'Faraaz': The fine line between public and private, creativity and sensitivity

Soon after Ryan Murphy's series on serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer came out, the portrayal of the murderer's victims provoked a firestorm of controversy. Victims' families began to speak out about the hurt and the despair that the show had brought them. 

Having to relive the fictionalised and often watered-down accounts of the murders, the victims' family members were in disbelief at how this was even allowed. 

Shirley Hughes,  whose son was just 31 at the time of his killing in 1991, told The Guardian, "it didn't happen like that".

"I don't see how they can do that," she said, adding, "I don't see how they can use our names and put stuff out like that out there."

To his credit, the show's creator emphasised that he had tried to reach out to the victims' families but received no response. 

The case of the movie "Faraaz", based on the Holey Artisan attack, is perhaps similar. There are elements that appeal to a person's empathy but, at the same time, raise questions about freedom of expression.  

Even before the movie went into production, Ruba Ahmed, mother of Abinta Kabir - who militants killed in the 2016 attack, had tried to stop it from ever seeing the light of day.

In a recent press conference, she said, "Can you imagine the pain of witnessing your daughter's last moment on big-screen? This movie should not come in OTT for the sake of our country and for my child. Please don't let this movie come to Bangladesh. This type of personal tragedy should not be screened on Netflix or Amazon."

The whole conference was heartbreaking. Forcing a mother to relive the death of a child, especially in this case given how it happened, is indeed heartless. But her statement on image rights was also provocative.  

The grief of Abinta's mother is easy to understand. It is easy to empathise with. But before allowing grief to permeate into censorship, we must guard against self-policing ourselves into a corner that has much greater implications than whether 'Faraaz' should or should not be viewed by Bangladeshi audiences.   

Her words and raw emotions should inspire some form of introspection among creatives. But again, the question of artistic freedom – how much of it we have and should have – must also be answered. 

The Holey Artisan attack was both a personal tragedy and a major public event. Under no circumstances can anyone pretend to understand what Ruba Ahmed, or any of the families of the victims of that gruesome tragedy, went through, and continue to go through. Seeing the worst moment of your life turned into what is essentially a form of entertainment, with potential financial gains accrued to the creators, is understandably despairing, if not disgusting.

But unfortunately for these families, the Holey Artisan attack was also a national and international event. The attack was tied to many larger national and global trends, including the violent extremism perpetrated by ISIS, the dangerous attraction to its philosophy among a section of the youth around the world, and the subsequent excessive securitisation of many states, including Bangladesh. 

From that perspective, we are all victims of the Holey Artisan attack in some way or another. The story then – unfortunately and painfully for the victims – becomes part of the public domain, as much as it is a personal tragedy. 

Stories are one way societies come to terms with the different currents passing through them. And to tell these stories, the creative parts of a society are afforded freedom of expression, at least in theory.

Although there is always the risk of freedom of expression being abused, it is still integral for the healthy functioning of any society. It is easy to say there should be certain 'no-go' areas, but the question is, who gets to decide what those areas are? What if that decision falls in the hands of people who only wield it against opinions or ideas they do not like? Do we not see that happening everyday around us?

There should be absolute freedom of expression, even though it comes at a cost. To say we cannot explore someone else's tragedy through a differently-nuanced lens is like opening a hornet's nest. If we draw one line, must we then not draw others? And then, where does it stop? 

Having said all this, the treatment of a subject like the Holey Artisan Attack would require strict adherence to the facts. Moreover, one can also ask, is it too soon? 

But if it is too soon, then what is the perfect time? The Dahmer example shows that not all wounds heal with time. Many can be pierced open again, seemingly as fresh as ever before. 

If that is the case, should creators then spend more time questioning the merit of their content? Ask if it is necessary, if it is adding something new and, whether it has considered the matter of empathy. 

While it is easy to say that Bangladeshis are used to censorship, state- or society-sponsored, these are questions almost all societies in the world grapple with. The United States of America, which purports to be a bastion of freedom, has also seen numerous curbs on what can and cannot be said. In fact, there are red lines in not only America but the liberal West as a whole. No one missed out on the so-called cancel culture, which started as calling out perpetrators of crimes and devolved into a witch hunt against those with opposing views. 

Ruba Ahmed's opposition to the movie 'Faraaz' carries an additional dimension, which has to do with the identity of the filmmaker. Should an Indian tell the story of a tragedy in Bangladesh? This is a loaded question being tossed around on social media. 

But should a creator wonder about his identity if he or she is drawn to a story? Should that detract him or her from creating the content they set out to make? Should the identity of Hansal Mehta, producer of the movie Faraaz, matter when he tells the story?

When a coloniser or a subjugator tells the story of the colonised and subjugated, the answer can be a simple no. But Hansal seems to be neither of those. He also boasts a great history of producing movies based on real compelling stories. His movie Shahid, which focuses on a Muslim lawyer fighting for those accused of terrorism, is based on a true story. And by all accounts, Hansal did a stellar job of capturing its truth in his production. His other works based on real life, such as Aligarh and Scam 1992, are also testaments to his prowess. 

Of course, if his nationality was the big question, then why is Mostofa Sarwar Farooki's "Saturday Afternoon" also stuck in limbo? One suspects that forces stronger than Farooki but weaker than the might of Bollywood are at play in the rather incongruous fate of the two movies based on the same event. 

The grief of Abinta's mother is easy to understand. It is easy to empathise with. But before allowing grief to permeate into censorship, we must guard against self-policing ourselves into a corner that has much greater implications than whether 'Faraaz' should or should not be viewed by Bangladeshi audiences.