Story Taste: cold supermarket coffee 

Story Scent: cardamom and gunpowder 

Story Sound: “Konna Netlaka“, by Fairuz 

There are still those who act surprised when I speak about politics in art, about the undeniable, unbreakable bond between the two. Even art that seems to contain no message carries one; the very decision to present it as uncorrupted and aseptic is, in itself, a political act. How could it not be? Makes me think about when Wim Wenders slipped into a dangerous discourse at the 2026 Berlinale, as he, Jury  President, declared that filmmakers “have to stay out of politics” and that art is “the  counterweight of politics, the opposite of politics.” 

This statement, made in the context of the Palestinian genocide, extends far beyond any single moment in time. What Wenders proposes is a form of art as a lubricant;  a vision that separates the empathetic depth of cinema from the effective urgency of activism. By pleading for a partnership where art remains a space for  contemplation rather than confrontation, he facilitates a systemic passivity. He treats political friction as a competitor to aesthetic complexity, offering us a shelter of beauty that ultimately smooths over the very ruptures that move history forward. 

In contrast to this pursuit of apolitical fluidity, I was fortunate enough to attend the  Lichter Filmfest in Frankfurt, where it was a pleasure to discover a vibrant, direct,  and necessary political charge. There, I attended panels on democracy featuring  figures such as the renowned journalist Claus Kleber and researcher Nicole  Deitelhoff. The debate shed light on the delicate state of the global democratic architecture. They insisted on the need to remain vigilant, to debate the boundaries that are already being overstepped, and to refuse to let politics become a populist consumer product. 

In a landscape of rising extremism, art shouldn’t be viewed as a mere sidecar to political action, nor as an isolated instrument. It is part of the same fabric. Therefore,  the attempt to exempt art from social responsibility is, in itself, a deceptive form of  instrumentalisation. There is no such thing as ‘neutral’ art; there is only the illusion of it. 

This questioning lies at the heart of No Good Men, the film that opened the 2026  Berlinale and that I was lucky enough to watch on the big screen during the Lichter  Film Festival. Shahrbanoo Sadat places us in Kabul in 2021, just before the Taliban’s return. There we meet Naru (also played by Sadat), a journalist fighting not only the imminent collapse of her country but also a patriarchal system that threatens to take her son away after she leaves a cheating husband. Naru lives under a bitter certainty: In Afghanistan, there are no good men left. However, her scepticism trembles when Qodrat, a veteran journalist, offers her a professional opportunity. 

For me, the value of the work does not lie in a potential romance but in Sadat’s radical gaze. During the Q&A following the screening, I heard a blunt director: her cinema is a response to decades of Western representations that have turned  Afghanistan into an unrealistic backdrop, a mere war fetish. “Bullshit,” Sadat stated.  She does not seek to please the European eye, nor the Afghan one, but to portray the reality she is familiar with. 

By placing a romantic comedy in a country on the brink, without ever ignoring the political tension that permeates the story, Sadat unsettles the Westerner expecting pure tragedy, making the presence of humour in such a context somewhat shocking.  Yet, she also disturbs the Afghan viewer, who shifts in their seat upon seeing themselves reflected without filters. As an Afghan-European co-production (Germany-France-Norway-Denmark-Afghanistan), Sadat played her cards well,  using her “imprecise” position, a borderland between two worlds, to craft a faithful portrait without fear of its reception. “It’s good to make them angry,” she said. 

Because complacency is passivity. In a moment when democracy is staggering,  failing to infuse our conscious decisions with politics, with friction—forgetting that our unconscious ones are already soaked in it—is a form of surrender. It is to accept a system that spectacularises and fetishises violence, dilutes its meaning, and makes us believe we are exempt from responsibility simply because we are “neutral”  spectators. 

Without revealing the plot, the answer to my opening question is as bold as the film’s title. Good and bad are relative, but what Sadat knows is that in order to build a  better world, uncomfortable statements and questions must be made. Critical thinking is our best tool against the wave of neo-fascism that threatens to drown all of us, and to use it, questions, as Deitelhoff said, are key. And so is the anger with which we respond, as we reclaim our role as active participants in history rather than mere consumers of aseptic art.  

As I was leaving Frankfurt, all that I learned kept resonating inside of me. Going through my notes, I read again what I had written about No Good Men, and I found the quote that sparked the idea of this article itself: “It’s good to make them angry”,  Sadat said. And then this conclusion came to me before even starting to write,  because art isn’t here to provide the answers to whether “good men” exist; it’s here to ensure we never stop being uncomfortable enough to look for them.