My Sweet Land
(USA/France/Jordan/Ireland, 86 min.)
Dir. Sareen Hairabedian
Section: U.S. Competition (North American Premiere)
Vrej Khachatryan has never lived without fear of war. The 11-year-old boy spent his early childhood in Artsakh (aka Nagorno-Karabakh), a nation state of ethnic Armenians that declared its independence from the then-befallen Soviet Union in 1991. Its neighbouring country, Azerbaijan, claimed ownership of the land and promptly exerted military control. Although Russian peacekeeping forces – an oxymoron if ever there was one – have acted as an intermediary, the two countries have been in sporadic armed conflict ever since, most notably escalating again in 2016. As Vrej grows up roaming his quiet farm village, he is surrounded by the reality that, at any moment, his family and neighbours could be forced to leave their homeland. “Living in Artsakh means that one day, there will be war,” says Vrej’s grandmother, working in the fields, “and my grandson will participate in that war.”
Vrej’s story is one of many, as our current global refugee crisis sees residents of countries such as Sudan, Palestine, Venezuela, and Ukraine fleeing violence with no end in sight. While many harrowing films have been made charting the histories and horrors of these war-torn nations, some of them are incessantly traumatizing and unable to reconcile that content with a compelling narrative. This dilemma is not the case for Sareen Hairabedian’s My Sweet Land, the filmmaker’s remarkably impressive directorial debut, which plays closer to a slice-of-life drama than a harrowing war thriller.
The film follows Vrej and his family as they are once again displaced, this time in the more publicized Second Nagorno-Karabakh War that left significant portions of Artsakh under Azerbaijani control, and does so entirely from his perspective. It smartly eschews action and brutality in favour of childhood vignettes and intimate conversations with the camera. By doing so, My Sweet Land not only upholds narrative fundamentals, but does so elegantly and sensitively, allowing its emotional experience to envelop viewers and, slowly but surely, seep into their bones.
My Sweet Land begins in the summer of 2020 and for Vrej, life is as usual, or as usual as it can be given the circumstances. He goes to school, plays with his younger siblings, and watches his family bake lavash (regional flatbread) and harvest beeswax. From the first few scenes, Vrej immediately proves an extraordinary protagonist, exuding precocious charm and ample curiosity that serves film well. He’s unafraid to speak candidly and assuredly about his stance on the war and his emotional state of mind, all of which Hairabedian, who shot the film herself, and sound recordist/producer Azza Hourani consistently capture at his eye level to create an immersive effect.
Even at his young age, Vrej is aware of Artsakh’s strife. He’s informed of the history in his classroom; he shouts patriotic slogans to the sky; he even plays with a homemade toy rifle. However, beneath the boyish enthusiasm for independence is a desire not to fight but to become a dentist and treat his neighbours’ teeth. Vrej is still a child after all, and the film takes moments to remind us both through words and images, specifically during impressionistic montages of joyful play that are cut to a gorgeously sweeping score from composer Tigran Hamasyan.
However, things become bleaker when Vrej and his family escape to Armenia. Now living in a new home and separated from his father, who is defending Artsakh from Azerbaijani forces, the child experiences greater proximity to the stakes of the conflict and the devastation it brings to his family. From images of Vrej’s family fleeing Artsakh on deserted roads to news broadcasts spelling doom for the Armenian people, one gets a sense of the profound loss that this family experiences daily. The sheer volume of formative moments captured speaks to both Hairabedian’s intimate access and her skillfully nimble lens, the likes of which can only come from someone deeply familiar with the topic. (Hairabedian is part Armenian.) Perhaps most harrowing is Hairabedian’s unflinching proximity to Azerbaijan’s tools of destruction. When Vrej and his family return to Artsakh and reestablish their lives amidst their town’s remains, she maneuvers her camera around still-active missiles and landmines. It is, quite literally, staring in the face of danger and she should be lauded for her commitment.
In collaboration with her sharp editor, Raphaëlle Martin-Holger, Hairabedian meticulously strings these moments together into a powerful coming-of-age narrative that culminates into a disquieting arc for the impressionable Vrej. “Wars started the moment guns were created,” he ruminates with clarity toward the beginning of his displacement. “We should join the army, but shouldn’t hold guns.” Then, suddenly, not even a year after refining his toy rifle, Vrej suddenly finds himself holding a real one. He is sent to a military camp along with over a hundred other Armenian children to learn how to defend his country. Vrej has fulfilled the promise his grandmother spoke as the film began. Thus enters the harsh reality of Hairabedian’s heart-wrenching journey, that perhaps those most affected by wars are not those currently fighting in them, but the future generations who are unable to escape its effects. By the film’s end, as he celebrates his 13th birthday with a slightly lower voice and slightly broader build, Vrej has accepted his fate. “If there is the need, I will fight too,” he says, crestfallen.
