Zahraa Ghandour's 'Flana' Honors Iraqi Women's Historic Achievement

A Documentary on Iraqi Women’s Struggles Makes Waves at Cairo Intl. Film Festival

At this year's Cairo Intl. Film Festival, Iraqi filmmaker Zahraa Ghandour has made a significant impact with her documentary "Flana," which explores the lived experiences of Iraqi women. After its world premiere in Toronto, the film was showcased in Cairo as part of the Horizons of Arab Cinema competition. It stands not only as a promising debut but also as a rare work in Iraqi cinema, created by a woman who is living within the country and focusing on stories that are often overlooked or silenced.

Ghandour's journey into filmmaking began over a decade ago, not in a formal film school, but through her work on Iraqi television. At just 20 years old, she started presenting and later directing the popular documentary show "52 Minutes." This program became her foundation, taking her across Iraq to report on social issues such as early marriage, domestic violence, and inequitable laws. Colleagues and audiences often joked that she only covered "women's issues," but for Ghandour, these were systemic realities that women faced daily. "There were endless subjects to cover," she recalls. "And I loved it. I went everywhere in Iraq because of this show."

Despite acting in several Iraqi independent films, Ghandour felt they didn't go far enough. "They were all about complicated women, but none were written or directed by women," she notes. When she began working on "Flana" in 2018, she realized she could no longer hide behind other women's stories without confronting her own. Growing up, she felt treated as "less" than her brother due to societal structures that favor boys over girls. "I felt it was missing the truth if I didn't speak about the story I knew the most," she reflects. "It's all connected."

"Flana" starts with Ghandour's desperate search for her childhood friend, Noor, whose disappearance two decades earlier haunts her. The film then expands into an exploration of the systemic violence faced by Iraqi women, from patriarchal traditions to unresolved legal failures around honor killings. For Ghandour, the personal becomes a rallying cry. "If these personal things aren't addressed in a fair way, then they're political," she argues. "People should be shouting nonstop in the streets to stop little girls from being thrown out on the streets, to stop these criminals from murdering their wives and daughters, to have fair laws."

Bringing this truth to the screen required not just artistic clarity but constant strategizing and immense risk. Ghandour speaks openly about the fear that accompanied the project from the beginning. "Sometimes I fear the reaction physically," she admits, pointing to worries about retribution. She was more nervous for her Arab premiere in Cairo than for Toronto "because of how this society thinks and because there were many Iraqis in the audience, I was nervous about the possible reaction."

Her concerns stem from experience. When she has spoken publicly about gendered violence in the past, she has been accused of "destroying the Iraqi image," as though acknowledging injustice were a betrayal rather than a demand for accountability. "There is a lot of denial in society," she laments. "People take it personally because they're not doing anything about it."

During production, she often had to lie to authorities in order to shoot safely, submitting a fake synopsis about empowered Iraqi women gaining opportunities. Within private homes, birth rooms, and shelters, the women who allowed her to film trusted her with their identities and, in some cases, with their lives. Several women initially refused to appear on camera, though one changed her mind after building trust with Ghandour. Even then, Ghandour made the difficult decision to remove entire characters from the film if she feared for their safety. In one case, she excluded a key figure because presenting her story might expose her to retaliation.

The core of the film centers on two women: Ghandour's aunt, a midwife whose home becomes a refuge, and Natalie, also known by the pseudonym Leila, whose journey through shelters and family violence reveals the human cost of Iraq's legal vacuum where women are concerned. Both women have seen the film. Ghandour's aunt offered an emotional, encouraging response, while Natalie was struck by her on-screen appearance, conscious of the reconstructive surgery she needs for her injured chin, a result of the violence she faced. The team is now helping raise funds for the operation.

The film's title captures the erasure Ghandour is fighting against. In Iraq, "flana" is a term used for a woman whose name is forgotten or dismissed, "as if she's not worthy to mention," she explains. She deliberately turned it into a name, a presence.

Internationally, "Flana" is arriving at a moment when Arab women directors are gaining unprecedented visibility. Ghandour, fresh off of screening the film at IDFA, sees this momentum clearly. "Women are working more on films and having the chance they deserve," she observes. In Iraq, the film arrives amid a small but significant shift: the country issued its first-ever public film fund this year, and young filmmakers from the 1980s and 1990s generations are forging a path without formal film schools or established industry infrastructure.

Yet "Flana" is singular. It is the first Iraqi film about women made by a woman living in Iraq. "That mattered to me more than being selected by a major festival," she remarks. "It's a point on the road, one of many. But it's noticed."

Cairo, unexpectedly, became a turning point. "I didn't expect people to care," she recalls of the film's sold-out screening at the Opera House. "That theater being full changed something in me. It gave me trust, in 'Flana' and in Arab audiences."

Next, Ghandour plans an Iraq premiere, a national screening tour in towns without cinemas, and a companion book of essays, poetry and comics inspired by the film. Broadcasters across the region are in conversation. Al Jazeera, for example, has expressed interest.

But at its heart, Ghandour hopes "Flana" sparks something far simpler and far more pressing: a reckoning with the shelters, honor killings, and the everyday brutality facing women across Iraq, and further, a path toward accountability.

"The experience showed me it's possible to do more, to keep pushing," she concludes. "And for anyone who tries to undermine us, we know exactly what we're doing."