In conjunction with Archival Assemblages, a programme curated by Other Cinemas, this article delves into the four compelling moving image works showcased in the exhibition. Each piece offers a unique lens through which to explore critical themes such as the subversion of colonial and state archives, the visual representation of violence and the practice of community (counter-)archiving as a powerful act of resistance and memory making.
By closely examining the works of Amel Moyersoen, Laith Elzubaidi, Sana Badri, and Leena Habiballa, we engage in a rich dialogue about the ways these artists navigate and challenge existing narratives, inviting us to reconsider the role of archives in shaping our understanding of history and identity.
Leena Habiballa: My name is Leena, and I’m an assistant producer at Other Cinemas. We focus on film and moving image as key elements of visual art, aiming to foster a community of Black and non-white artists. Our mission is to bridge the racial and class divide in the arts by creating spaces where underrepresented artists can learn, share, and create. We achieve this through free community screenings, as well as a year-long film school that many of you have been part of; I was as well two years ago.
As part of our programme Archival Assemblage, we brought together four works that experiments in recontextualising and liberating histories from the colonial narratives and perspectives that have dominated these stories for so long. Today, we’re here to reflect on how archival material can be used to reframe historical narratives through visual art, and how you’ve each explored that.
Laith Elzubaidi: Sure! My name is Laith Elzubaidi, and I am two things. I’m a screenwriter for half of the week, and the other half, I work at an organisation called Counterpoint Arts, which supports creatives from refugee and migrant backgrounds. We organise various events and partner with broadcasters across the UK in hopes of helping people from refugee and migrant backgrounds break into the industry and support them in taking the next step.
My piece starts off with the US defence secretary’s statement about—well, I say statement, but she was questioned in an interview about the reported deaths of half a million children as a result of the war. She is then asked if the price was worth it, and her response is dismissive: ‘No, no, no, it’s fine, it’s like, don’t worry about it, it’s all good!’ So, it begins with that, and the rest of the work takes a darkly comedic approach to viewing the Iraq War through the lens of a children’s broadcaster in the UK, CBBC.
Leena Habiballa: I really appreciate your piece. It’s such a sharp critique of American imperialist hypocrisy and the Iraq War, a topic that we rarely connect to humour. I’m intrigued by this device of using humour to engage with painful subjects, as it smartly draws the audience into thinking about the dark aspects of our history. I was thinking, for those who are part of the school and familiar with your other work, humour seems to be a recurring element in your practice. It appears to be an interesting means to critique those in power. Why do you think humour is such a prominent part of your artistic expression?”
Laith Elzubaidi: Yeah, sure. Honestly, it largely comes from the angle of: if I’m addressing something so incredibly dire, I see two ways to approach it. One is the typical route of, ‘This is very sad, here are the reasons it’s very sad, isn’t this very sad?’ While that’s valid, I’m personally desensitised to it. As an Iraqi, I grew up learning that a million of my people were brutally murdered in this invasion, and there hasn’t been accountability since. There hasn’t even been a discussion about what accountability would look like. It’s been in my mind forever, so it doesn’t make sense to merely elicit empathy from others. I want those who share my identity to experience it in a way that offers something new, not just sadness. The film I’ve created might seem insensitive to some, but in the context of the real-life truth, I’m oddly taking this more seriously than those responsible for these actions. I don’t see humour as merely a ‘device’; it’s inherently linked to what I’m exploring. There’s often a tendency from commissioners to ask, ‘Is this a comedy or a drama?’ But these elements work together, and it’s all about achieving different goals.
Amel Moyersoen: I was also curious, Laith, do you have your audience in mind while creating your work? Specifically with this piece, what emotions are you hoping to evoke in your audience? What responses do you hope they’ll have, or what conversations do you want them to engage in after watching?
Laith Elzubaidi: Absolutely, I definitely consider my audience. When creating anything related to my identity, I have two audiences at the forefront of my mind: firstly, those who share that identity, and secondly, those who are aware but not directly emotionally connected. It’s about ensuring both groups can derive something meaningful from it. This doesn’t have to be educational; rather, it should engage them to the point where they feel compelled to engage with the rest of the piece.
I think it’s about two main things. Firstly, I aim to clarify who conducts these actions—essentially, the oppressors. If they act in such a cavalier, absurd way, like, ‘Yeah, we killed half a million kids, but it is what it is,’ then there’s no point in debating their actions. This doesn’t represent a viable form of resistance. What are we actually doing? If we can’t agree that killing children is wrong, the conversation is futile. So, I want my work to prompt viewers to question what meaningful actions can be taken next.
The nostalgic audio from CBBC, along with the recognisable sign language interpreter, takes me back to my childhood, contrasting it with the horrific reality. After watching the piece, I hope audiences ponder: ‘Where are those kids now?’ If that’s their childhood, what has become of them in adulthood? This film provokes reflections on how witnessing such violence impacts one’s development and identity.
Leena Habiballa: It’s fascinating how you connect childhood to these broader narratives. You mentioned the concept of innocence being denied to certain groups, which resonates deeply. There’s a part in the piece where an Iraqi journalist or translator asks a child, ‘How old are you?’ and the child replies, ‘Nine,’ leaving him speechless. He cannot continue his investigation because the cruelty of holding a nine-year-old prisoner is too overwhelming. I was curious about your decision to end it in that way. What thoughts were behind that choice?
Laith Elzubaidi: “For those who haven’t seen the work, the majority features comedic elements, particularly with the CBBC sign language interpreter reacting to the events. For instance, during an airstrike, she whimsically responds, ‘Ow, ow, ow.’ While the comedic elements create a light atmosphere, it becomes increasingly uncomfortable, contrasting the absurdity with the seriousness of the situation. Ultimately, I felt the ending needed to confront the harsh reality. It’s all well and good to illustrate how bizarre the situation is, but there has to be a moment of reckoning, reminding viewers that this is all real.
After showing abstract shots of bombings, I wanted to humanise the narrative by ending with that moment of silence. The speechlessness of the translator reflects a collective sense of disbelief at the ongoing violence. It doesn’t make sense to argue with oppressors about the humanity of a child. Ending on that note was essential to juxtapose the lighter moments of the piece with the grim reality, highlighting the absurdity and horror of the situation.
Leena Habiballa: Amel Moyersoen’s afraid of losing the echoes is a visual artwork about police brutality in Brussels, but it also explores the history of resistance against it. The piece emerged in response to the glaring lack of education surrounding these histories. Similar to what Laith was discussing—the challenge of telling painful yet relevant stories—there’s a tension between showing these histories and the emotional burden of making them visible again. It’s absolutely brilliant work. I’ve seen it multiple times, and it beautifully captures the urgent, feverish energy of protest. The repetition in the voiceover really resonates—it mirrors the cyclical nature of violence and resistance that we continue to experience. Through this, it also speaks to the importance of preserving memory, of not allowing these histories of resistance to be erased or forgotten. State violence is not just about physical harm—it’s about suppressing collective memory.
In navigating these archives, how do you view the role of self-archiving as a form of resistance? How does counter-archiving push back against state-controlled narratives?
Amel Moyersoen: I was shocked to discover riots that took place in my own neighbourhood in Brussels during the 80s and 90s—events I had never been told about. Each time there is a new protest, the media frames it as an isolated or novel incident. But when you stitch these moments together, you see the continuity of resistance. I wanted to create something that not only angers and motivates people but also inspires and offers hope through visual representation.
Through my research, I’ve realised how critical documentation is. Today, it might feel like documentation has become so commonplace that it risks losing its value. But we need to remember that the state has no interest in preserving these histories. They don’t want us to know there have been, and still are, strategies to resist. Archiving isn’t just about gathering facts—it’s about passing down strategies, knowledge, even language, that can strengthen future movements. If we want to build enduring resistance, we need to think not only of ourselves but also of how we can transmit this knowledge across generations. Even simply documenting the fact that these protests occurred is significant. It’s remarkable how much can be lost between generations. The stories in my piece are about people who are only in their 50s, yet they too need to be reminded of the significance of their resistance. The system is designed to make them feel their actions were futile, that their efforts didn’t matter”
Sana Badiri: The images and the poem that you overlaid with each other were so perfect, it was almost as if they were made for each other. I was curious—did you explore the archives first and then search for a poem that you felt was appropriate, or did you work the other way around? What was that process like?
Amel Moyersoen: I knew I wanted to create a visual piece about this theme after attending a protest in Brussels. A woman had died in police custody, and her sister asked the community to create something—whether it was writing, posters, or anything creative. That call to action pushed me to understand the context more deeply and to respond through my art. The poem I used is by an amazing slam poet, Lisette Lombé, who is half-Congolese and half-Belgian. She often performs at protests, and I deeply admire her work. The poem is not specifically about police brutality—it speaks about the need to document but also touches on the struggles of the creative process itself. I rearranged parts of the poem to create something new while preserving her voice. My process was very intuitive, linking images and words through associations, and gradually constructing the visual narrative.”
Laith Elzubaidi: Incredible. I really love this film because, firstly, it’s a massive eye-opener for me, but I also imagine for a lot of people watching. When you’re putting all of that together, how are you making sure that, because you’re going for that universal element, how do you go about making sure that you’re creating something that is going to connect with a lot of people? I had similar concerns with my work—wondering if people outside of Iraq would engage with it. How do you navigate that?
Amel Moyersoen: Honestly, I didn’t consciously aim to make it universal. I was deeply invested in that specific moment, and the work came from a sense of urgency. It’s a complex feeling to see people across different contexts experience similar struggles, but it wasn’t about aiming for universality. I think it’s about trusting the audience’s ability to feel something, even if they don’t fully understand every detail. Visual art, much like film, is meant to be felt first. I didn’t want to bog it down with information or context—I wanted to convey the emotional reality of being part of a movement. The goal was to transmit the feeling of collective resistance, rather than explaining the intricate details of each event.
Leena Habiballa: I think the emotional intensity you evoke through the poem and the structure really communicates that message. It’s a reminder that documenting and reflecting on these moments isn’t futile—it builds something, even if we can’t see it immediately. Your decision to avoid graphic depictions of violence is also really compelling. There’s always this looming threat of violence, but it’s never directly shown. It made me think about how we visually represent violence. How do we depict these histories without resorting to typical portrayals of brutality? Your film reminded us that the archives are already saturated with images of bodies being harmed. If we want to disrupt the visual language of state violence, we need to offer an alternative—images that emphasise collective strength rather than individual suffering. The state benefits from showing us endless images of a few protesters being overwhelmed by police forces, but in reality, there are often far more of us.
Screening “Worth It” – Sana Badri
Leena Habiballa: I think your artwork weaves together many different time periods and historical moments in British history, from the Windrush wave of migration to Calais to the George Floyd protests. It really focuses on the continuity of moments of displacement, exile, and migration, as well as the dynamics surrounding them and the texture of feelings related to those experiences. So, I was wondering if you could speak a bit about your work, how it came about, and also introduce yourself.”
Sana Badri: Hi I am Sana Badri, and I’m a teacher educator and a photographer who also engages in visual art on the side. When I began creating this piece, I aimed to explore not just nuanced themes but also the sheer magnitude of the impact of Empire and its ripple effects—the generations that carry the weight and pain of it. I wanted to capture how that feels for someone within one of those diasporas or communities, trying to survive in the heart of the Empire. This comes with both joys and deeply painful moments. I aimed to encapsulate a feeling because, personally, I struggle to find the right words to describe something so immense. I wanted to approach it as an intangible, indescribable emotion that ebbs and flows.
Leena Habiballa: It’s a very emotional piece, as you mentioned about capturing feelings—it’s very evocative. I was wondering how you navigated the archives you explored to create these connections. How did you extract such emotion from the material you used? Your compositions are really full of feeling, so I’m curious about your process in sifting through the archives and how you made those connections between different historical moments.
Sana Badri: I had a general idea of the elements I wanted to include. I actually started off with a particular piece of music; I knew I wanted everything to resonate with its tone, as it perfectly conveyed what I aimed to express. The British Council archive has these fascinating black-and-white animated pieces showing the migration map across the globe, which I thought was a great starting point, set to a slow beat that builds anticipation. I also made a rough list of recognisable elements that summarised both the good and the bad—things like carnivals and markets that are personal to my experience of growing up in London, along with bike rides. Finding snippets that summarise the violence was quite challenging; I wanted to convey the stories without undermining or disrespecting them. I sought small glimpses that viewers could recognise as significant moments, like the Brixton riots, and then edited those to the rhythm of the music.
Laith Elzubaidi: I’d really love to ask you about the music choice; it works perfectly. What was it about that piece that made you think, ‘Yes, this makes sense’? Because it does, but I wouldn’t have immediately connected it to this work.
Sana Badri: That’s a great question. I’ve had that piece in mind for a long time, thinking it would suit something like this. The artist sounds really pained in the song, and the autotune and high notes, along with the slow, drawn-out elements, bring out other layers of emotion. It’s not just a sad song. The lyrics, especially the question of ‘Is it worth it?’, resonate deeply with the relationship between a migrant and the state. It’s interesting how the song almost claims a new context in this artwork; it meshes so well with it in a way I wouldn’t have imagined in isolation.
Amel Moyersoen: That’s really impressive; I loved your piece and found it deeply touching. You managed to find a balance between a collective experience and individual stories, making space for personal narratives. How do you navigate this when thinking about migration? Often, these stories are lumped together, yet some parts are collective while others are very distinct. I’m curious about your approach to this.
Sana Badri: That’s a really good question. Since it was made with the intention of being shared with a small group of people who would understand it from their personal perspectives, I felt comfortable exploring my feelings—not just my own but also about how I’ve witnessed and understood the history, and communicating that to a trusted community. It’s interesting because when Leena first approached me about this, I hesitated to share it with a wider audience. I know the piece lacks nuance and could be interpreted as suggesting that all migrants share the same experience, which is not the case. I wouldn’t want it to convey something I didn’t intend. So, I’m still uncertain about how I feel regarding that.
Amel Moyersoen: I think you’ve found a good balance, actually. I’m curious, since you also teach and practice photography, does this audience consideration also come into play in your other work? Are you more inclined to share your work with those you trust or are part of your community?
Sana Badri: That’s something I struggle with quite a bit, actually. Much of my photography involves communities I care deeply for and where I’ve been entrusted with a responsibility to document their stories. I’m keen on fostering a relationship where I can give back, such as through portraits that they can keep. I recognise the importance of community archiving and documenting experiences, so I believe it’s essential to share that with others. However, I do struggle to find the balance and feel comfortable taking it outside my close circle and allowing it to be seen by a broader audience.
Leena Habiballa: Sometimes, work is seen as more powerful if it can appeal to a wider audience. Yet, perhaps its true power lies in being specific to particular communities, capturing the idiosyncrasies and complexities within them. As much as there are connections, there are also unique contexts. It’s beautiful that you prioritise communities you understand and feel connected to, and we certainly need more of that.
Screening “Dead as a Dodo” – Leena Habiballa
Sana Badri: I didn’t know that about the dodo; that really blew me away. So, I guess this is a very basic question, but I’m super curious about how you came to it and how that started for you.
Leena Habiballa: So, it’s about the story of the dodo’s extinction. I actually grew up with a particular story at school. I don’t know if it’s the same for you guys, but I was taught that the dodo is indigenous to Mauritius. I wasn’t even told that Dutch settlers had taken over the island and used it as a pit stop in the global trade route. They would stop there, replenish their resources, and then keep moving, but eventually, it became a settler colony, a Dutch settler colony.
I was told that the dodo went extinct because it couldn’t fight back; it was clumsy, couldn’t fly, was stupid, big, and ugly, and in a sense, deserved to die and be killed. And that it was due to its own weaknesses and the fact that it couldn’t survive in its environment, regardless of the fact that there were no predators on the island. So, it lived a happy, lavish life before settlers ever arrived. I think that story is shaped by a colonial imagination that tries to justify colonialism and justify the extraction from land and resources in general.
I think it’s very similar to how colonised human subjects are portrayed as being inept in some way, or in need of civilising, or deserving of violence in some way. I thought that contrast was really interesting. When we got the prompt to create a visual artwork about race or identity, I wasn’t comfortable doing something about my own race or identity. I just wasn’t in that place or connected to that at that moment. I wanted to do something about race as a form of naming or assigning value to human life because that’s what race is. I think it transcends human races, and the root of race-making, in some way, is in the natural world. This form of categorising things and creating taxonomies of life, not just to better understand them but to dominate them, is what race is.
I thought it would be interesting to build links of solidarity outside of the human world to the natural world, which often endures worse forms of violence than humans. A lot of the time, it is the training ground for violent technologies that are later used on humans. I thought the dodo was a really interesting example because this creature lived on this island for thousands of years and was wiped out within 80 years of settler colonialism. The complete extermination of this animal was heartbreaking.
It also grew out of an obsession with a book of poems called A Theory of Birds by the Palestinian American author Zaina Alsous. She has a section in that book where she speaks about the dodo and tries to connect settler colonial psychology and imagination with forms of extraction in Palestine and in settler colonialism in general. I wanted to explore that. When we’re mourning or grieving the afterlife of colonialism, the natural world is usually excluded from that. We’re not allowed to grieve that as well, so I wanted to do both.”
Laith Elzubaidi: It’s amazing how you’ve explained it there, but also the idea of using the dodo to extrapolate onto this wider context is genius. It’s like revolutionary thinking, joining those dots. I’m curious because it’s been a while since you created that visual piece, right? Like two years now? In that time since, is there anything you would potentially add to it, not that it needs anything, but has anything informed your thinking that you would add to it?”
Leena Habiballa: Yeah, that’s a really interesting question. I made it very quickly. It came out of what Amel was saying earlier about the sense of urgency to express something in the moment that felt necessary. I had been so obsessed with this book of poems that I thought, ‘Finally, a way for me to create something out of it.’ I wanted to write a review of the book, but I found it difficult because I felt like the poems needed to be felt, and writing a review was intellectualising it too much. The visual art piece was the best way for me to transmit the feelings I had while reading the book and the emotions held in those poems.
It was also the first visual piece I ever made, and it’s precious to me because of that. It’s an expression of someone trying to free themselves from language for a second and use visual art to express a deep feeling I’d held for a long time. It was such an angry piece as well. I think we’ve become desensitised to colonial violence in a way that diminishes or neutralises the anger we have about it, and I wanted to make that anger visible and inspire anger in the people who engaged with it.
I feel like with that piece, it was my focus, and I think it’s such a pure expression of that moment that I don’t want to go back and touch it. It’s almost like a time capsule of me beginning my artistic journey, and I want to preserve that. But what got me thinking about it is the article I read afterwards about how they’re trying to revive the dodo using technology to recreate it from its DNA. I found that so interesting because there’s a part of the piece where I reference a zoological study conducted 100 years after the dodo’s extinction. In that study, they try to justify scientifically why the dodo had to be exterminated, portraying the Dutch settlers who documented the natural world in Mauritius as historians and scientists, people of knowledge expanding human understanding, not as murderers or colonisers.
There’s this scientific justification for why the dodo needed to be erased. Now, they’re trying to revive the dodo as a way of ‘righting’ their wrongs, but what they ignore is that you can’t revive a creature without its environment. This Western individualist logic of ‘If I just bring something back without its community, without its environment, then I’ve saved it’—it’s all about the West sanitising its history of violence, rather than doing something that’s restorative for the creature or person harmed. It also commodifies life, treating it as something that can be deleted and brought back when convenient. That’s something I would want to add to the piece if I could because it didn’t touch on that.
I’ve also been thinking a lot about violence and speaking with Ara, who runs Other Cinemas, about how only the state is allowed to exert violence in a legitimate way. Any form of violence against the state is seen as terrorism or illegitimate, leaving us in a position where we’re only subject to violence and can never create our own freedom. That’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot, especially regarding representations of violence. In the piece, I used it in a particular way to inspire anger, but I’ve been reflecting on how we represent violence and what it means to absent violence, especially in a world where if there’s no evidence of the violence, we forget about it.
Those are some of the things I’ve been thinking about since creating the piece, but I want to keep it as a kind of snapshot of my journey at that time.”
Laith Elzubaidi: Everything you’ve said about what you learned after hearing about the dodo revival is like the perfect part two of this whole idea.
Leena Habiballa
Leena Habiballa is an artist and cultural worker interested in visual/material cultures and community filmmaking/exhibition models. She is currently Assistant producer at Other Cinemas and a member of the artist workers’ cooperative not/nowhere.
Amel Moyersoen
Amel Moyersoen is an Algerian-Belgian visual artist, moving image art curator and researcher based in London, with a focus on diasporic histories of resistance and the intergenerational transmission of memory. Her work delves into archival practices within visual art, often exploring the intersection of personal and collective narratives. A graduate of the Other Cinemas film school, she is also affiliated with the SAFAR Futures Young Curators program. Her work often blends extensive research and moving image, creating evocative, memory-driven art forms. Her film ‘afraid of losing the echos’ (2023) has been shown in London and Brussels and was selected for the System D Festival 2023, and MOOOV Festival 2024.
Sana Badri
Sana Badri is a British-Tunisian artist. Her motivation to create images is primarily to build and maintain meaningful connections with her subjects and foster a visual dialogue that speaks to those inside those communities. Sha has been exhibited at the V&A, published by the V&A, elephant magazine, OOMK zine and Huck Online.
Laith Elzubaidi
Laith Elzubaidi is a British-lraqi Comedy and Drama Screenwriter based in London. He is also the founder of the British-Arab Writers Group. He was selected from 1400 applicants for the BBC Comedy Collective Supercharged Bursary Scheme; winning 15k (including a 5k development grant) and paid shadowing opportunities on BBC productions’ writers rooms. He has recently won Soho Theatre’s annual playwriting competition, the ‘Tony Craze Award, for his play ‘Insane Asylum Seekers’. He is a producer at the Arts charity Counterpoints Arts- spearheading their Pop Culture and Social Change programme. He runs the biggest collective of British-Arab writers in the UK: the British Arab Writers Group’. They host and facilitate writers rooms, talks from industry figures, and events that seek to connect the creative diaspora and take their member’s craft to the next level, They currently have over 130 members across the UK.