Sara unravels as an elegant slow burn, telling a heavy hearted story of identity, belonging, and unconditional love.

Directed by Ismail Basbeth, the film follows Sara (Asha Smara Darra), a 35-year-old transgender woman, who returns to her conservative hometown in rural Indonesia to attend her father’s funeral. The trip forces her to confront not only the past she’s left behind, but also the painful reality of being unrecognized by the very person who gave her life; her mother, Muryem (Christine Hakim).

Having its international premiere at the 28th Busan International Film Festival and national premiere at The 18th Jogja-NETPAC Asian Film Festival both in 2023; Sara is a globally recognized piece of queer cinema with screenings from France to Taiwan. With nominations in the 2023 Indonesian Film Festival, Asha Smara Darra became the first trans woman to be nominated for the Best Actress category.

At the heart of Sara lies a tender yet narrow storyline, anchored in the fractured relationship between mother and daughter. Basbeth's careful pacing lends the film a careful slowness; allowing us to sink into the longing and unspoken emotions between the two women. 

Lyza Anggrahen, one of the producers of Sara, shared her insights during the panel discussion at Screening Ledakan following the film's screening. She highlighted how the movie delves into different ways on how trauma talks and the film’s representation of one’s disconnection from their roots, also emphasizing the importance of amplifying minority voices in a world that often overlooks them.

The weight of Sara’s existence in a place that refuses to see her is palpable with a hesitant gesture.  Accompanied by the eerie and looming backdrop of the village–continuously contrasting with highlights and tones of blues and pinks, colors that subtly nod to the gender spectrum that Sara is constantly navigating through; the world-building of Sara that Ismail Basbeth and the production team created enfolds us in within the hometown itself.

The film delicately explores the everyday alienation faced by transgender people in traditional communities. In one particularly poignant scene, Sara stands on the sidelines during gendered mourning rituals, unsure of where she belongs–a symbolism for the societal limbo many transgender people have lived in for decades. Another heart-wrenching moment sees Sara being deterred from entering the village mosque, quietly reinforcing how spaces of worship, often seen as places of sanctuary, become sites of exclusion.

Sara’s struggle is not loud or dramatic, but it is achingly human. Basbeth approached the storyline with thought on representation for the transgender community in Indonesia in mind–with research accompanied by the late Shinta Ratri, a transwoman who holds a faith-based community (pesantren) for transfolk in Yogyakarta. 

Sara’s story follows heart-wrenchingly, her mother’s worsening amnesia renders Sara a stranger in her eyes–as if her daughter’s transition has erased her entirely. As Muryem’s condition deteriorates, clinging to delusions that her husband is still alive, Sara makes the heartbreaking decision to temporarily revert to a more masculine appearance. In a quietly shattering sequence, Muryem mistakes de-transitioned Sara for her late husband. A cruel twist of fate that speaks to the immense sacrifices transgender people are often forced to make in pursuit of acceptance. 

Yet, Sara does not leave its protagonist entirely alone. Ayu (Mian Tiara), a childhood friend who secretly harbors unresolved romantic feelings for Sara, serves as the film’s quiet heartbeat. Though Ayu longs for her childhood sweetheart, we get to see her character development as she positions herself to not be selfish of her own desires–showing the powerful matter of allyship in the movie.

What makes Sara so haunting is its refusal to reduce its protagonist to mere tragedy. Instead, the titular character can be seen simply as a woman mourning her father, caring for her mother, simply trying her best to love and be loved in return.

The film quietly asks: What would happen if those around Sara chose empathy over judgment? How much pain could be softened if the world allowed her the grace to simply exist?

Sara stands as a profound meditation on the intersection of identity, family, and the enduring need for recognition. For Sara’s sacrificial reason is: “demi ibu” (“for my mother”), a whispering line that lingers long after the credits roll–reminding us that while intolerance can strip away someone’s name, dignity, and place in the world; love, in all its imperfect forms, has the power to see who we truly are.