There is a quote from Noah Baumbach’s While We’re Young (2014) that I am always drawn to when thinking about filmmaking: “Documentary is about someone else. Fiction is about me.” The more I watch fiction films, the more I believe it; you cannot help but see and feel a filmmaker’s lived experience all over their work. I had assumed the same for documentaries, too. However, Zahraa Ghandour’s deeply personal debut feature-length doc, Flana, which had its world premiere at TIFF 2025, proved me wrong.

In Iraq, “flana” is the term used for forgotten or missing women, which you would hope is used in rare occurrences. Unfortunately, it is incredibly common. Young girls are repeatedly ripped away from their homes without explanation or a strong determination to be found. Being Iraqi herself, Ghandour decides that enough is enough and that more should be done to give a spotlight to their disappearances and the overall treatment of women in her country. 

Her story is led by Hayat and Nathalie, two women in Baghdad who have been affected by “flana” in contrasting ways. Hayat is Ghandour’s aunt, who looked after her during the formative years of her life. Their kinship allows for raw, unfiltered recollections of complicated feelings between mothers and their daughters, including Ghandour’s relationship with her own mother. The fact that this was filmed predominantly in Hayat’s home adds depth to how intimately imposing this film is for Ghandour and how much of herself she shares with the viewers.

Yet this is not the most Ghandour bears her soul onto the screen. At the age of 10, her childhood friend and neighbor, Nour, was taken from her while at her aunt’s house. We listen as Ghandour narrates segments of the film as if she is directly speaking to her missing friend, acting as a form of catharsis and closure for this agonizing memory. Flana is a letter to Nour from Ghandour about how life progressed without her and her lasting impact on Ghandour’s mind. There is nothing that sends a more powerful message than her level of vulnerability.

The dialogue is filled with striking insights into what it is like to be a woman in Iraq. When a baby girl is born, she is deemed the “mother of silence.” When she grows up, she is told that “marriage is necessary.” When she is pregnant, her husband threatens her, saying, “If you have a girl, I will divorce you.” All of this is said without a change in inflexion as if it is as casual as breathing. With these three phrases alone, we are told that women should be seen, not heard, and subservient to the men they marry.

There is a hopefulness that reinstates itself in the third act through Nathalie, who is abandoned by her family at a young age. While her time in the orphanage was melancholic, she demonstrates that there is a life filled with opportunity and happiness that can be lived detached from her label as a “flana.” Now living in her own space, we see Nathalie brimming with joy for her friends and her job as a production assistant. In a story that feels quite bleak, Ghandour knows how imperative it is to remind audiences that women in Iraq can be accomplished and happy, too.

The filmmaking strikes you as one that comes from a seasoned director. Everything feels intentional and integral to the heart of the story, especially the collaboration with cinematographer Jocelyne Abi Gebrayel. She can capture an emptiness in all that she films, emulating the gaping hole that the taken girls leave in their loved ones’ lives. Gebrayel collates a beautiful photobook of Iraqi culture through the lingering shots of Hayat’s house. Yet, the stillness also reinforces that life does not move on. It remains stuck in their absence. 

Flana acts as a reminder that women remain a marginalized group within the world, providing another example in Iraq of how they are mistreated. Ghandour effectively gets this messaging across through her own lived experiences of “flana” in hopes that people will help craft a better future for the women of her country.

Review Courtesy of Nandita Joshi

Feature Image Courtesy of TIFF