Shaheen Dill-Riaz: “The greatest inspiration comes from within”

I am fine. After a long time, I spent many days in my country. I came in March, now it is August. I have some work here, and also I need to take care of my family. Overall, I am feeling good.

I lived in the village for some time, though not too long. I was born in Dhaka, but when I was one year old my parents moved to the village. We stayed there until I was in Class Three. So my early childhood was in the village, in Feni, where I had quite an extensive experience. I also spent some time in Sitakunda. My father was a contractor, a civil engineer, and he worked at the Rayson Jute Mill there, so we lived there for a while too. Later, around 1981 or 1982, we moved back to Dhaka. First we stayed in Old Dhaka for many years, then later moved towards New Dhaka.

When I was in Class Six or Seven, I went to Comilla Cadet College and studied there until my intermediate. It wasn’t exactly a military academy, but a cadet college. The aim was to train boys so that they could later join the military academy, the Air Force, or the Navy—in short, to prepare them for a soldier’s life. My father especially wanted this, as he believed civilian education was not very good. He thought cadet college would keep me properly isolated and away from the distractions and troubles of civilian life.

Yes, of course. The purpose of a military academy is to shape a child into the psyche of a soldier—what a soldier’s duty is, what commitment means. They are also emotionally conditioned, made to feel proud of their profession and of what they will do for the country. On the other hand, discipline, regimented attitude, and the chain of command are practiced there. That means the kind of freedom of thought that art requires is somewhat restricted—especially in art, where the goal is to break taboos, cross borders, and ask questions. Even about things that seem settled, you have to keep questioning. All of this goes against military rules.

That’s why I had a conflict inside me. Not just me—others too, who were attracted to civilian life, lived in a sort of quiet rebellion. But we couldn’t do much. We kept it inside. After leaving cadet college, the situation was that I was technically bound to join the military. Because at the time of admission, parents had to sign a paper saying that if their son was physically and mentally fit, he must join the military. If he didn’t, then all the education expenses had to be paid back in full, since it was subsidized—parents only paid a small amount, and the government covered the rest. So that was a threat. But as an adult I had the right to reject it. In that case, the family would have to return the full amount. However, if someone was rejected for physical or mental reasons, the debt would be waived.

In my case, I was fortunate—I was slightly short in height. The minimum requirement was five foot four, and I was five foot three. Because of that, I was left out, even though I had passed in other areas. In a way, I was saved. Inside me, I carry both things: many good sides of cadet college, beautiful memories, and also that conflict. But it doesn’t exist as pain. It’s more like a kind of learning, a phenomenon that I can now reflect on. Earlier, it was an emotion that affected my personal life, but not anymore.

The thought of studying cinema actually came much earlier. Even before entering university—right after finishing cadet college—I started thinking about it. At that time, I slowly began discovering cinema beyond just commercial films. I realized there was a whole other world of film. I watched some of those, became curious, and when I returned to Dhaka after cadet college, I got to know people from the Film Society Movement. Through that, I became involved in different film society activities.

Although I had the intention to study film, I also met people like Mohammad Khasru, the late Zahidur Rahman Anjan, and Tareque Masud and his group. I was much younger than them—at least ten years younger—but they encouraged me a lot and guided me. From there, my passion for cinema grew: watching films, writing about films. Then I got involved in the short film movement and in production. We organized short film festivals through the Short Film Forum. All these activities made me deeply oriented and focused on film, and I also wanted to study it.

But my parents objected—asking what future there was in studying film, especially the kind of cinema I was interested in, which wasn’t financially secure as a profession. So I thought, fine, I’ll study something else for now, and maybe later move into film. My father wanted me to study computer science. At the same time, I was very fascinated by foreign languages. I first studied Russian, then French, and later developed a stronger interest in German. I started learning it intensively, and eventually received a cultural scholarship in German language. With that I went to Germany in 1992. Meanwhile, I completed my BSc pass course here.

After finishing the language course, I applied in Berlin. At first I tried studying computer science and aeronautical science. I even enrolled in computer science, but I didn’t enjoy it, so I left. Finally, in 1995, I was admitted to film school, choosing cinematography as my subject. That’s how my journey in film school began—one could say, that’s where my Berlin journey truly started.

I think, especially in Germany, the education system encourages independent thinking from a very young age. There’s no such thing as “taboo”. You can question anything, criticize anything, protest against anything. Children are taught this way from the start and are given the space to do so. That’s why they grow up without fear. They can question religion, they can question the moral and ethical practices of society.

In contrast, our tradition here is naturally very different. That’s the basic difference—in every field, but especially in art.

Actually, I was never really interested in cinematography. I wanted to study directing from the beginning. But my European friends and mentors advised me: “Look, you’ve come from a poor country. You don’t know how long you’ll be able to stay here. And even if you do, you shouldn’t expect to be measured on the same level as European talents. You won’t get the same priority, and you’ll face different forms of discrimination. So establishing yourself as a director will be much harder. But if you study a technical subject, it won’t be as difficult—because technicians are always needed everywhere. And if you’re good, that’s even better. So you could take editing, sound, or cinematography.”

That’s why I chose cinematography. At first I was a bit afraid, since it’s such a technical subject. But it actually suited me well, and I was able to take it up as a profession quite easily. Later, as my studies continued, at one point I started thinking that I could also work as a director. That’s how the director–cinematographer identity was formed for me. It began with my graduation film Sand and Water (2002), and continued with later works.

The idea for the film came to me through a German anthropologist who had been working on the chars (river islands) of the Jamuna. You see him in the film in a few places, during interviews. I first met him in Berlin, and he told me the story. He had lived on the chars for a long time, learned Bangla, and I even read his thesis. After reading it, I became very interested, because I already knew about the lives of char people since childhood, though I had never been there myself. His book made many things clearer for me. I thought it would be a very interesting subject for a feature-length documentary.

For me, the advantage was that I would do the cinematography myself, so I’d have more freedom. I proposed it to my film school as my master’s graduation film. But I made it clear that I didn’t want to work with another director—I wanted to make it alone. Later, we began shooting during the monsoon of 1998, in July and August. The filming happened in two phases: one during the rainy season and another during winter, because the life there is very different in these two times.

After shooting, editing took us almost three years, because my editor was busy with other projects, and I was also engaged with other work. My editor was German and didn’t understand a single word of Bangla. Still, he worked through a mix of partial understanding and translations I provided. First, we did a rough cut in Germany with subtitles. Gradually, it took shape into a structure. Both of us were inexperienced, and evaluating material in a language one doesn’t understand also took extra time.

Through this process, we learned two important things: first, the techniques of storytelling in documentary; and second, how to present a culture of another country to a Western audience. These two lessons became most useful in our later works. Although I didn’t continue working with that editor afterward, I met another one, and I’ve been working with him for the last twenty years.

Most of the post-production—sound design, mixing, color grading—was done at the film school. The shooting was done with mini-DV cameras of that time. Later we transferred it to DigiBeta, and did all the work on DigiBeta, and later on digital. Now I’m even trying with AI to see if the poor image quality of that time can be improved.

Many photographers have worked on shipbreakers. Among them was Sebastião Salgado—who passed away recently. His photographs really moved me. I thought that if such images could be captured in motion, it would be possible to make a large-scale film in that setting. It could be established as a documentary film. From that thought, I began research, and around 2001 I went to Chittagong to try and visit the shipbreaking yards. Now it has become very difficult, but at that time, if you had some connections, you could get inside. Once inside, I tried to gather information, and eventually I began writing. At that stage, one of my German producers became very interested.

I tried to convince him that this film would not only show people’s suffering, but also reveal their strength—the strength with which they dismantle these massive ships, even though they are essentially farmers from the north, not naturally strong. That means the recycling of one of civilization’s most complex and important products—ships—is being done by the most deprived people, people who don’t receive any share of civilization’s benefits, and yet they are not even paid properly for it. That was the narrative I wanted to place at the center of the film.

That’s how it started. Financing was very complicated, because it was a very expensive production. Three European broadcasters became involved, and later we also received grants from the German government from two or three different sources. Altogether, we raised about half a million euros for the project, which is a very high budget for a documentary. Nowadays, it would not be easy to make a documentary with such a budget.

Yes. And fortunately, its success can be measured in such a way that it wasn’t just expensive—the effect matched the scale. After securing financing, which took almost a year to a year and a half, we arrived for shooting. Once there, we found we couldn’t get permission easily. Getting that permission required a lot of effort. Luckily, at one point we were able to convince them that what we wanted was not journalistic work, but pure observation. We weren’t trying to provoke anyone regarding environmental pollution or anything like that. That helped them feel more comfortable.

Later, through a political connection—Shahjahan Siraj, who was then a minister—we gained access. He had a past deal with the shipbreakers’ association, and perhaps had once helped them in some way. So he used that to help us: “Let these young people in—they are not journalists. They will just observe. If you have no reason to hide anything, show them what’s happening.” Eventually, they had to allow us entry, and that’s when the work began.

Initially, they were a little afraid, but very soon they became relaxed, letting us shoot everywhere, all the time. They even allowed us to use a place to stay. The shooting began in February 2005 and ended in May 2005. During this entire period, we stayed continuously either in Chittagong or in northern Bangladesh—Kurigram, where the workers came from. At first, we tried to follow individual protagonists, but that didn’t work because some of them ran away. So we had to focus on the destiny of the whole group, and the film’s focus shifted accordingly.

The story is essentially about people who come from northern Bangladesh full of hope, and the situation they encounter here prevents them from returning with the hopes and money they expected. One major reason is that they are farmers—their harvesting season in the north forces them to leave, but since the shipbreaking wasn’t finished, the industry didn’t want to let them go. They tried to hold them back in various ways, including not properly settling their debts with local grocers, which in turn withheld the money owed to them. The basic story revolves around these struggles.

We finished shooting in May, and editing continued in Germany until the end of 2006. Post-production, including all finishing work, also took place there. Finally, the film was ready in 2007 and released in 2008. It was a long process.

In Bamboo Stories, we weren’t inside the forest itself, but when the rafters were transporting the large bamboo rafts on the river, we stayed with them the whole time on those rafts. The rafts were nearly 60 feet long. We were there for about 13 days in total. We went with just sleeping bags and built a small platform and a tent. Then we used plastic sheets for cover—essentially, they were in one sheet, and we stayed in another.

This is a film that wasn’t planned in a conventional way. It began from a personal frustration. A conflict between my younger sister and my father left me very disturbed, and I was trying to calm my father—but I just couldn’t. Then, somehow, I thought if I shot it with a camera, maybe I could create a distance between myself and what was happening inside me. That’s how I started shooting.

As it grew, I realized that the footage might be useful in some way. So I began thinking about shaping it into a film, editing the material. I continued shooting, but I wasn’t sure when the shooting would end or when the film would be completed. Funding was complicated too, because it was such a personal project. I tried many times and couldn’t get external funding, so I continued funding it myself. Eventually, when post-production and editing had progressed far enough, I applied in Germany for post-production funding. They saw the footage and agreed to support it.

From a viewer’s perspective, I can’t really judge the film myself—it’s too closely connected to my own life. I am in it, and so are my family, friends, and loved ones. Once it’s released, only the audience can truly respond. But as a filmmaker, this work has deeply affected me. It is emotionally difficult to watch, because making it felt like a way to rewind my own life.

A Danish philosopher, Kierkegaard, once said that to understand life, you must go backward, but life itself moves forward—you cannot live it backward. In a way, through this filmmaking process, I got a chance to rewind parts of my life, to try and understand certain things about myself and my family. Personally, this was a gain. I hope that viewers, too, might relate to some aspects of it and find something meaningful.

Every project comes with its own challenges, and it’s not easy to compare one with another. Even so, I think Lohakhor (Ironeaters) was certainly a very challenging project. First, it involved a significant financial investment. Second, there were multiple broadcasters involved, each with particular interests that we had to consider. It was also a very long process. Shooting itself was a huge challenge—at one point, it was even uncertain whether shooting would actually happen, despite having secured funding.

We were able to overcome all of this, but not solely through my efforts. I was lucky to have supportive people along the way. At every point where it seemed impossible, someone opened a path that made it possible. Many obstacles were overcome only because of these people and their collaboration. This has been true for every project I’ve done. That’s why I think Lohakhor was very challenging, but we were able to overcome it entirely through teamwork.

Similarly, Past is Present was also a very challenging project—not because of money, but because it dealt with personal life. Presenting such private material publicly, making it relevant for an audience, was complex. First, I had to convince my family members. Second, because the material was so personal, I had to create a certain distance from it. My editor and the other supportive production team members also tried to judge the material from a neutral perspective, ensuring I didn’t make mistakes with personal content. All of this helped the process and allowed us to overcome the challenges.

Financially too, once the film reached a certain stage, we received support from the German government. So overall, I would say that the greatest challenges were in these two projects, and the process of overcoming them was always the same: teamwork.

An artist draws inspiration from many places, but the greatest inspiration comes from within. If a person finds the meaning of their life through their art, it becomes like breathing—essential for survival. If you can’t do it, you may not die physically, but you live almost as if you’re dead. The essence of your life is integrated into this creative process. If this continuity is broken, your life could suffer mentally. That’s why I say the deepest inspiration comes from oneself.

Of course, there’s also external inspiration. Meeting people, learning about something new, or being stirred by a particular political or social event can all ignite you. You feel compelled to act; it feels urgent. Various such factors combine with the internal drive. But at the core, the basic source of motivation comes from within.

That’s actually a difficult question to answer, because a film goes through many stages—pre-production, writing, funding, shooting, then editing and post-production. Every step is important for a filmmaker.

Personally, I struggle the most with the writing stage. The ideas in my mind are often abstract, and turning them into something concrete is not easy. In documentary filmmaking, especially the way I work, many things remain open-ended or unknown. So when I create a script or treatment during pre-production, I often give hints rather than definitive answers—I might say, “Something like this could happen,” but I can’t be completely concrete.

This often causes problems with funding, because financiers want security. They want to know whether what I describe will actually be possible. Experienced filmmakers who have completed several films can communicate this more easily—they have references, their previous work demonstrates their capability. But for a new filmmaker, convincing others is very difficult, especially in documentary work.

That’s why I always advise my younger colleagues: don’t wait for funding at the very start. Make something small first. That shows you can do it. Then, when you move on to a bigger, more challenging project, you aren’t starting completely from zero—you’ve already gained experience.

Actually, I wasn’t initially interested in documentaries—I was interested in fiction. I’ve been working a lot on fiction projects, many of which are in the script development stage. I’ll try my best to bring those to completion.

Besides that, series—whether serialized fiction or even nonfiction series if desired—are also possibilities. I’m thinking about these as well. I also want to support young colleagues in Bangladesh who are working or want to work in documentary filmmaking. I’d like to do a project with some of them—perhaps guiding them, or letting them lead it themselves. I can share my experience with them, which might give them some confidence to pursue their own projects.

Bangladeshi cinema… it might be easier for a festival curator or a film critic to compare it internationally. From my understanding, every country and region has both an international and a local dimension in its cultural and artistic practice. Internationally, artists can be compared across borders, but locally, each place has its specific character.

For Bangladesh, defining a “Bangladeshi filmmaker” or a “Bangladeshi film” depends on how much we can specify these local elements. For example, among Bengali speakers, there’s Kolkata and there’s Dhaka. The lives in these cities are different. Over the past few decades, or even years, Bangladesh and Kolkata were closer culturally, but now, for many reasons, we have diverged. This has created distinct habits and ways of life—food, politics, language, and so on. When you consider these, you can see a unique Bangladeshi identity forming. Even people from Kolkata or West Bengal recognize this now.

Whether this uniqueness is reflected in films depends on the filmmaker’s awareness of these local nuances. For instance, the film Utshob (2025) recently had a strong impact because it captured a local aspect—the life of 1990s Bangladesh—which people easily recognized. A film like this automatically gets identified as Bangladeshi cinema.

Additionally, Bangladesh’s progress and the everyday life of its people are unique. If you go to villages in Bangladesh and compare them to remote villages in West Bengal, you’ll notice differences—in daily routines, religious practices, festivals. Yet, in terms of international communication and artistic acceptance, if you subtitle the films, people shouldn’t have much difficulty understanding or connecting with them.

Actually, the next film is the one I’m currently working on. It might not be finished until December, though I hope to complete it sooner. Once Past is Present has been shown at international festivals, I want to screen it here as soon as possible.

My one request to young filmmakers is this: don’t repeat the mistakes our generation made. The mistake we made was trying too hard to hold onto the dreams and cinema of the past—trying to recreate or live that old cinema. That approach is flawed because times change, art changes, and cinema changes.

In the past, people used to watch films in theaters together. Now, content is consumed individually on smartphones, tablets, or laptops. This is reality, whether we like it or not. If a filmmaker wants to survive in this market, they have to accept this reality. Many in the past waited for conditions—like shooting in 35mm film—and some never made their films because they couldn’t adapt. Time waits for no one.

Adaptability is crucial. Young filmmakers may dream of making films for the big screen and large audiences, but they should also consider: Can I use these new opportunities to reach audiences with my talent? If so, I can include them in my creation and they can engage with it. If not, my audience becomes limited. I might be confined to festivals or occasional screenings, while most viewers are now on smartphones, tablets, or streaming platforms. That’s the reality. It’s essential not to cling rigidly to old ways but to open yourself to new possibilities.

You’re welcome. It was a pleasure talking with you.