In April of 2012, rebel forces under the name of the National Movement for the Liberation of Azawad (the MNLA) seized control of the northern territories of Mali. Presenting itself as a movement of independence for the ethnic Tuareg people, the MNLA’s coup – fuelled by an influx of weapons and soldiers from Libya in the wake of Col. Qaddafi’s death – was hijacked by Islamist extremists, and within a short period of time Sharia law was being administered in the cities of Timbuktu and Gao. Mali’s musicians were cast out; their livelihood banned from broadcast or performance. Many fled south to avoid severe punishment. In Bamako, Ségou and the neighbouring country of Burkina Faso, they waited for the danger and the conflict to ebb.
They Will Have To Kill Us First tells the story of a handful of these musicians, including the singer Kahira Arby, and the band Songhoy Blues, who formed in exile, and whose music is a paean to the country they lost. Interviews, news footage and, most importantly, exquisite performances by the cast themselves, are drawn together to paint a picture of the life of a group of people who are a diaspora within their own country. The subject matter is poignant; even for those unfamiliar with names like Ali Farka Toure and Oumou Sangare, the documentary easily communicates the richness of Malian musical culture, and how aching its loss could be.
In the context of a conflict that has been marked so profoundly by ambiguity of motive and political allegiance, the difference in attitude among the musicians is interesting. Some are resigned to the imposition of Sharia law in their country. Some deride the extremists as hypocrites. The stories they tell show them to have been as caught up in the forces that brought about the occupation as the rest of the Malian population – half of the onscreen cast are of Tuareg origin, and one is a member of the MLRA, having defected from the Malian army. They Will Have To Kill Us First brilliantly emphasises this internal difference among the musicians without eclipsing the fact that all of them are united in the hope that Mali will stabilise and begin to heal. Every onscreen performance is an invitation to share the catharsis of their loneliness, their energy and their hope.
Those familiar with Wim Wender’s Buena Vista Social Club will recognise its echoes in the structure and frame of the film: the intercuts of performance with the characters’ own interviews; the search, through a western director’s lens, for musicians on the brink of being lost to history; and a culmination, through a reunion concert, that emphasises the transcendent power of music. Where the film may fall, for all of its breathtaking footage and excellent narrative, is in its indeterminate status as a political and a musical story. It is obvious that, to some extent, both strands have to play out in the documentary, and that the film should take it upon itself to portray the lives of individuals and not the workings of an entire North African country. Nevertheless, the film fails to touch on important and interesting issues within this space. The lives that these people live in exile, in camps or in good residences, is never shown in any detail. The identity of these musicians within their separate musical traditions is, likewise, left largely for the viewer to intuit. The overall impression is that director Johanna Schwartz struggled to fit a preconceived grand narrative onto a nuanced collection of personal experiences.
As a piece of filmmaking, They Will Have To Kill Us First is guided by performances and excellent shots of unspoilt Malian wilderness. The insight that it offers into its subject matter is limited and superficial. But it is a film that should be seen, for the excellent music, for the powerful stories of its subjects, for the rich musical culture and the glimpse it offers of a North African Muslim community.
They Will Have to Kill Us First is currently showing in the IFI.
