The film opens with the most basic example of juxtapositions: life and death. A human child is born at the exact time a baby lamb dies. Something so simple, yet layered in such a manner that it reverberates throughout the narrative and disrupts the metaphysics of the entire story.
In Moroccan folklore, Aicha Kandicha is a goddess-like entity who is said to be both enchanting and fearsome in her manifestation and portrayal, often depicted as a gorgeous succubus adorned with alluring locs and a presence that bewitches. Her beauty acts as a weapon and a glamour concealing a deeper truth—below her waist, she is often shown to be part goat or came with hooves where her legs should be. In true succubus fashion, she is believed to entice men and drive them to madness or even death, serving as a cautionary tale for men throughout generations. This invocation of both beauty and beastliness, human and animalistic qualities, as well as the real and supernatural all underscore what one will come to understand of the film’s central motif : how two opposing factors can exist and inspire the other.
While it is only evident by the midpoint of the film due to its non-linear storytelling device, Sanaa El Alaoui’s short film depicts the life and death of a seventeen year-old girl, played by Manal Bennani. In Aicha, the girl is both alive and dead at the same time, echoing what she says to her mother in one scene: “Do you know what the secret is, mother? To live in the past, the present and the future, as if they were one thing.” This temporal displacement is reminiscent of a person’s experiences with trauma, how it disrupts their grasp on reality and leaves their perception of time fragmented.
The girl is dead and alive, and her ghostly presence hovers over the narrative, reshaping how the story is told, and how her mother (played by Hind Dater) recounts her actions on her journey to finding peace.
From the very first scene, the film utilises minimal light and grading to heighten the tone and emotions of the story, with Oskar Jan Krol’s cinematography working with them. The shots used leave nothing to chance and assumption—something fascinating when one looks at how the non-linear device disrupts order. The writing, cinematography and editing are all intentional in choreographing this dance of juxtapositions: warmer hues in the scenes where a mother bathes her daughter; and more colder, pale tones where the two women are bathing a corpse; and the ceremonial cacophony of dancing and singing whilst the energy of death sits in the room. Aicha becomes a ceremonial film, ritualistic in its portrayal of life and death, of existing and dying, and grief. And how it all gets blurred.
Produced by Piotr Kaczorowski, Aicha tackles the important themes of violence, abuse, and mental health in both the Moroccan and Arab-Muslim context. The culture of secrecy and ignorance that’s fostered by many religious communities often ostracises the children, with our protagonist donning self-harm scars that the mother notices and quickly moves away from. The irony of this scene playing right as the radio broadcaster in the background enquires about the sacrifice necessary to invoke Aicha Kandicha during the Gnawa isn’t lost on me. By using an emotionally-distant mother, entrenched in the culture that made her and a daughter trying to make sense of her position in the world as conduits for conversation, the conflicting aspects brought forward by the film are bridged by their relationship. The film asks the question of how the two opposing factors can meet in the middle to be made sense of as a whole.
Such a particular conversation results in the daughter’s fascination with Aicha Kandicha and the Gnawa ceremony, which the mother responds against. The Moroccan Gnawa is a deeply spiritual practice that blends music, dance and ritual healing practices. Rooted in the heritage of West African slaves brought to Morocco centuries ago, this all-night ceremony invokes spirits through music, dancing and chanting and can be used for both therapeutic and religious purposes, allowing participants to connect with the spiritual world and seek protection, healing or blessings.
It was also interesting to realise how the film blends elements of fiction and documentary within the narrative of the character—a young filmmaker/videographer documenting her space and experiences. We see the young daughter on her trip to the city, providing a change in scenery that gives nothing away as to the impending danger, if not for the cold hue grading reminiscent of the corpse scene. Death still occupies this lively scene, where we can see her from a bird’s eye view centered between a cemetery. Through reading up on the director, the documentary aspect of the film goes beyond that of the transitions of the girl’s viewpoint through the lens of her documentary camera footage. We find out that the scene with the Gnawa ceremony was real and factual, performed according to ritual where it is led by a master musician called a Maâlem in a religious setting. El Alaoui mentions that, “The Gnawa singing, the participants, the witches, and the mother’s dance and trance were all documented without acting.” Overcome with guilt and grief from the consequences of her actions, the mother’s participation in the Gnawa ceremony to summon Aicha Kandicha sees her seeking to confront her sorrow through the mystical ritual, and to heal the broken bond with her daughter. It is an expression that is loud and guttural, grief laid bare, and rage uninhibited.
Hind Dater chose to participate in this rigorous process, testing the boundaries of her craft as an actress when her crew would not due to the possession casualties understood of dancing the Gnawa. The immersive nature of choosing to shoot this way, to narrate this story this way, resonated throughout the last act and made the entrancing feelings of grief and rage all the more palpable.
In Sanaa El Alaoui’s Aicha, a grotesque violation sends the spirit of a young girl frantic, fragmenting time and space, and what is left is a story experienced out of sequence. The metaphysics of this story go beyond the temporal displacement, they remind us of the supernatural elements around us. The film’s use of multiple mediums, especially animation, helps convey the young girl’s death through a powerful, fragmented montage. It is noteworthy how Tomek Popakul and Kasumi Ozeki manage to depict this violation and capture the emotional intensity of the event without explicitly showing it, giving depth to such a sensitive topic. Just before the attack, the girl encounters a woman in black, dressed in Muslim garb. Her energy is both enigmatic and menacing, with a voice-over reflecting on her silent, otherworldly presence. This figure evokes the spirit of a banshee or La Llorona. However, the woman’s burka, a clear religious symbol, adds another layer to the story, blending spirituality with tradition. This juxtaposition challenges the young girl’s belief that she is rebelling against religious oppression, further complicating the themes of sacredness and rebellion.
“We all need to burn incense to be born again.”
El Alaoui’s short film is an emotional and entrancing study into the experiences of violence and abuse that Moroccan women face, and how society continues to fail them where laws are concerned. In portraying a young woman’s life in fragments, we get to stand in her shoes and rummage through the liminal space trying to understand how we got here, how we hope to move from it, and what lies ahead.
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