The Human Cost of Concrete: Why 'Concrete Land' Is More Than Just a Film
There’s something profoundly unsettling about the phrase “Concrete Land”. It’s not just a title; it’s a metaphor for the relentless march of urbanization and the human stories it leaves in its wake. Personally, I think this documentary, directed by Palestinian-Jordanian filmmaker Asmahan Bkerat, is a wake-up call disguised as a film. It’s not just about a family or a piece of land—it’s about the invisible violence of progress and the erasure of identities that few people pause to consider.
What makes this particularly fascinating is the way Bkerat frames the story. She doesn’t just document the Najar family’s struggle; she embeds herself in it. Eight years in the making, Concrete Land follows one of the last Afro-Palestinian Bedouin families on the outskirts of Amman, Jordan, as luxury villas encroach on their agricultural land. But here’s the thing: Bkerat wasn’t a filmmaker before this. She became one because of this story. That, to me, is the essence of art as activism. It’s not just about telling a story—it’s about becoming the story.
The Intimacy of Erasure
One thing that immediately stands out is the intimacy of the film. Bkerat doesn’t just observe; she participates. She says, “Their erasure is my erasure.” This isn’t just a tagline—it’s a declaration of solidarity. What many people don’t realize is how deeply personal documentaries like this can be. It’s not just about capturing moments; it’s about preserving souls. The Najars aren’t just losing land; they’re losing a way of life, a heritage, a connection to something larger than themselves.
And then there’s Eman, the 10-year-old daughter. Her story is both heartbreaking and hopeful. She faces discrimination at school, yet she dreams of a future where she doesn’t have to abandon her heritage. If you take a step back and think about it, Eman represents the next generation’s struggle to reconcile modernity with identity. This raises a deeper question: Can progress and preservation coexist, or are they inherently at odds?
Urbanization as a Silent Aggressor
What this really suggests is that urbanization isn’t just about building structures—it’s about dismantling communities. Martina Droandi, founder of Odd Slice Films, puts it perfectly: “Urban development is never simply about buildings, it is about the people whose histories risk being erased.” This is the crux of the issue. We often celebrate skyscrapers and luxury villas as symbols of progress, but what about the human cost?
From my perspective, the Najars’ story is a microcosm of a global phenomenon. From indigenous communities in the Amazon to rural villages in China, the same narrative plays out: development at the expense of culture. What’s striking is how rarely we question this narrative. We’re so focused on growth that we forget to ask: Growth for whom? And at what cost?
The Power of Preservation
A detail that I find especially interesting is Bkerat’s emphasis on preservation. She didn’t just want to tell the Najars’ story—she wanted to honor it. This film isn’t just a documentary; it’s an act of resistance. By picking up a camera, Bkerat ensured that the Najars’ beauty, their knowledge, and their love for the land wouldn’t be lost. In a world where erasure is often deliberate, this is a radical act.
It also highlights the role of international support in amplifying marginalized voices. Concrete Land received backing from organizations like the IDFA Bertha Fund, Sundance Documentary Fund, and the Jordan Film Fund. This isn’t just about funding—it’s about validation. It’s a reminder that stories like these need platforms, and platforms need to be intentional about who they amplify.
Looking Ahead: What ‘Concrete Land’ Leaves Us With
If there’s one takeaway from Concrete Land, it’s this: progress should never come at the expense of humanity. As the film premieres at the Locarno Film Festival, I can’t help but wonder how audiences will respond. Will they see it as just another documentary, or will they recognize it as a call to action?
Personally, I think the latter is more likely. Bkerat’s film doesn’t just tell a story—it demands that we listen. It forces us to confront the uncomfortable truth that our cities are built on the ruins of someone else’s home. And that, in my opinion, is what makes Concrete Land not just a film, but a movement.
So, the next time you see a luxury villa or a gleaming skyscraper, take a moment to think about the land it stands on—and the people who once called it home. Because, as Bkerat reminds us, their erasure is our erasure too.
