«عبور»، هو تجربة سينمائية فنية تعرض قصتين منفصلتين في آنٍ واحد على قناتي فيديو، وعلى 12 قناة صوتية، ومدته 26 دقيقة، وقد تم إنجاز هذا العمل خصيصاً للجناح الوطني لدولة الإمارات ليشارك ضمن فعاليات الدورة 58 من المعرض الدولي للفنون في بينالي البندقية بإيطاليا عام 2019.
تم تصوير العمل بين الإمارات والبندقية، بالتعاون مع القيمين الفنيين للجناح الوطني، سام بردويل وتيل فلرات. ويعدّ العمل امتداداً لتجربة نجوم الغانم في مجال الشعر العربي المعاصر عبر لغة سينمائية تعتمد على السرد بين الواقع والخيال .
ويرتكز الفيلم في محتواه على قصيدة كتبتها نجوم في عام 2009 بعنوان «العابر يلتقط ضوء القمر» والتي تتمحور حول تداعيات تجربة الاغتراب.
أما بناء الفيلم فيعتمد على قصتين مختلفتين، الأولى «حقيقية» والثانية «خيالية»، إذ تُعرضان في الوقت ذاته على شكل فيلمين، بأسلوب سردي غير متتابع وعلى جهتي الشاشة نفسها المتعاكستين.
وتنقل القصة «الحقيقية» جهود نجوم وأمل حويجة (الممثلة السورية القديرة التي تعيش في الإمارات)، من أجل إنتاج فيلم لجناح الإمارات في بينالي البندقية. أما القصة «الخيالية» فتصوير لشخصية فلك المُتخيَّلة والتي تمر برحلة شاقة كمغتربة وإنسانة.
وأثناء عرض الفيلم، يُسمع صوت نجوم وهي تقرأ بعض المقاطع من قصائدها، وتواكب الفيلمين موسيقى تصويرية واحدة، غير أنها ذات إيحاءات متعددة على كل جانب من جهتي الشاشة. ولا يدرك المشاهدون إلا عند عبورهم إلى نهاية الطرف الآخر أن الفيلمين المختلفين ظاهرياً هما في الواقع جانبان من القصة نفسها. وبهذا يكون المشاهدون وشخصيات الفيلم قد خضعوا جميعاً على حدّ سواء لحالة «عبور» كل من ناحيته. وهي التجربة التي يسعى العمل إلى جعل الجمهور يعيشها بشكل نفسي ومادي.
"Passage" is an immersive, 26-minute site specific, two-channel video and 12-channel sound installation commissioned for the National Pavilion UAE that expands Nujoom Alghanem’s experimentation with forms of contemporary Arabic poetry through the language of film, providing a poignant reflection on the experience of displacement.
The film was shot in both the UAE and Venice and was conceived and developed in close collaboration with the Pavilion curators Sam Bardaouil and Till Fellrath.
"Passage" is structured along two distinct narratives, one “real,” the other “fictional,” which are simultaneously projected as two non-linear films on the opposite sides of the same screen. The “real” narrative depicts the endeavours of Nujoom and Amal, a Syrian actress residing in the United Arab Emirates, to create a film for the Pavilion. The “fictional” narrative is an aestheticised portrayal of Falak, a displaced woman on an arduous journey. The latter is conceived by Nujoom and played by Amal. This Brechtian conflation of reality and fiction, culminating in a scene that depicts Falak arriving to the Pavilion in Venice, prompts the viewer to consider the parallels between the film’s three main protagonists: the director, the actress and the fictional character. These three women of a similar age are connected by the experience of shared dualities: the hidden and the revealed, fragility and power, as well as belonging and displacement.
قصائد مُختارة من العمل التركيبي
Selected Poems from the Video Instalation
The Passerby Collects the Moonlight
To those strangers, my friends
The passerby collects the moonlight
To weave more stories for the evening
And heal the darkness
That weighs heavy on the lake.
He comes, stiff hands clinging
To the little warmth in his body.
As for worry, it leaves its taste on his breath:
“You can’t be a noble immigrant
He tells the air that flies around him like an angel.
He fosters some peace of mind
Whenever his misgivings betray him,
He invents joy to dispel the gloom
Of the dank and lonely days
From his soul,
And to disguise
The reproachful voice in his heart.
He follows his footsteps’ traces on the paths,
Afraid to lose his shadow,
And sometimes the sidewalks diverge,
So he wanders without a home…
He has to leave some part of himself on the paths,
His scent on the walls,
Or his senses somewhere close—
He reminds his soul of this,
Because it might forget.
His eyes have to memorize the landmarks here
So they can recognize these places
When he returns,
And so he won’t look like a stranger
Or seem suspect to the travelers
At night’s end.
He passes by, bearing his name
And his papers, which crumple
In the hands of inspectors,
Leaving behind a moment of horror
That he alone remembers
Whenever his eyes fall on that picture
Fixed in the corner of the ID card.
The picture no longer resembles him,
But it has preserved
The scared gaze in his years
And in his coat pocket;
It has left him confused, wandering all over.
He carries a trace of fear
To mislead it
In the darkness that’s coated with the sky’s silver,
Where his feet press down, beating the path.
He hopes the long journey will heal his thoughts of exile
And give his years the salve of oblivion.
Oblivion in turn bestows its gifts on him,
Making him forget the fear
That lurks beneath his clothes.
This is why he’ll remain
In these substitute countries
While the sting of winter burns his skin.
He’ll forget when he came here.
And if he has to leave,
And if his feet don’t carry him away one day,
Then he’ll pardon the places of exile
And forgive them for not severing his fingers,
For not burning his eyes with their snow.
He’ll appreciate the small house that’s hiding
On the frontiers of the last province—
A sanctuary for the trains running late
And for the small hopes
That come back with him each evening.
And the smile of the guardian of the nights
Or the words “good night” from the bus driver
Will make him more grateful.
And he’ll go to sleep, feeling healed
For his humanity, complete,
Came to bed with him.
But he rubs sleep from his eyes when he remembers
That he’ll have to entrust the night with his body
Without knowing in what land his soul will be born
Or which rose will bloom on his grave, which will be visited
By those whom he loved in this life.
And he’ll wonder
If this will hurt him,
But still he’ll fall into slumber’s trap,
And the next day he’ll rise, carrying his crutches,
Leaving his heavy legs in their place.
He’ll fly, leaning against the wind
Like the stork, with legs
That look like small acacia trunks,
And wondering why the details of the city
Fly past him like a distant dream,
As weightless as kites
That escaped their threads,
Nothing hurts him,
Not even his mother’s neglectfulness—that woman
Who was broken by misfortune.
Freeing himself of everything,
Even of his wound.
The Shadow of the Night
To my friend Hassan Sharif, to his madness and breakdowns.
Fear crept into my corner
To share the evening cup with me,
Just as I was getting used to these naked days, to living
With neither coat nor friends.
I might have managed to escape from it,
But our eyes met in a flash of hope,
And fate built a bridge for us.
Together, we walked through the nights
Leaning on a single cane.
The years piled up on our table
And we forgot that we were enemies,
Just as friends forget they are friends.
Fear became my shirt,
I opened my arms to it,
But instead of embracing me
It slipped into my heart.
We became each other’s nocturnal companion,
Surviving on air and sorrow,
And now we have to pack our bags together
And stand on the hill of angels
So they might choose us
To appear before God.
All these eras
For the sake of this fear that rooted in my heart,
And still it’s embracing me
Like a mother who cannot cope with the loss.
He Said He Was Going
To M. A., who decided to go in the dark of night.
He said he was going home,
and he started walking without looking at anything
or turning back.
He walked until he could no longer stop
or say goodbye.
In his corner
He closed his eyes to search
Within a well in his mind
For the shadows he’d left in their place
He heard the wind screaming like an enchantress
In the water of his body.
The distance spoke to his heart in voices
He wanted to silence.
He shut his eyes to make them
He won’t be able to see them
Or know where they come from,
And he won’t be able
To stretch his hand to them
To make them be quiet,
Or make them go…
So he opened his eyes
And left them there
To wander aimlessly
In a distant sky.
He said he was going to the river.
He started walking around the plains
And the trees walked behind him, until
They burned in his love.
The ashes flew through the air,
So the birds came
And found no end of flesh:
Until they could sing no longer.
And forgot how they used to fly.