Lasting from 1977 to 1992, the Mozambique civil war left deep scars on the psyche of the whole nation. In his second feature, Inadelso Cossa attempts to grapple with the psychological wreckage of this harrowing period by combing through his own family history; returning to the village where he grew up, the film-maker conducts a series of interviews with his grandmother, whose testimony is rendered unreliable by her worsening dementia.
The film wavers between real and imagined truths, a liminal state echoed by the evocative cinematography. Nocturnal sequences, in which wooden sheds, grassy fields, and even Cossa’s grandmother, are wrapped in a cloak of darkness inspire a deceptive sense of calm. In the dead of night, though, the spectres of the past linger. Cossa also speaks to other historical witnesses: Macuacua and Zalina, an older couple, spend much of their screen time bickering but these domestic moments are underlined with unease. A former soldier, Macuacua was once a participant in the violence against civilians but his life now, however, is marred by poverty. In a striking scene, Macuacua holds up a tree branch shaped like a rifle and reenacts a patrol route from his youth with astonishing matter-of-factness. As his muscle memory kicks in, the past and the present collapse together to startling effect.
For Cossa, history is distilled in these kinds of gestures, moving beyond linear time. Although the film is bookended by archival footage, the director prioritises non-traditional forms of documentation, such as monologues, songs, and reenactments. While this approach embodies the slipperiness of memory, it also renders the film difficult to follow on occasion. But across these streams of oral history, what we find are not merely facts and figures, but feelings, in which pain and healing entwine.