There’s a crucial scene roughly halfway through Peter Weir’s “Fearless” (1993) in which the survivors of a horrific plane crash gather together in a session intended for them to vocalize their traumatic experiences of the accident as a means of healing. One survivor, Carla (Rosie Perez), pushes back against the exercise, suggesting this isn’t doing anyone present any good – she’s been struggling with the death of her infant son who was ejected from her lap while the plane fell, having followed a panicked flight attendant’s instructions to hold him tight when his own seatbelt wasn’t working properly. That same flight attendant, Lisa (Stephanie Erb), is in attendance and approaches Carla, saying that she mostly came because she wanted to see her; that she thinks about Carla and her baby a lot, and how she tried to help them with the seatbelt. This perspective on what happened enrages Carla, who berates Lisa in front of everyone, prompting Perlman to state that they’re not here to blame each other. “You want everybody to talk,” Carla responds, “but only if they say nice things, right?”
That sequence is an electrifying demonstration of the conflicts and contradictions at play when trying to publicly address individual pain within the context of collective trauma, in any meaningful way. It comes to mind when watching Marie-Clémentine Dusabejambo’s remarkable debut feature “Ben’Imana,” a film that’s partly composed of several gripping sequences in which a disparate group of people similarly attempt to reconcile their respective scars from something they all experienced quite differently.
There are some crucial variations in Dusabejambo’s story, however. Firstly, the inciting tragedies are not fresh in terms of time, even if the pain is still all too raw nearly 20 years after the fact. Secondly, “Ben’Imana” concerns deliberate, widespread acts of violence being inflicted, rather than a freak accident, with some of the perpetrators who are still alive and not in hiding facing belated trial. And finally, these discussion sessions include not only direct victims of the atrocities, but also family members of those who carried out the deeds.
The film takes place in Kibeho, Rwanda, in 2012. In the years since the 1994 genocide against (predominantly) the Tutsi ethnic group during the Rwandan Civil War, committed by extremist Hutu militias, community-led trials for justice have taken place across the country – at one point, a character says that about half of the town’s population was slain overnight. We open on one of these outdoor trials as a man named Karangwa (Aime Valens Tuyisenge) pleads guilty to murdering the siblings of Vénéranda (Clémentine U. Nyirinkindi), a middle-aged woman standing in front of the people’s court, centered in the widescreen frame. Before everyone present, she declares – calmly, with little outward emotion – that she forgives Karangwa, so the court rules in favor of his release. This verdict does not please Vénéranda’s sister, Suzanne (Isabelle Kabano, one of the film’s only main cast members who’s not a screen newcomer), who declares that “she has no right to forgive on behalf of our family.”
The long-ailing Suzanne – “Look at the AIDS flowing in my veins,” she defiantly tells someone at one point – will get to make her own case against Karangwa in an additional trial down the line; for the murder of Suzanne’s husband and three-month-old baby, in addition to rape while leading a crew of assailants. But for now, she’ll be the most vocal objector in her sister’s attempts to help the community, as part of a national program (“Rwanditude”) aimed at strengthening the process of unity and reconciliation so that the country can move forward. “It’s everyone’s journey towards understanding that liberates and heals wounded hearts,” Vénéranda says before a church congregation, promoting testimonial sessions she’ll be leading.
These spaces aim to provide support during this period of attempted justice, so that the primarily female attendees can become properly prepared to testify and spare a reliving of any shame they may feel before an even larger number of people in a trial setting. “We carry wounds which are not of interest to the public or the judges,” Vénéranda says in the first session, “so no need to overexpose ourselves again.” In this safe space, they’re allowed to cry, shout, express themselves however they choose, though more intimate talks with Vénéranda in private are available as an option, for those who wish to be present for the group sessions but not speak their mind.
The more private option is taken by one especially memorable supporting character, Victoire (Antoinette Uwamahoro), a woman who keeps her face cloaked at all times. At home, her grief involves still preparing food for her long-dead children. They were killed by Victoire’s own brothers and father; the latter long dead, the former missing. Her mother, Madeleine (Léocadie Uwabeza), attends these group sessions as part of the program’s attempts to encourage forgiveness between victims and the families of the executioners. Through this narrative strand, Dusabejambo, working with co-writer Delphine Agut and her incredible ensemble of actors, compellingly explore the ways in which wounds linger beyond just those people physically present during the atrocities. A specific succinct line from Madeleine – “My babies were like the others” – is among the film’s more devastating gut punches.
Speaking of babies, the movie’s other main plot thread concerns Vénéranda’s own publicly projected capacity for forgiveness being tested when her late-teens daughter, Tina (Kesia Kelly Nishimwe), has an unexpected pregnancy. She’s kicked out of school, though is permitted to still take national exams for university admission. Even before he’s revealed to be the father, Vénéranda disapproves of Tina’s friend, Richard (Elvis Ngabo), on the basis of his background; the closest thing to a comedy beat in the film is an early juxtaposition between Vénéranda saying that “forgiveness is the key” and then near-immediately disparaging Richard to her daughter on the way home from church. Richard is implied to be Hutu, though his family are never suggested to have participated in or supported the massacres.
“Darling, why should I remember ghosts?” aunt Suzanne tells her niece when questioned about Tina’s father, of whom none of the family possesses a definitive photo memento. It’s a shrewd way of avoiding speaking on hidden truths, but a tragic comment on how the walls survivors build, in order to spare their loved ones from incredible pain, can also result in the next generation being haunted in both ineffable and all too palpable ways.
While hope on the horizon is presented, this rich, deeply moving drama doesn’t shy away from forgiveness being something that cannot be easily forced, even when the will may be there, however far buried. As one speaker in Vénéranda’s sessions puts it, we don’t carry around bags full of forgiveness that can be distributed just because others want or insist we must do so. But not being honest about the memories we suppress deep inside can create an even heavier weight to bear.
Grade: B+
“Ben’Imana” premiered at the 2026 Cannes Film Festival. It is currently seeking U.S. distribution.
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