Soussaba Cissé: Why African Cinema Requires Courage, Responsibility , and Vision

Minutes after Soussaba Cissé and her crew drove down a road in central Mali, it exploded. Several people died. They kept filming.

 

This wasn’t recklessness. It was the price of making Beware! a documentary about Mali’s unraveling that no one with institutional backing would touch. Cissé shot it in territories controlled by armed groups, speaking with massacre survivors in Bambara, their shared language, building trust in places where trust has become a luxury most can’t afford.

 

Her father, Souleymane Cissé, won the Jury Prize at Cannes in 1987 for Yeelen, a film steeped in Bambara mythology that critics still call one of African cinema’s greatest achievements. He died in February 2025, just weeks after telling The Nollywood Reporter that African cinema’s transformation was coming soon. “It won’t be long now,” he’d said.

 

The younger Cissé isn’t waiting. She’s out there making films in a Mali that barely resembles the one her father knew—a country where social cohesion frays daily, where ethnic violence gets reduced to convenient soundbites by international media, where filmmakers have neither funding nor theaters. She’s doing it anyway, camera in hand, refusing what she calls the one thing she cannot do: “close her eyes.”

 

Beware! is set to be screened at the 2025 Silicon Valley African Film Festival, bringing Malian voices to audiences who might have only heard about the country through news reports that flatten complexity into digestible narratives. Cissé’s film does something harder—it lets survivors speak for themselves, and their testimonies building what she calls “a mosaic that reveals a clearer, truer picture.”

 

She’s been making films since 2009, tackling subjects many would rather ignore: female genital mutilation, undocumented migration, skin bleaching, child begging. But Beware! is different. It’s the film where she found her voice, where the obstacles—no funding, constant threats, seemingly impossible logistics—forced her to discover what she was capable of doing.

 

Telling the story of her people – the voiceless Malians. “Many told me: ‘If I take this risk to speak, it’s only because I want my country to move forward, for my children to have a better future,'” she says. “That responsibility sometimes intimidated me, but it also gave me the strength to overcome obstacles.”

 

TNR: You grew up being told that Malians have big hearts, that you’re all children of the same father and mother. What happened to that unity?

Soussaba Cissé: The starting point was the general political situation in Mali and the gradual breakdown of social cohesion, even though I grew up with the opposite idea: that Malians have a big heart, that we are all children of the same father and mother. That’s what my parents taught me. But I saw that this unity was being threatened, not only by internal dynamics but also by outside interests. With this film, I wanted to contribute to bringing us back to our values and our collective strength.

 

How do you convince people who’ve survived massacres to trust you with their stories?

It was not easy at all. Many told me: “If I take this risk to speak, it’s only because I want my country to move forward, for my children to have a better future. I don’t speak for this film to stay in a drawer.” That responsibility sometimes intimidated me, but it also gave me the strength to overcome obstacles. I knew my mission went far beyond me as a filmmaker and citizen: it was about giving a voice to those who have none.

 

Thanks to a wonderful team—despite the fact that we had no institutional funding—we managed to complete the project. This film is also a tribute to my late father, Souleymane Cissé. His passing reinforced my conviction to continue on his path: the courage to defend social causes despite intimidation and risks, and the duty to preserve memory for peace and for the future of generations to come.

 

International reports keep calling Mali’s crisis an ethnic conflict. Your film pushes back against that. How?

I let those who lived through the massacres speak for themselves. Their testimonies show a reality far more complex than the simplistic view of an ethnic conflict. Their humanity, their pain, and their complementary stories create a mosaic that reveals a clearer, truer picture.

 

We took the time to build trust, spoke with them in our common language, Bambara, and went into areas controlled by armed groups—sometimes at the risk of our lives. Once, just minutes after we drove down a road, an explosion there killed several people. That shared courage is what gives the film its strength.

You’ve been making films since 2009. When did you find your voice?

It was really with I Jantô! that I found my voice. That project tested me at every step: lack of funding, seemingly insurmountable obstacles, constant doubts. And yet, it’s where I discovered my strength and my ability to make hard decisions. I realized I can only be authentic and true to myself. My films must confront injustice, hypocrisy, and silence, but also celebrate the beauty of community and of our Malian and African values.

 

Your films don’t shy away from difficult subjects—FGM, migration, skin bleaching, child begging. What compels you toward these stories?

I feel a responsibility: if a subject moves me deeply, I cannot close my eyes. That’s something I share with my father. Even when it’s painful, I have to face it and confront the audience with it. Cinema can push us to look beyond our prejudices and to understand the complexity of human beings and the conditions they live in.

 

How do Malian audiences respond differently than international ones?

In Mali, audiences tend to be more reserved, perhaps because they are directly concerned by these sensitive subjects in a time of instability. But those who stay until the end discover voices they usually don’t hear, and that opens new perspectives.

 

International audiences, on the other hand, are often surprised and enriched by a reality they knew nothing about. Many also become aware of the role their own countries play in these crises, not only in Mali but also in other African nations.

 

How do you decide whether a story needs documentary or fiction?

For me, the subject itself dictates the form. When real voices need to be heard for testimony and memory, documentary is essential. When the emotion or symbolism of a story requires more narrative freedom, fiction is the way forward.

 

Your father won at Cannes. He made Yeelen, a film people still study. How does his work shape yours?

My father passed on to me immense rigor and a conviction: cinema is an act of courage and responsibility. His work taught me never to look away, to always seek out the human dimension, and to be proud of belonging to this humanity that must be told with sincerity.

 

Does carrying his name feel like pressure or strength?

Of course, there is pressure. But I see it above all as a source of strength. His legacy is a compass. His courage inspires me every day and helps me endure when obstacles seem overwhelming. His love for cinema and his belief that cinema would change Africa and shape the world have become, for me, almost a faith—especially now that he is no longer here.

 

Did you work together on films?

My collaboration with Boua (Papa) was almost innate. We were born into cinema, we lived in it, and we grew up in it. Even my siblings who did not choose this profession remain passionate defenders and cinephiles.

 

My collaboration began very early: he wanted me to act in Yeelen when I was only two years old, and I spent time on the set in Dogon Country while my mother stayed in Bamako. As a teenager, I worked in production, as an assistant director, until I learned filming from his cinematographers. I almost became his reporter-director, following him everywhere with the camcorder he gave me.

 

I also had the chance to direct him as an actor in my first feature film N’gunu N’gunu Kan, which was already a tribute to him through the name of the main character and his devotion to his craft for the love of his country.

 

Just a few months before his death, he was still editing his archives, some of which came from my footage of him during his meeting with Martin Scorsese in New York and at the Tribeca Film Festival.

 

We often exchanged ideas about our projects, spoke about cinema, society, and responsibilities. Even though we never had the time to make a film together, our discussions deeply shaped me. I consider my work to be a continuous dialogue with him.

 

What do festivals like SVAFF mean for African filmmakers?

They are essential. Without these spaces, our films would struggle to cross borders. These festivals give us international visibility, but more importantly, they create a space for meeting and dialogue between cultures.

 

Are African films still treated as niche internationally?

Not yet. Too often they are still treated as niche. But our stories speak to humanity as a whole. It’s time for distribution networks and platforms to truly open up to the richness of African cinema.

 

What’s the biggest obstacle for Malian filmmakers right now?

We have neither financial support nor cinema theaters. It’s as simple, and as dramatic as that.

 

What would you tell young African women who want to make bold films?

I would tell them: be courageous, dare to tell your truths even when they disturb. Don’t let fear or lack of resources silence you. Sincerity and perseverance are your strongest weapons.

 

What’s next after Beware!?

I always have projects in progress; otherwise, I feel I am not fully living. Some have been started but could not move forward due to lack of funding, while others I am updating to eventually bring to life.

 

Among them is a fiction project called Château Rouge because I want to return to fiction. It will be another Malian story, centered on the Parisian diaspora. It is a personal, intimate, and painful story, but one that must be told. I want to share these realities with my brothers and sisters in Mali, while also raising awareness among European and international audiences.

 

Even though the road ahead is challenging, I continue to move forward with conviction. These projects already live within me, and I am determined to see them through to completion.

 

Editor’s Note:

This interview was facilitated by Chike Nwoffiah, Founder of The Silicon Valley African Film Festival, SVAFF.