RAG·HEAD
Two men of God, an Imam and a Catholic priest, find themselves tormented by a mysterious individual amidst the cultural tensions of rural Texas.
Director’s Statement
I was three years old when the September 11th attacks were executed by 19 members of al-Qaeda, led by Al-Mohamed Atta, Marwan al-Shehhi, Hani Hanjour, and Ziad Jarrah. I have no recollection of where I was that morning, nor any memory of how an entire nation fell silent. My young mind couldn’t comprehend the idea of evil in this world yet; how easy it is for despair to be victorious. Like Al-Mohamed Atta, Marwan al-Shehhi, Hani Hanjour, and Zias Jarrah, I was born into this world a Muslim. Unlike those monstrous 19 men, I was born into my world an American.
I was six years old when the photos of Abu Ghraib appeared on television. The imagery was burned into my memory with no permission. I saw prisoners shackled to chains that stretched their skin and bones, men covered in their feces and urine for entertainment. I couldn’t comprehend my unease at the time. Like those that conducted the horrors of Abu Ghraib, I considered America my home. Unlike those American soldiers, my skin and the God I pray to shared more commonality with the prisoners of torture I witnessed on screen.
I was 18 years old when one of the largest Mosque burnings in America’s history occurred in Victoria, Texas, a 30 minute drive from where I grew up. That same night, another Mosque burning was executed in Austin, Texas, where I now currently reside. These burnings were not a jointly planned effort. The individuals who conducted these acts do not know each other. I do not know them. But very much like them, despair took hold of us that night. It reigned victorious.
My existence as a Muslim American is shrouded in the dust cloud of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. I will never escape it. As frustrating as that is, I was conditioned to it my entire life by our culture, our news, our films, our singularly shared disparity. Raghead is not a war film, but a film about a war’s far lingering impact on both those involved in it and the Muslim American experience, something rarely depicted when looking at that black spot in American history. It is a parable told through the lens of an American western about the struggle of holding onto faith and morality amidst the destruction and pain our world reminds us of. It is a story about my home, Texas, and if I truly belong in it. It is a film asking a question at its core:
Who is allowed to become the Cowboy?