15 years of Elia Suleiman’s “The Time That Remains”: agitation in the absurd 

As The Time That Remains turns 15, it stands alone in the cinematic landscape, rejecting the comforting pull of reassurance. In light of the ongoing genocide in Gaza, discussing art feels like shouting into a void. Reality and absurdity blur into one—a blending Elia Suleiman captures with unnerving precision. Watching this film now offers no solace, only the weight of a history that hovers over the present. 

Suleiman, born in Nazareth in 1960, is a filmmaker shaped by exile and resistance, drawing heavily on his own family’s experiences for this film. The Time That Remains is rooted in his father’s diaries, a resistance fighter during the Nakba, and the letters his mother wrote to relatives forced into exile. These fragments of memory form the spine of a story that spans decades. Unlike the episodic humour of Chronicle of a Disappearance or the surreal satire of Divine Intervention, this film cuts deeper. It’s expansive, intergenerational—a portrait of displacement that is as personal as it is political. 

The film opens with the 1948 Nakba. Fuad Suleiman, E.S.’s father, is caught between the fight for his land and the unrelenting violence of Israeli forces. One of the film’s most cutting moments comes from a nameless young man who defiantly declares:   

I want no life if we’re not respected in our land. If our words are not heard echoing in the world, I shall carry my soul in my palm, tossing it into the cavern of death! Either a life to gladden the hearts of friends or a death to torture the heart of foes. 

This cry, full of determination, bellows across generations. Today, however, the violence, it seems, is met with indifference as human suffering echoes soundlessly in the chambers of power. 

Critics often misinterpret Suleiman’s style as too detached, as if his use of humour means he’s removed from the pain of occupation. But his comedy isn’t a distraction—it’s a weapon. Beneath the deadpan humour lies rage, sharp and deliberate. In one scene, Fuad saves an Israeli soldier from a burning vehicle, only to be ignored in the hospital as the nurse tends to the soldier first. It’s a perfect snapshot of the layered brutality of the occupation, where even moments of shared humanity are weaponised against the oppressed. 

Suleiman has said, “Art marches a lot slower than bullets.” His work captures that slowness, the way oppression wears people down over time. But even in this, there’s a defiant hope—a belief that art, in its quiet persistence, can inspire freer futures. The humour slices through the surreal nature of life under occupation, forcing us to confront how twisted it all feels. By laughing, we are not escaping but acknowledging the strangeness of reality that has persisted for nearly a century. 

The Time That Remains plays out in four acts, chronicling Suleiman’s family history while reflecting the broader Palestinian experience. There’s the tender scene where Suleiman’s character photographs his elderly mother on her beloved balcony, where we see her write letters every morning over the decades. Frail and silent, she represents the fading generation of Palestinians who lived through the Nakba. This quiet moment, framed with tenderness, contrasts with the world outside her window—where absurdity and oppression unfold in tandem. The juxtaposition between these personal moments and the larger political backdrop deepens the film’s emotional weight, as Suleiman’s camera captures both love and loss in a way that resonates beyond words. 

Fifteen years later, the film’s relevance has only grown. Scenes like the one where a man calmly takes out his trash while on the phone with a friend as tank swivels to follow him have recently gone viral on social media, a chilling reminder of how little has changed. Suleiman’s style—precise, detached, yet brimming with quiet fury—captures the surreal dissonance of life under colonial rule.

The Time That Remains refuses the comforts of closure. It’s a film that watches dignity erode and maps the slow violence of occupation without ever letting us look away. In his films, Suleiman himself, silent and observant, reflects the helplessness many feel today. He doesn’t intervene, but he refuses to turn his back. His presence is a quiet act of resistance—a reminder that bearing witness is itself a form of defiance. “At the end of your laughter, there’s a painful moment that follows—and that painful moment is itself a question mark.” In The Time That Remains, each laugh is just the beginning, a rupture in time that leaves us to grapple with the absurdity of oppression. The film doesn’t soothe or offer answers. Instead, it forces us to confront the world it portrays—a world where the past and present bleed into each other and where the fight for dignity remains unending.