African cinema has played a significant role in liberation struggles on the continent. Documenting atrocities, and powerful visual storytelling crafted the identity of memories that were instrument to African statesmen as a symbolic weapon to emphasise sovereignty.
The film industries of Portuguese-speaking African nations (PALOP), such as Angola, Cape Verde, Mozambique, Sao Tome and Principe, and Guinea-Bissau have rich histories in this regard. From “O Herói” (The Hero) by Angolan filmmaker Zézé Gamboa, to "O Tempo dos Leopardos" ("The Time of the Leopards") and "Margaret Tchefu" both directed by Mozambican José Cardoso, PALOP cinematography has been highly acclaimed since its remarkable emergence within the post-colonial landscape.
Bissau-Guinean cinema’s historical significance in its portrayal and documentation of the nation’s struggle against Portuguese colonialism was pioneered by the likes of Flora Gomes and Sana Na N’hada. Known as the first filmmakers of the West African nation, Gomes’ and N’hada’s work goes beyond capturing colonial struggle; it also captures the nation's unique blend of African and Portuguese influences and reflects the region's broader post-colonial identity, marking a distinct and impressive chapter in African cinematography. With an array of award-winning films and sensational stories under their belts, both Gomes (Mortu Nega 1988; The Blue Eyes of Yonta 1992; My Voice 2002; Tree of Blood 1996; The Children's Republic 2012; The Two Faces of War 2007; and The Tournament Amílcar Cabral 1976) and Na N’hada (Nome 2023; Xime 1994; Spell Reel 2017; Kadjike 2013; Resonance Spiral 2024; Bissau d'Isabel 2005; Anything And All 2018) are household names beyond their borders.
The Third Cinema Movement, Amílcar Cabral and the revolutionary power of cinematography
In the '60s and the '70s, both filmmakers emerged alongside the Third Cinema Movement; a movement characterised by a cinematic boom in the Global South, centred on the artistic expressions and cultural strategies of revolutionary movements. The Third Cinema movement rose in response to colonial conditions, aiming to encourage critical thinking about social and political injustices while awakening a global revolutionary awareness through film.
Willing to disrupt the status quo by deconstructing colonial and white supremacist narratives, decolonising cinematographic traditions and decentering the white gaze in production, the mission of the Third Cinema Movement demanded inclusive and diversified language, allowing then the imagery to tackle colonialism head-to-head. It sought a fresh gaze upon the lands deemed Third World, a view bound by the rigid frames of colonial cinema, whose focus was exoticism and othering. Urged by the pulse of political struggle, these films were born in the heat of urgency and crafted swiftly, with meagre funds and bare resources. This raw, experimental filmmaking became a vessel for stories that rose like weapons of resistance, their voices cutting through the silence, carrying the weight of rebellion and hope. In Third Cinema, the lack of funds shaped the films’ raw, almost documentary-like style. Directors often worked with local, untrained actors, using natural light and real settings, weaving authenticity into every scene. The focus was never on flashy effects or glossy production but on the truth in their stories. This minimalist approach echoed the voices of the oppressed, rejecting the slick glamour of Hollywood in favour of a grittier, more grounded vision of resistance.
The movement saw rapid expansion as evidenced by sacred spaces like the Pan-African Festival of Algiers (PANAF) in 1969, where this tapestry found its most vivid expression. The festival marked a striking moment in history as a puissant meeting point for writers, artists, militants and filmmakers to reconnect the diaspora, discuss the struggle against neocolonialism, and celebrate a newly independent state and those that followed. Miriam Makeba, Maya Angelou, Nina Simone, Amílcar Cabral stood tall among them. Then, strong political links were established there as their words and actions kindled a fire that spread across the diaspora and beyond, paving the way for a cinematographic revolution to be held in other nations such as Guinea-Bissau.
Amílcar Cabral, the sage of Bissau-Guinean and Cape Verdean liberation, once proclaimed, "Christians journey to the Vatican, Muslims to Mecca, and the movements of national liberation to Algeria." For Cabral, the power of culture was undeniable—whether wielded by the hands of colonialism and capitalism to chain the future or by the hearts of revolutionaries to awaken a people. Culture, in its purest form, could birth a new consciousness, stirring minds to seek justice and inspiring bodies to rise against the forces of oppression. Cabral, in his vision, recognised that the battle was not just for land, but for the soul of a people, for their right to live in dignity and freedom. In Guinea-Bissau, amidst one of history's most remarkable liberation struggles, Cabral’s dream of a revolutionary culture took root and blossomed.
Under the banner of the African Party for the Independence of Guinea and Cape Verde (PAIGC), Cabral became a symbol of the anti-colonial fight. His mastery of diplomacy, combined with the guerrilla warfare successes against the Portuguese colonial army, drew the world's gaze to the struggle. The prowess of the PAIGC leader was highly praised across the Global South eventually grabbing the attention of Cuban leader, Fidel Castro. Cabral’s fire for freedom was undeniable, drawing the gaze of Cuba and entwining its path with the dreams of a free Guinea-Bissau. From this revolutionary kinship, the art of cinema became a weapon, a canvas for those bound by chains to paint their destiny. Notably, one of the earliest films produced in Guinea-Bissau was “Madina Boé” (1969), directed by Cuban filmmaker José Massip. It was one of many films by foreign hands, reflecting the deep bond between brothers in resistance.
Intending to enable Bissau-Guineans to write their own history, these films created a paradigm of consciousness amongst the freedom fighters and their viewers, providing the international community with a wider scope of visual colonial codes, which often diverged from the realities formed by the Portuguese government. These films became weaponry across many diplomatic stages, maintaining the ongoing backing of the global community for the resistance, while simultaneously condemning the brutal actions carried out by the Portuguese Estado Novo regime's colonial rule.
Mortu Nega e Xime: The birth of the first filmmakers of Guinea-Bissau and the echoes of resistance in postcolonial Guinea-Bissau
But Amílcar Cabral knew that true liberation would not come from external eyes. He dreamed of Bissau-Guineans crafting their images, telling their histories, and reclaiming their narrative. His vision reached beyond the battlefield, into the heart of identity and memory. So, he took the revolutionary step of sending four young Bissau-Guineans—José Columba Bolama, Josefina Crato, Flora Gomes, and Sana Na N’Hada—to Cuba to learn the craft of filmmaking. Upon their return, they would no longer be mere witnesses to the struggle; instead they would be its storytellers, documenting the courage, resilience, and dreams of their people as they fought for freedom, both with weapons and with words.
Their lenses became tools of the revolution, capturing not only the battles in the bush but the very spirit of a nation in the making. Through their eyes, the world would see Guinea-Bissau not as a colony but as a rising people, asserting their right to define their future, culture, and place in the world. Gomes, in works such as “Mortu Nega”, spins stories that resonate with the deep pulse of liberation, identity, and the fierce safeguarding of cultural roots. Meanwhile, Na N’hada’s “Xime” journeys into the soul of rural existence, where the struggle against colonial rule intersects with the wisdom passed down from one generation to the next, capturing the essence of resistance and survival.
Almost forty years later, “Mortu Nega” by Gomes is still a film that captures the heart of Bissau-Guinean culture, immersing us in the lived experience of war, loss, and the tenacity of a people bound together by struggle. From the outset, it strikes with its raw portrayal of the devastating effects of colonialism and the harrowing journey to reclaim freedom. Yet, amid the chaos and despair, there is a lingering sense of hope, a quiet resilience in the face of overwhelming adversity. The story, set against the backdrop of Guinea-Bissau’s fight for independence from Portuguese rule, follows the life of Diminga, a woman who, like many, is torn between grief for what has been lost and the need to push forward. As war rages on, the people are displaced, homes are reduced to rubble, and survival becomes a daily challenge. The pain is omnipresent, like a shadow that clings to each character. From the children playing in the streets, unaware of the true horror of war, to the elderly who carry the weight of the nation’s suffering, no one is spared from the destruction.
The strength of “Mortu Nega” lies in its striking realism. The scenes are not romanticized; they unfold in the harsh, unfiltered reality of war. Women, particularly, bear the brunt of this hardship. They are left behind as their men go off to fight, yet it is the women who keep the community alive. Through agriculture, education, and the rebuilding of shattered homes, it is clear that women are the backbone of the resistance, even if their roles often go uncelebrated. Diminga, in particular, embodies this quiet strength, her every action a testament to the resilience of the Bissau-Guinean woman.
War leaves its imprint not only on the landscape but on the minds and bodies of its survivors. They carry with them the echoes of gunfire, the screams of the dying, and the constant fear that peace is fleeting. Even after the Portuguese are defeated, the fight is far from over. There are internal divisions to overcome, tribal tensions to heal, and the monumental task of rebuilding a nation from ashes. Yet, for all its pain, “Mortu Nega” is also a celebration of life. The drums, the songs, the dances—they are vibrant reminders that even in the darkest of times, the Bissau-Guinean spirit remains unbroken. There is a deep sense of unity, of community, that permeates every frame. The film reminds us that the fight for freedom is not just a political struggle but a deeply personal one, woven into the fabric of daily life. In the end, “Mortu Nega” leaves us with a powerful message: war may shatter lives, but it cannot extinguish the human spirit. The hope for a new dawn, though fragile, endures.
On the other hand, “Xime” delivers a compelling perspective of Bissau-Guinean culture as it focuses highly on the generational weight of colonialism and healing. The film begins with the quiet but powerful image of someone painting the word "independence" on a wall—a notion that, at the time, felt distant. The film paints a vivid picture of life before the revolution, a period when Portuguese rule still seeped deeply into the fabric of everyday existence. Na N’hada crafts a cinematic space that captures the rhythms of rural life, set against a backdrop of Guinea-Bissau’s stunning natural landscapes. However, this beauty is contrasted sharply with the ugliness of colonial brutality, the weight of Portuguese racism hanging over the villagers like an oppressive cloud. Unlike “Mortu Nega”, which follows the eruption of armed conflict, “Xime” sits on the precipice of rebellion, focusing on the quieter struggles—the suffocating colonial policies and the daily humiliations the people endure. Guineans are faced with a cruel choice: to either accept the dehumanising conditions imposed by their colonisers or resist and face devastating consequences.
In the tabankas, or villages, white Catholic missionaries attempt to "civilise" local children, a form of white saviourism is both condescending and invasive. The film blatantly reveals the pain of those who have assimilated, the so-called "civilised" Bissau-Guineans, who now wield their newfound power to oppress their fellow countrymen. The Portuguese set the prices for essential goods like rice and fish, reinforcing economic subjugation while the villagers are coerced into paying taxes to ensure their survival. Yet, throughout the turmoil, spirituality endures as a guiding force. The film weaves in the deep animist traditions of the region, where prayers and rituals connect the people to their ancestors, offering comfort when all else seems lost. In this way, “Xime” subtly suggests that spirituality itself is a form of resistance, a way for Bissau-Guineans to assert their identity in a world intent on erasing it. Through these sacred practices, the characters find the strength to endure, fight, and remember who they are.
Amílcar Cabral's Legacy Lives On: Na N’hada and Gomes’s Cinematic Voices and Stories Continue the Fight
After the hard-fought liberation and the brutal murder of the PAIGC’s visionary leader, Cabral's dream of a vibrant, sovereign cinema—a realm where the pain and echoes of colonialism could be captured, confronted, and remembered—was left suspended. Despite this, the two steadfast souls of Bissau-Guinean film, Gomes and Na N’hada, carried the torch of postcolonial storytelling, weaving the struggles and hopes of a free nation into their frames.
Yet, with a precarious economy to rebuild post-independence, Luis Cabral, taking over Bissau’s leadership, following the death of his brother, decided to focus on sectors such as healthcare and agriculture, instead. There and then, the journey of both filmmakers was bound by the tightening grip of modest funds from their government. It took the inception of the Instituto Nacional de Cinema (INC), or National Cinema Institute, and the resilience of those passionate about filmmaking to propel the state beyond recording international state visits or news programmes that would never see the light of day, even for a short period. From there films such as “Sans Soleil” (co-production with Frenchman Chris Marker), “Guinea-Bissau, Six Years Later” (granted state funding) and “The Return of Amilcar Cabral” were seen as possible avenues to solidify the film industry in the country. However, only “Sans Soleil” managed to reach the big screen, since the latter fell through with the coup d’etat orchestrated by Joao Bernardo Vieira, who believed the films could be utilised as propaganda supporting the party he suddenly took over.
Inevitably, the scarcity of resources stifled their ability to create, and give voice to their people’s stories on their terms until 1988 when “Mortu Nega” was released. Art, especially cinema, was pushed to the margins, fading into the background of the government's priorities—a sharp contrast to the bold, revolutionary spirit that once burned under Cabral’s leadership. This neglect rippled through the Lusophone world, where cinema became a rarity, until recently, struggling to bloom compared to the Anglophone and Francophone lands. The dreams of a self-determined film industry dimmed, as they leaned heavily on co-productions with Europe, such as “The Children’s Republic”, “The Blue Eyes of Yonta” or “Anything and All”, tethering the future of Bissau-Guinean cinema to those who once sought to silence its voice.
Despite the presently narrowing film landscape, we can still look to Gomes and N’hada’s ability to transcend the notions of entertainment and build a world of constant learning, both historical, political and cultural. Today, after fifty long years, the two reunite to give new breath to their latest creation, a documentary titled “Amílcar Cabral and the Struggle for Liberation”, set to be released in 2025. This documentary blends documentary and fiction to portray West African revolutionary Amílcar Cabral's leadership in Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde’s independence fight. It reflects Cabral’s enduring words, etched deep in their hearts: “Tomorrow, the duty of telling our story will rest on your shoulders. Who else can narrate my life if not those who lived it, who felt its pulse?” Though Cabral’s blood soaked the earth before their cameras could capture the fullness of his truth, Gomes and Na N’hada, the last of the four who journeyed to Cuba in brotherhood, return to this unfinished labour. They carry with them the hope of reviving Cabral’s legacy, illuminating the fierce fight for freedom, and unveiling the scars carved by the oppressor's hand.
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