filmpost

 

A review by Lukas Siebeneicker 

 

The camera pans to brown-blue water slapping against a destroyed van standing in a riverbed. Mountains and forests stretch in the background, bringing the vast landscape of Kosovo into focus. On the banks of the Drin, not far from the Albanian border, we can hear water rushing, birds in the sky and the cries of a woman. This is where Fahrije (Yllka Gashi) often comes with her children to mourn her husband, ever since he went missing during the war against Serbia a few years ago. Possibly, like many others, he was killed by Serbian soldiers and thrown into the river.

Hive (2021) shows a rural society shattered by war, centering Fahrije’s struggle to provide for her family as a single mother. She gets a driver’s license and, with the support of a women’s association, begins building an agricultural cooperative. They produce ajvar, a spread made from roasted red bell peppers highly common in Southeastern Europe.

However, she faces many obstacles: her car window gets smashed and her first ajvar production destroyed. The grim, patriarchal society of her village doesn’t seem ready for her. Nevertheless, Fahrije’s business is a success and provides a steady income for the whole village. At the end of the film, we learn that Fahrije has succeeded in real life too. The protagonist of the film is based on Fahrije Hoti, a woman living in the village of Krusha e Madhe – the site of a massacre by the Army of Serbia and Montenegro, where more than 200 Albanian civilians were killed on 25 March of 1999. Her cooperative produces ajvar to this very day.

The titular beehive is Fahrije’s first opportunity for a source of income. She has taken over the colonies from her husband, even though she is often stung by them, and lets her father-in-law sell the honey at a market. As I sit in the cinema, I wonder about the relationship between the bees and the characters in the film. Is there a similarity between the village community and a swarm that tries to survive by working together? And does Fahrije feel equally rejected by the hive for stinging her as by the village for violently obstructing her plans? Perhaps the swarm metaphor might even be applied to Kosovo as a country. Interestingly, “hive” in colloquial English means a place where a lot happens, where there is a busy, or even hectic hustle and bustle. I had this impression when I visited Kosovo’s capital Prishtina for the Manifesta Biennale and the design conference “Redo Prishtina” last fall.

Ajvar becomes Fahrije’s second most successful sales product. She buys peppers from a molesting vendor and convinces her neighbors to help crush and cook them. They later cooperate with a large supermarket in Prishtina that sells their ajvar. Yet at one point their storage is destroyed, its floor overflowing with red relish and shards. These pictures make me think of blood, and therefore of war. Although the women are not swayed by this, one thing becomes clear: there is resistance to their self-determination.

Fahrije’s struggle points to today’s problems in Kosovo. The unresolved sovereignty following the war against Serbia has a profound impact on its citizens. There are still significant obstacles to overcome; visas to enter the European Union are difficult and costly to obtain. On top of that, the Serbian government continues to provoke aggression, claiming the whole of Kosovo as a Serbian province. Lately, this could be seen once again in the conflict about license plates.

Blerta Basholli’s debut film is emotional and captivating. It cares about its characters and shows them in great detail: up-close and yet somehow resisting the kitsch of the Hollywood portrait shot. And even though this is a (semi-)fictional account and not a documentary, Hive taught me a lot about a country and its history that is mostly on the periphery of German and English media. Hopefully, this will – by and through this film – change.