Ben Sharrock’s Limbo makes my home country feel… | Little White Lies

Ben Sharrock’s Lim­bo makes my home coun­try feel unknown

25 Jul 2021

Words by Rory Doherty

The Scot­land depict­ed in this inci­sive asy­lum dra­ma is at odds with how the nation likes to see itself.

I’m not con­vinced I love my coun­try. It’s a thought that became cement­ed in my mind when watch­ing Ben Sharrock’s Lim­bo. The film cen­tres around a group of asy­lum seek­ers stuck on a remote Scot­tish island in a pur­ga­to­ry-like wait for con­fir­ma­tion of their refugee sta­tus. But the open­ing sec­onds are enough to con­vince hes­i­tant view­ers this won’t be a dour, dif­fi­cult watch; Lim­bo is filled with bril­liant humour and rich char­ac­ters, and Shar­rock taps into the absur­di­ty of the dis­place­ment experience.

Our jour­ney is led by Omar (Amir El-Mas­ry), a Syr­i­an musi­cian sev­ered from his fam­i­ly and cul­ture. He car­ries a cof­fin-shaped case for his instru­ment, an oud, his arm in a cast and his expres­sion flat. Omar’s dead­pan stare remains through­out the film, whether it’s direct­ed at the racist con­de­scen­sion of cul­tur­al aware­ness’ class­es, his friend Farhad (Vikash Bhai) hous­ing a stolen chick­en, or house­mates Wasef (Ola Ore­biyi) and Abe­di (Kwabena Ansah) argu­ing about Friends. The film’s humour bol­sters the more heart-rend­ing aspects of the nar­ra­tive – emo­tions that res­onat­ed with me even more know­ing the setting.

Like Shar­rock, I was born and raised in Edin­burgh, and pri­or to Lim­bo the Scot­tish isles were some­what for­eign to me. While liv­ing so remote­ly has nev­er appealed to me, at least the islands’ 100,000 or so occu­pants feel secure in call­ing them home, which can’t be said for Omar and his friends. Home is some­thing they now mourn, some­thing that’s painful to revi­talise. Even Omar’s music, now dis­con­nect­ed from Syr­ia, has a haunt­ing effect he’d rather avoid.

Two men sitting on a wall, one wearing a panda hat, the other in a blue jacket. Hilly countryside visible in the background.

A life­time of liv­ing among Scots means Limbo’s atmos­phere feels keen­ly authen­tic. I recog­nise the dialect, the idio­syn­crasies and man­ner­isms of the Scot­tish ensem­ble, even some of the per­form­ers. It’s strange see­ing your home coun­try act as a site of dis­place­ment and oth­er­ness, but Shar­rock cre­ates a lim­i­nal space that would make even an island res­i­dent feel alien­at­ed. Lim­bo was filmed in the Uists, a col­lec­tion of islands in the Out­er Hebrides, although the set­ting is nev­er iden­ti­fied in the film; the land Omar roams on is unnamed and unplace­able, giv­ing it a vague­ness that fur­ther aug­ments the feel­ing of being unmoored.

While some island natives pos­sess the cheery famil­iar­i­ty com­mon­ly asso­ci­at­ed with Scots, when this is direct­ed at Omar there’s an under­ly­ing sense of dis­tance, as if they don’t know how to con­nect with him. Peo­ple stare a lot in Lim­bo, both from far away and up close, scru­ti­n­is­ing the asy­lum seek­ers with­out mak­ing an effort to under­stand their inte­ri­or­i­ty. The land is for­eign and pop­u­lat­ed with peo­ple dis­in­ter­est­ed in expe­ri­ences unknown to them.

And then there’s the ele­ments I wish felt more unfa­mil­iar. I recog­nise the Scots’ igno­rance, how they excuse the big­otry of oth­ers and won’t acknowl­edge their own prej­u­dice. A band of youths warn Omar he bet­ter not be plan­ning any ISIS shite”, before offer­ing him a seat in their joyride, not clock­ing how they’ve abused their new companion.

It’s a shame­ful thing to recog­nise, but it points to Sharrock’s aware­ness of how prej­u­dices have fes­tered in Scot­land. The term Scot­tish excep­tion­al­ism’ may sound like a Twit­ter buzz­word, but it’s one that’s increas­ing­ly catch­ing on, even fea­tur­ing in gov­ern­men­tal reports and used by politi­cians. It’s the feel­ing that Scot­land is exempt from exten­sive crit­i­cism because we see our­selves as doing bet­ter on polit­i­cal issues than our neigh­bours. We see acts of vio­lence and injus­tice across the bor­der or around the world and think, things are dif­fer­ent here,” as Zara Mohammed, sec­re­tary gen­er­al of the Mus­lim Coun­cil of Britain puts it. But things aren’t.”

Scot­land is a for­mer colo­nial pow­er with a 96 per cent white pop­u­la­tion. Insti­tu­tion­al prej­u­dices are ingrained in our pop­u­lace. We’re quick to point out when we excel at reset­tling refugees, despite inad­e­quate care result­ing in them being put in harm’s way. And when com­mu­ni­ty activism hap­pens, our gov­ern­ment is quick to point out that the pow­er to inter­vene them­selves was out of their hands, alle­vi­at­ing them of any blame while under­lin­ing their own agenda.

While it ini­tial­ly felt unknown, on deep­er reflec­tion Limbo’s Scot­land is the one I tru­ly recog­nise. I see the com­pla­cen­cy that we don’t need to change to face the shift­ing pri­or­i­ties of a devel­oped nation, one that won’t hes­i­tate to call itself pro­gres­sive but in fact is still uncom­fort­able with the respon­si­bil­i­ties of such a title.

To be com­pla­cent is to accept – even to endorse – injus­tice. We believe com­fort­able nar­ra­tives about our coun­try because, sim­ply put, they’re eas­i­er to swal­low. We know we’re avoid­ing the more com­pli­cat­ed truth, that giv­ing phys­i­cal shel­ter to dis­placed peo­ple isn’t enough to wel­come them. It’s con­fronting when these nar­ra­tives are proven false, when the look and feel of our home is shown to be alien­at­ing and hell­ish to oth­ers. But until we engage in the expe­ri­ences of oth­ers, it will always be a sur­prise to hear about life out­side our own.

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