To be rooted in nature and held by the sea
Responding to On The Surface by Fan Sissoko
In a beautiful, animated illustration, a young woman sheds layers of clothing until she’s in only her swimsuit and the sea. We meet her first in shadow, her figure the same shade as the distant, towering mountains. As she enters the water, she begins to blend with her natural surroundings. We meet our narrator through simple brushstrokes — we must fill in the lines, using our imaginations to define where she ends, and the seascape begins. Or, maybe there is no need for such lines. Maybe the point is that she belongs here.
On The Surface, written and directed by Fan Sissoko is mesmerising. Each frame is so calming and picturesque, I want to place it on my wall and live in it. It’s fitting that the visuals feel like a compelling home, as the narration of the woman’s story, voiced by Enid Mbabazi, explores the question of what makes a home. Our narrator is in a new country, raising a child who is asking her where they are from. “And I couldn’t answer,” says the narrator at first, beginning to contemplate the complexity of belonging.
The narrator did not feel at home, so she moved to Iceland for its beauty. This simple statement makes me pause — so brave and bold in its simplicity. Moving to a place for beauty sounds idyllic - can I do that too? Is that what I’ve done already, without admitting it to myself?
I moved to the UK when I was 18. This meant leaving behind the US, the country my mom immigrated to when she was eight. I justified my choice with academic distinction, entering the country with the formal stamp of my official student visa. But the real reason? It’s a place I find beautiful, that feels like I could belong. I hadn’t considered that my reasoning is allowed to be that simple and heart-led, at least to myself, if not to UK Visas and Immigration. Passports, nationalities, the languages we speak — all draw lines that complicate identity. Does it need to feel so messy?
The narrator lands on an answer for her child: “You are from me.” Even though I moved away, I am from my mother too. I chose to leave the country I was born in, the one she chose for me, different from her own. If I want, I can have all of these places at once; a new physical home does not erase all that came before. I can choose the abundance of many homes, rather than the burden of a fractured list of places I’ve lived.
This film is my breakthrough in understanding that perhaps what matters most is not where we come from, but where we choose to be. Sometimes, I get angry, overwhelmed even, by the complexity of belonging, for myself and for other marginalised people. The thing is, I can’t be angry while watching On The Surface. It’s too beautiful: the colours, the landscape, and the sounds of the sea are all too calming. Even as difficult topics of trauma, medical racism, and postnatal depression arise, the film’s setting feels like a safe space for our narrator to explore them. Her memories grow more challenging, and the waves around her do too. She reminds us that the mountains are scary, and the water is cold. Her body disappears and reappears as it navigates her swim. Nature appears to absorb her struggles, which ring out to the depths of the ocean and the peaks of the mountains.
If this were a conversation between myself and the narrator, I would feel compelled to react with the appropriate emotions. I would be part-listening, part-composing a response in my head, ready to chime in at her pause: “That’s horrible! I’m sorry that happened to you!” Thankfully, she has a better listener: the sea. As she swims in these expansive waters, she processes her pain. The water understands.
Nature is so momentous; it belittles my human reaction. No need for words when each truth lands amidst the crashing waves. Her pain sinks into the natural surroundings and becomes part of the seascape. In watching, I learn that when someone is sharing with me, the best thing I can do is take it in and listen. I am guilty of getting lost in my worry about what I’ll say in reply and how I can fix it. I aspire to listen like the sea, giving room for someone’s story to resound and echo against the mighty mountains above.
What if we lived our lives in the simple pursuit of beauty? Problems wouldn’t go away but would be put in perspective. It’s not about me, or her, or any one person. In the spaciousness of nature, there is room for all of us, and all that we feel. We are all from the Earth, and these seas, these mountains, have wisdom to share. They have seen and heard it all.
