When Spirituality Meets Cinema: A New Voice Emerges From Pakistan
There’s something oddly radical about a filmmaker choosing to focus on the quiet, trembling moments of transcendence in a world obsessed with noise and spectacle. Umair Bilal’s As Light as Air, set to debut at Locarno’s Critic’s Week, isn’t just another documentary—it’s a quiet rebellion. While global cinema often fixates on trauma or political strife, Bilal points his camera at the rituals that make life bearable, even joyful. And in doing so, he forces us to confront a question: Why do we so rarely see stories about spirituality framed as acts of resistance?
The Unlikely Sanctuary of Sehwan
Sehwan Sharif, home to the Lal Shahbaz Qalandar shrine, isn’t just a location—it’s a living, breathing metaphor. Bilal’s decision to center his film here isn’t accidental. This city, where pilgrims and mystics collide, represents a paradox: a place of ancient tradition thriving in modern Pakistan. But here’s what fascinates me most: Bilal doesn’t treat this as a relic. Instead, he frames it as a sanctuary for the modern soul, a concept he personally understands through his mother’s Sufi roots. I’ve always argued that the most compelling art comes from lived experience, and Bilal’s connection to Sufism adds a layer of authenticity that no outsider could replicate.
Why Rituals Matter More Than Ever
The film’s scenes—a communal meal at Malang Mach, a dhamal dance losing itself to flute melodies—aren’t just aesthetic choices. They’re radical acts of preservation. In my view, Bilal isn’t documenting rituals; he’s arguing for their survival. Let’s face it: Globalization often feels like a slow erosion of these spaces. Yet, in As Light as Air, the shrine isn’t a museum piece. It’s alive, messy, and defiantly relevant. When Bilal describes surrendering to the town’s rhythm, I see a parallel to how we, as audiences, must surrender to the film’s pace. It’s a challenge to our impatience—a reminder that some truths can’t be rushed.
The Filmmaker as a Pilgrim
Bilal’s dual life as a Berlin-based NYU professor teaching in Abu Dhabi adds another dimension. Here’s a man straddling three worlds, yet his heart clearly beats in Sehwan. This duality, I suspect, is what makes his approach unique. He’s not just an observer; he’s a participant who’s learned to listen. Many filmmakers would’ve imposed a narrative on this material. Bilal lets the city speak. And isn’t that the essence of great documentary work? To quote him: ‘The space of spirituality felt beyond rationality.’ That admission alone reveals his humility—a quality sorely lacking in much of today’s ‘parachute journalism’ in cinema.
Pakistan’s Quiet Cinematic Revolution
Let’s not overlook the bigger picture. Bilal joins a lineage of Pakistani filmmakers at Locarno, from Sabiha Sumar’s Khamosh Pani to Hamza Bangash’s Dia. But while predecessors often tackled political themes, Bilal’s focus on spirituality feels like a new chapter. Does this signal a shift? I think so. There’s a growing appetite for stories that explore identity beyond conflict. Pakistan’s film industry—still nascent in the global arena—is finally being seen not just for its struggles, but for its soul. And Bilal’s presence at Locarno isn’t just personal triumph; it’s a cultural moment.
Final Thoughts: The Lightness of Being
What does it mean for a film to leave us ‘as light as air’? Bilal’s title suggests release, weightlessness. In a world drowning in existential dread, this documentary offers a radical proposition: that art can be a temporary escape, not from reality, but into a deeper understanding of it. I’m reminded of something Rumi wrote: ‘You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.’ As Light as Air isn’t just about Sehwan. It’s about the universality of seeking something greater—and the quiet power of cinema to make that search feel monumental.
When Bilal’s camera captures that dhamal dance dissolving into pure rhythm, I suspect we’ll see more than bodies moving. We’ll see a century’s worth of longing, grief, and hope—distilled into a single, fleeting moment of weightlessness. And isn’t that what great art does? It makes the personal feel universal, the ephemeral feel eternal. I, for one, can’t wait to watch.
