SXSW London 2025 – There Was, There Was Not ★★★★

Released: TBC (SXSW London 2025)

Director: Emily Mkrtichian

Starring: Svetlana Harutunyan, Gayane Hambardzumyan, Sosè Balasanyan

Every year, SXSW is one of those festivals I mentally pack my bags for. Usually, that trip takes us deep into the heartbeat of Austin, Texas. But this year the cinematic magic made a surprise detour, landing in the vibrant pulse of East London as SXSW London took over Shoreditch and Hoxton for the first time ever. And of course, it’s the year I get buried under other work commitments. No buzzy queues. No shoulder-brushing with filmmakers or film fans who’d flown in from across the world.

Instead, I found myself watching remotely, my flat transformed into a one-man cinema. I didn’t get to soak up the in-person energy of SXSW—but through a screener link, I was determined to be there in spirit. And fittingly, the film I chose was called There Was, There Was Not. I couldn’t help but smile at the irony. I was there—and I was not.

From the very first scene—a simple image of someone making a hot drink on a stove—I knew I was about to witness something quietly extraordinary. There was something intimate, unhurried, and almost sacred in that moment. It was a small act, but it spoke volumes. It told me this wasn’t going to be your standard political documentary. This was going to be personal. Tender. Real.

Directed by Armenian-American filmmaker Emily Mkrtichian, There Was, There Was Not is a beautifully restrained yet emotionally shattering documentary set in the Republic of Artsakh—a disputed territory between Armenia and Azerbaijan that sits perpetually on the edge of conflict. Rather than focusing on soldiers or state leaders, Mkrtichian turns her camera toward the women. The caretakers, the protectors, the fighters of daily life.

We follow four Armenian women, each standing tall in her own narrative. There’s Siranush Sargsyan, a determined local politician refusing to be silenced. Svetlana Harutunyan, an ageing schoolteacher passing wisdom and warmth to the next generation. Gayane Hambardzumyan, whose maternal heart beats for her community. And Sosè Balasanyan, a young aspiring athlete fighting to preserve not just her own future, but the spirit of her people.

Together, these women form a mosaic of survival. Their stories don’t just run parallel—they braid into one another. Mkrtichian, who also serves as cinematographer, captures them with care and raw reverence. It’s clear this was never meant to be a film about war; it’s a film about life in the shadow of it.

And then comes a scene that caught me completely off guard: a female soldier calmly instructing a group of teenage girls on how to use a rifle. I sat frozen. The juxtaposition of innocence and necessity was staggering. That quiet training session, devoid of theatrics or music cues, held more weight than any battlefield explosion could. It was intense. Chilling. Profound.

What makes this film so intriguing is its duality. On the one hand, it’s a political documentary. It confronts history, territory, and generational trauma. But it’s also deeply poetic. It lingers in kitchens, at dinner tables, in the soft sighs between sentences. It shows us that resistance isn’t always loud—it’s often wrapped in quiet routines, small joys, and relentless hope.

The editing by Alexandria Bombach flows like memory: non-linear, emotional, raw. One moment we’re in a classroom. The next, a protest. Then a dream. It never feels jarring—it feels human. Like the mind trying to make sense of a fractured present by stitching together the past.

This is cinema with a pulse. It’s a heartbeat in conflict. A hymn for those who keep going—not because they aren’t afraid, but because they have no other choice.

The beauty of There Was, There Was Not is that it refuses to reduce these women to victims. They are many things: leaders, healers, teachers, daughters, warriors. They cry, they cook, they protest, they prepare for war. They are both the soul and the spine of their homeland.

And that first cup of tea? That was the clue. That warm, human gesture set the tone for the whole film. In a world torn by borders and bombs, here was a story that found its power in the personal. In ritual. In resilience.

So yes, I missed out on the post-screening chats, the buzz in Hoxton cafés, and the festival lights reflecting off East London’s rain-slick streets. But through this film, I felt every bit of SXSW’s spirit. It reminded me why we watch documentaries. Why we tell stories. Why some voices, no matter how softly they speak, echo the loudest.

Emily Mkrtichian has crafted something urgent and unforgettable—a love letter to the women of Artsakh, and a bold reminder that their strength is not only worth witnessing, but worth honouring.