As the first Libyan film to premiere at Venice in thirteen years, her documentary also marked a milestone for a cultural landscape often overshadowed by turmoil. Yet Jihan approaches this visibility with humility and purpose, using cinema as a way to reclaim a narrative long fragmented by politics. In our conversation, Jihan reflects on the origins of the film, the complexities of carrying a Libyan identity across borders, and the emotional resolve required to turn a family story into a universal one.
AM: To begin, what prompted you to tell your family story through My Father and Qaddafi?
Jihan: This film was, above all, a personal journey. My father, Mansur, disappeared when I was very young, and for decades many remarkable people, journalists, lawyers, human rights advocates, have investigated his case. My mother searched for 19 years. I realized I didn’t want to recreate that investigation. I wanted to understand my father not only as a political figure, but as a man and as my father. The film became a way to connect with him intimately, something I felt I hadn’t had the chance to do before.
AM: So rather than a political inquiry, the film became a personal exploration?
Jihan: Exactly. The investigation is important, but it wasn’t the heart of my film. I wanted to reclaim the father–daughter relationship. That emotional thread guided the entire process.
AM: In the film and public discourse, you go by “Jihan” instead of your full name. Why was that distinction important to you?
Jihan: Growing up, everyone called me Gigi. When I began making this film, I wanted to separate my inner personal life from my creative identity. “Jihan” is the name my father chose for me. Carrying that name publicly allowed me to honor him, while still holding on to my Libyan heritage with pride. It became a space where I could merge memory, identity, and artistry.
AM: Speaking of identity, you’ve mentioned that your Libyan side was always a bit of a mystery to you. How did that shape the film?
Jihan: For most of my life, people assumed I was entirely Syrian or even Lebanese. My Libyan heritage felt distant, until I began working on this film. My mother had always been transparent with us about Libya’s political realities, but there were so many unanswered questions. Making this documentary became the gateway to truly understanding where I come from.
AM: What were some of the main challenges you faced during this process?
Jihan: Being an independent filmmaker, financing the project was a constant struggle. But the greater challenge was protecting the integrity of the story, ensuring it wasn’t manipulated by political agendas. Trust was essential. I had to find collaborators who respected the emotional weight and sensitivity of the film. There were difficult moments, but each one deepened my empathy and my connection to the story.
AM: Your film also made history as the first Libyan film to premiere at the Venice Film Festival in 13 years. What did that milestone represent for you?
Jihan: It was profoundly meaningful. Given Italy’s colonial history in Libya, premiering in Venice carried enormous symbolic value. It opened a space for acknowledgment, dialogue, and reflection. Beyond that, it brought visibility to Libyan cinema, a field that desperately needs platforms, especially after everything Libya has endured. I was grateful to represent a story that’s both deeply personal and part of a much larger narrative.
AM: And what has it been like carrying Libya’s cultural identity to international audiences?
Jihan: Humbling, empowering, and emotional. The Libyan identity has been hijacked, distorted, and politicized for so long. For me, reclaiming it is an ongoing journey, one filled with music, food, traditions, and a resilience that I’m still discovering. Libya is a hidden gem, and I hope my work helps people see its beauty and complexity.
AM: Is there something you hope audiences carry with them after watching My Father and Qaddafi?
Jihan: I hope they feel the human story behind the politics, the resilience, love, and endurance that define so many Libyan families. My father’s story is just one of many. If the film brings even a little healing, understanding, or awareness, then it has done its job.