Interview with Mira Shaib - Director of Arzé
Arzé is a film about mothers, about their strength, their sacrifices, and the quiet, unspoken ways they hold the world together. Director Mira Shaib draws from her own mother, as well as her understanding and view of the collective experience of Lebanese women, to develop a character who feels both specific and universal.
Arzé, the titular mother and heart of the film, is played by Diamond Bou Abboud. She’s a reflection of the women Shaib grew up watching: “The warmth, the love, the loss—it’s all there,” she says. “I saw it in my mother’s eyes when my brother left, and again when I left. It’s the fear of losing another piece of your family. That’s what I wanted to capture.” The family dynamics in the film, especially the bond between sisters Arzé and Layla, take inspiration directly from Shaib’s life, mirroring the bonds between her mother and her aunts. It’s a story about separation and the ache of losing loved ones to an unreachable world; in spite of this, the film is not about loss. It’s an ode to the ones who hold everything together even when it feels like the world is falling apart.
The central conflict of the film surrounds Arzé as she struggles to track down her stolen scooter. The scooter, as Shaib explains, represents something more: thirst for identity, an almost Sisyphean pursuit of a better life. “Your whole life, you’re always in search of something,” she explains. “And whenever you get closer to it, you lose it. You hope for change. You hope for a secular country. You hope for more rights as a woman, as queer people. But it’s always a search, and you don’t get it unless you push for it yourself.” This push, a persistent refusal to give up, is what drives Arzé, a film that feels as much concerned with the future as it is with the present. The scooter is Arzé’s lifeline, her dignity, her last thread of control in a city that seems committed to taking everything from her. And yet, as Arzé’s search leads her into a comic maze of sectarian politics, you can’t help but laugh. Because what else can you do?
“Humor is how we survive. In Lebanon, you wake up to war one day and Christmas decorations the next,” Shaib says, laughing. “It’s so sad that we’re used to that life, but at the same time, humor helps us. It helps us move on, to wake up the next day and rebuild. That’s why I wanted to use humor in the film. It makes the message easier to hear.”
The humor in Arzé is sharp and biting yet embracing. Throughout the film, Arzé interacts with a series of sectarian groups, each more absurd than the last. “We didn’t want to point fingers or attack anyone,” Shaib explains. “That’s why we used humor. We wanted to talk about every sect in the same way, to show that everyone is part of the problem. And honestly, people loved it. They loved that we could be humorous and light while talking about very deep issues.”
Getting Arzé made was its own kind of battle. Seven years of fighting for funding, navigating logistical nightmares, and dealing with the ever-shifting chaos of Lebanon itself. “There were times I thought, ‘This isn’t going to happen,’” Shaib admits. “But my brother, who co-wrote and produced the film, kept saying, ‘We’re making this. No matter what.’” That stubbornness paid off. Arzé feels alive in a way few films do, its camera weaving through Beirut’s streets like it’s chasing something just out of frame. Shaib’s Beirut is not the one you see in romanticized odes to the past or current war-torn news segments. “I wanted to show the Beirut I know,” Shaib says. “Not the touristic parts you see on TV, but the places only we know. The colorful, chaotic, beautiful places. That’s my city.”
Arzé makes it impossible not to believe in Mira Shaib and her vision for the future. “We have so many stories to tell,” she says. “But we need support, not just money, but trust. We need people to believe in us, to take risks on new voices. I want to see more women filmmakers,” she says. “More bold stories, more new voices. We’re growing, but we need more trust from anyone who can make it happen.”
“Beirut is my home,” Shaib declares. “It’s where I was born, where I was raised. This film is my love letter to the city, to my people, and to my mother and all mothers. I still have so many stories to tell from my city. I can’t wait to go back and film there again.” No matter what there is always something worth fighting for. Sometimes, that fight is as simple as chasing the chance to tell your own story.