Zara’s troubles are happening in a specific cultural context, but they’re also part of a much larger phenomenon. “I was careful in not demonizing the Pakistani Muslim man,” she told me, expanding on how that narrative and a desire to “save women” in countries in the Muslim world has been a driving force behind war and occupation. It’s important to Gul that viewers recognize these issues don’t arise only in Muslim societies. Gul drew on the social realism and visual simplicity of Iranian art-house films, blending documentary and fiction to explore the ways that digital communication clashes with social customs. “Whereas we, culturally, in terms of literature and poetry, embrace tragedy.” Zara’s tense and unravelling situation in “Sandstorm” inherits some of those cultural ideas. “We grew up on Bollywood films, and I think in India they like song and dance,” she told me. But her storytelling is imbued with cultural notes she’s familiar with, and she particularly takes inspiration from Iranian art-house cinema and the ways Iranian storytelling resonated with her as a Pakistani. Gul now lives in the U.K., and she draws on experiences of her friends there and research about revenge-porn cases in Europe as much as on her own upbringing in Pakistan. Gul sees this kind of coercion and the double standards around women’s sexuality as a struggle faced by women around the world. Zara is walking a tightrope, navigating a conflicting set of ideas and rules about women’s desirability and shame. But even in her most private moments, silhouetted in darkness, her face is intermittently illuminated by the flash of her phone, juxtaposing her inner self with the fact that she’s constantly being perceived and consumed. Tight shots and small spaces keep the film intimate. Gul’s visual style accentuates that tension. Zara’s body is being projected onto with social assumptions before she even has a chance to explore and define it for herself. Later, Zara notices that a middle-aged man collecting laundry on a nearby rooftop is watching her, a jarring reminder of how a woman exists in external spaces: surveilled, objectified. Her friend jokes that girls from good families don’t dance like that, nodding to social expectations. The scene is joyful and sensuous-a young person exploring and becoming aware of their own body. Gul’s film opens with Zara dancing in a room and her friend recording on a phone. “It dawned on me that when girls are growing up-when I was growing up-we didn’t have an idea of what is considered sexual in terms of our moves, our bodies, how to go about what can be public, what should remain private.” In “Sandstorm,” the main character, Zara, finds herself in a situation similar to Ahmed’s, and grapples with questions of privacy and coercion while navigating romance in the digital age. “It was so innocent and so sweet, and it was so sensual at the same time,” she said. Hearing the story made Gul curious to see Ahmed’s dance, and when she did it sparked a realization.
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It was this story that inspired Seemab Gul, a filmmaker who grew up in Karachi, Pakistan, to make her short film “Sandstorm.” If she didn’t get back together with him, he’d post the video and photos online. Three years later, after they had broken up, he started sending her threats. She shared the video and some photographs with her boyfriend. It was the type of thing girls would do in private, behind closed doors.
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In 2009, Ghadeer Ahmed, an Egyptian teen-ager, recorded a video of herself dancing in a short dress at her friend’s house.