally played his violin again. For him, music is defiance, but also healing. Teaching music is his way of rebuilding minds and spirits.
Q: Why is protecting cultural heritage so important in post-conflict societies?
Ahmed: When we talk about war, we count human casualties—dead, injured, displaced. But cultural loss is just as serious, and often ignored. During conflict, cultural heritage is left unprotected. When cities are bombed, centuries of history are erased. International bodies rarely prioritize this. But heritage is what anchors us. It’s what we pass down. Without it, we forget who we are. I remember the Taliban destroying the Buddhas of Bamiyan—it was heartbreaking. If something happened to Norway’s old stave churches, it would be just as devastating. These places belong to the world, not just the countries where they stand. In Gaza, ancient sites have been erased—many older than any modern state. That’s a war crime. And yet it often goes unspoken. Cultural heritage is like our collective memory. Destroying it is like erasing our identity.
Q: How do art and music help in the healing process?
Ahmed: Art and music are food for the soul. They are not material things—they are emotional, spiritual, and imaginative. When you hear music or walk through a historic site, something inside you awakens. Art reminds us that we are human. It connects us to something bigger than ourselves. It gives us hope.
Q: What is the most challenging aspect of rebuilding Mosul’s identity?
Ahmed: The Old City is still a wound—open and raw—even eight years later. Whole neighborhoods were flattened. Bashar’s neighborhood alone lost over 500 buildings. It’s hard to imagine it being rebuilt. Before ISIS, there was Al-Qaida. Then came the U.S. occupation. Mosul was a closed-off city. Real development didn’t start until after 2017. Now, the Old City—especially near the river—is mostly empty land.
People don’t trust the authorities or their plans. There’s no transparency. No one knows if the city will be rebuilt in its traditional style, turned into a museum, or replaced with something else entirely.
Mosul is one of the world’s oldest cities. Like Jerusalem or Aleppo, it has a poetic, almost mystical connection to the Tigris River. There’s potential for so much—craftsmanship, agriculture, tourism. But trust and vision are needed for any of that to be realized.
"Ahmed doesn’t need to include war footage for us to feel its weight and understand its shadow."
Eye for Film
How did you collaborate? What was it like working together? Maite: Through research we knew that, in the first stages of Alzheimer, early childhood is remembered. Based on theory, we imagined what would happen to an immigrant with Alzheimer. We hired a journalist who went to all nursing houses in Santiago and sent us a description of some 50 characters. Josebe was one of those. Her memory worked as we imagined, but it was an intense character, with a unique personality, which we would never have written, not even for fiction. She was our guide, which made this co-directing exercise flow with her.