Between Memory and Belonging, a Palestinian Artist Confronts the Weight of an Inherited Past

If Birds Believed in God, directed by Samer Saifan, follows Ismail, a Palestinian man pursuing photography in New York City while increasingly surreal visions pull him toward a history and identity he has struggled to understand. Moving between intimate family tensions and dreamlike psychological imagery, the film explores the invisible ways memory, displacement, and generational trauma can persist across borders and generations.

Rooted in Saifan’s own experience of growing up Palestinian-American, If Birds Believed in God deliberately approaches its subject from a personal and psychological perspective rather than as a political statement. Through Ismail’s artistic ambitions, fractured relationships, and internal conflict, the film considers what it means to inherit a history you did not directly experience, yet still feel its presence in your understanding of yourself. Beautifully crafted with a nostalgic visual language, the result is a deeply personal meditation on belonging, family, and the complicated process of reconnecting with one’s heritage.

Below, we speak with director Samer Saifan about exploring his Palestinian identity through filmmaking, translating generational trauma into surreal imagery, and finding universality by focusing on one individual’s experience.

If Birds Believe in God explores identity through memory, guilt, and inherited trauma. What first inspired you to tell this story?

I don’t think there was one specific moment that inspired the film. It just felt like the right story for me to tell at that point in my life while I was studying at NYU. Around that time there was a lot happening politically that naturally sparked conversations, but the film was never meant to be a political statement. More than anything, I wanted to better understand my own culture, history, and identity as a Palestinian. Growing up in America, I rarely thought deeply about Palestine or what it meant to be Palestinian despite never having lived there. This film became a way for me to explore those complicated emotions within myself and express feelings that had been building over time.

Rather than approaching the subject politically, the film feels deeply psychological. Why was that perspective important to you?

No one wants to be told what to think when they watch a movie, even if they agree with its politics or message. My goal was simply to make a piece of art that could make both the audience and myself feel something. It was a very difficult balance to strike because the film could have easily become pretentious or inauthentic. The key was keeping it personal. It’s dramatized and stylized, but it’s still rooted in my own conflict. The psychological approach felt necessary because that’s what my experience actually was. Growing up in America, there weren’t tanks or guns in front of me every day. There was just fear and confusion. The film became a way to externalize those internal struggles.

The protagonist dreams of becoming a photographer in New York while carrying the weight of another history. What drew you to photography as the emotional lens through which to tell this story?

I knew I wanted to make a story about an artist or craftsman. It had to be someone using their art to deal with their own conflicts. In many ways, it was a mirror of myself. Again, the only way to make a film like this was to make it personal. There was a point where I considered making him a director, but the hands-on nature of photography felt more intimate to the story and was also much easier to tell visually.

The film blends realism with surreal, psychological imagery. How did you develop the visual language to represent emotions that are often difficult to put into words?

It was really just a process of discovery and experimentation in the editing stage. Of course, there was always an idea of spirituality and dreams in the script, but I didn’t realize how far the imagery could go until I started putting everything together. It all goes back to me sitting in the dark in front of my computer watching the film and asking myself, “What am I feeling? What’s in my gut?” You have to create from instinct and trust that feeling.

Memory and generational trauma seem to exist almost as physical forces throughout the film. How did you approach portraying something so deeply internal on screen?

I really wasn’t thinking about those larger themes while I was making the film. For me, it was always about spending time with this young man and his mind—to hopefully make the audience empathize with him. The archival photography and imagery were obviously an important part of expressing that history, but none of it means anything if you don’t first connect with Ismail emotionally. I think those bigger themes naturally emerge once the audience is invested in him.

There is a constant tension between belonging and displacement. How did you work with your cast to capture that feeling of living between two identities?

You can’t ask actors to perform these huge themes that affect millions of people in different ways. It was always about the personal situation of the scene and the relationship between the characters. A father and son disagreeing about how to live their lives. Two brothers who no longer know how to talk to each other. If those scenes feel truthful, then the larger themes of identity and belonging reveal themselves naturally.

The cinematography plays a major role in conveying both isolation and beauty. How did you and your cinematographer shape the film’s visual atmosphere?

I got very lucky to be introduced to our cinematographer, Andrew. He really helped execute the vision for the film and was an incredible collaborator. Since the film is about history, generations, and dreams, I wanted it to feel nostalgic. I’ve always loved the look of films from the 1970s and 1990s, so they became a big visual inspiration. The thing I’m probably most proud of with this film is its craftsmanship and beauty. Using soft anamorphic lenses, along with the beautiful locations and textures, really helped create the atmosphere and world of the film.

While rooted in a specific Palestinian experience, the film speaks to broader questions of heritage, identity, and family. How important was it for you to create that sense of universality?

The Palestinian experience isn’t an exclusive one, which is why I think so many people can relate to it. Throughout history, people all over the world have been forced from their homes or treated unfairly. So I never really felt like it was my job to make the story universal—it already was. All I had to do was tell the story of one individual, because within that individual you can find all of humanity.

When audiences leave If Birds Believe in God, what do you hope they carry with them about identity, memory, and the stories we inherit?

At the end of the day, I just hope people leave the film with a deeper sense of empathy and connection. I don’t want audiences to walk away thinking their lives are completely different from the experiences of the characters. I hope there’s something in the film that sparks a question within themselves or encourages them to see their own lives in a slightly different way.

What are the books, podcasts or even YouTube channels that you recommend young filmmakers get their hands on?

I think young filmmakers should focus on holding onto the specific, unique things they personally love. It’s very easy to get caught up chasing trends or trying to make something you think other people want. I found these old David Fincher interviews on YouTube that I still go back to all the time. They always motivate me and teach me something about the filmmaking process. I also love The Rewatchables podcast with Bill Simmons, and one book I always recommend is Sculpting in Time by Andrei Tarkovsky.

Can you share with us some of your favorite short films you’ve seen lately?

This short film called Mr. Happy, which I really like, and Donald Glover’s film Clapping for the Wrong Reasons.