With a blend of poetry and raw honesty, Sherif El Bendary’s films offer a vision of Egypt and, more broadly, the Mediterranean that sharply contrasts with the idyllic images often projected onto the region. Far from the postcard clichés of harmony and cultural richness, his cinema delves into the fractures, silences and contradictions that shape everyday life. By blending magical realism with social critique, El Bendary invites us to question the celebrated ideals of diversity and civilisation, offering instead a Mediterranean marked by tension, complexity and resistance.
During the Amal Euro-Arab Film Festival held in Santiago de Compostela on 24 and 25 March 2025, we had the opportunity to engage with Sherif El Bendary on these issues, exploring how his cinema challenges myths of the Mediterranean as a harmonious, unified space.
This exchange took place in the framework of the MASAR AL AMAL project (“Path of Hope” in Arabic), a scriptwriting lab dedicated to mentoring emerging Arab filmmakers in the development of fiction and documentary films. The initiative is part of the AECID’s MASAR Ahora programme, in collaboration with the Araguaney Foundation and the Amal Festival.
Your films often contrast sharply with the idyllic image of the Mediterranean as a space of harmony and shared culture. How do you relate to this narrative, and in what ways do you feel your work challenges or dismantles it, particularly from your perspective rooted in Cairo?
The idea of the Mediterranean as a harmonious space is more of a projection than a reality. It’s a romantic narrative that often ignores the inequalities, the conflicts, and the unresolved historical tensions that still shape the region. My films are rooted in Cairo, but Cairo is not isolated, it’s part of this wider Mediterranean context. What I try to do in my work is dismantle that illusion of harmony by focusing on the fractures, class disparities, political repression, and the silent struggles people carry within them. Harmony exists, but mostly in postcards or tourist brochures, not in the lives of those navigating everyday hardship.
The Mediterranean is often praised for its cultural diversity − but how deep does that acceptance truly go, especially when it comes to identity, sexuality, or dissenting voices? In Better Than Earth, you portray the repression of homosexuality in Egypt. Do you feel that diversity in the region is more of a convenient ideal than a lived reality − and how does cinema allow you to confront that gap?
I think we like the idea of diversity more than we actually embrace it. In most of the region, diversity is celebrated only when it’s non-threatening, food, music, languages. But when it comes to identity, sexuality, political expression, especially anything that challenges traditional or religious norms, we see a very different picture. In Better Than Earth, I focused on the experience of someone who is criminalised simply for existing. That story is not just about homosexuality; it’s about how we fail to recognise the humanity in others when they don’t conform. So no, I don’t think we really accept diversity, not when it makes us uncomfortable. And cinema is one of the few spaces where I can confront that hypocrisy.
Since the 2011 revolution, Egypt has experienced a complex mix of hope, disillusionment, and surreal daily contradictions. You often draw on fable and magical realism to depict this atmosphere, where the absurd blends into the everyday. Why do you turn to these narrative tools, and how do they help you capture and critique the social and political tensions of post-revolutionary Egypt?
Post-2011, Egyptian reality became increasingly surreal. The revolution gave people hope, then quickly turned into disillusionment. That emotional chaos, the contradiction between what we dreamed of and what actually happened, can’t always be captured through realism alone. That’s why I often turn to magical realism and fable. These tools allow me to express what feels emotionally true, even if it isn’t literally true. The absurd becomes a mirror for our daily lives, where bureaucracy, oppression, and resistance intertwine in strange, often ironic ways. It’s also a way to speak freely in a climate where direct political critique can come at a cost.
The image of Egypt as a “bridge” between East and West and the “cradle of civilization” is often deeply ingrained in cultural narratives. However, your films present a different view, highlighting a country divided by contradictions and unresolved trauma. How does your cinema challenge this nostalgic vision of Egypt and reshape its role in the Mediterranean today?
That image of Egypt as a cultural bridge or cradle of civilisation is something we’re taught in school, and yes, it’s a source of pride. But when you walk through Cairo today, you’re not stepping into history; you’re stepping into a present full of contradictions, inequality, and unresolved trauma. My films are not nostalgic. I’m not interested in reviving old glories. I want to show the Egypt that exists now, the Egypt where young people feel trapped, where tradition and modernity clash every day, where the past feels more like a burden than a foundation. If my work reshapes Egypt’s image, I hope it does so by grounding it in the lived experiences of its people not in slogans or mythology.
To deepen this reflection, we invite you to watch this video excerpt in which Chaymaa Ramzy speaks with Sherif El Bendary during the script development workshop held as part of the MASAR AL AMAL cooperation project with the Arab world, organised by the Amal Euro-Arab Film Festival.
More info on the workshop: festivalamal.com/taller-formulacion-masar-al-amal