This year, the 16th edition of the Anibar International Film Festival tackled the present, one marked by deepening precarity, affective exhaustion, and the recursive failures of history. The festival mobilized both memory and this turbulent present, not as linear trajectories towards progress, but as spaces of impasse, where the possibility of genuine transformation feels increasingly out of reach.

Through collective and spatial acts of engagement – film screenings, conversations, presentations, educational programs, and Virtual Reality (VR) experiences – the tension between hope and despair materialized visibly across Peja, between its walls, along its streets, and across its green spaces.

Outside Jusuf Gërvalla, the city’s only cinema, the scene was a familiar one: festival attendees filtered into the venue with anticipation, volunteers in graphic t-shirts greeted them, and the festival’s merchandise stand stood stationed across the street. Amid the background noise of traffic, Anibar’s Festival Coordinator, Vita Kasapolli, spoke about the festival’s evolving identity and this year’s provocative theme.

The 2025 edition of the festival, held between July 14–20, was centered around the theme WTF?!, a deliberately open-ended concept, signaling a double gesture: a speculative inquiry into uncertain futures (“What’s The Future?!”), and an unfiltered, affective response to that very uncertainty (“What The F***?!”).

“It’s not about one specific thing; everyone is free to decide what feels f***ed up to them. It can be personal. It can be collective,” Kasapolli said. “It doesn’t have to be politically correct; it’s open.”

Kasapolli noted that while the previous two editions had carried with them a sense of optimism –– through the themes of love and the fight against patriarchy –– recent global events had made that outlook harder to maintain. The current theme reflects a broader emotional and political ambiguity, and it invites both creators and audiences to grapple with a complex world through their own interpretations.

Anibar’s programming embraced a spirit of openness, presenting a wide range of emotional and political themes across both competitive and non-competitive categories, with selections evaluated by an international jury. Its 143 animated films ranged from lighter films aimed at young audiences to dark comedies, experimental works, documentaries, music videos, and this year’s specific selection of films that put the spotlight on the Balkans and Palestine.

Anibar – a history to now

Anibar began in 2010 as a grassroots initiative led by a group of young artist activists from Peja, including Petrit Gora, now Creative Director, and Vullnet Sanaja, Executive Director. The festival started as a small, local gathering where the founders invited friends and family to showcase animated films at the Jusuf Gërvalla Cinema in Peja.

Officially registered as a non-governmental organization (NGO), Anibar rapidly evolved from a local initiative into an internationally recognized animation film festival. Its international profile is clear, welcoming an array of filmmakers and artists such as Mike Reiss (showrunner and producer of the animated sitcom The Simpsons), Bryan Newton, and Matt Taylor (director of multiple projects, including Rick and Morty Exquisite Corpse). Central to Anibar’s international standing is the festival’s curatorial and evaluative body, which features a rotating jury of professionals from across the world whose diverse disciplinary perspectives – animation and filmmaking, cultural studies, human rights – ensure that Anibar remains deeply embedded in the discourses occurring around the world in the animation industry.

As Anibar’s international stature has grown, its commitment to Peja has remained deeply rooted. The festival’s evolution is inseparable from its reclamation of the Jusuf Gërvalla Cinema – a space that has shaped the identity of the festival from its very beginnings. Over the years, Anibar has also become a cultural magnet, drawing international visitors and contributing to Peja’s local economy through tourism, hospitality while engaging with its creative industry.

In 2016, Anibar emerged as a vocal site of political resistance, actively defending the Jusuf Gërvalla Cinema against plans for demolition and commercial redevelopment. Through direct confrontation with the Privatization Agency of Kosovo (PAK) and the local government, the team led efforts to preserve the Jusuf Gërvalla Cinema from its destruction and transformation into a commercial site. 

Anibar’s activism has evolved beyond institutional contestation with state and private stakeholders; it also engages in a broader socio-cultural conflict, particularly with conservative attitudes within segments of the local community. Public backlash, especially online, has targeted the festival’s support of marginalized groups, most notably the queer community, in 2023.

A new dialogue of understanding

This year, Anibar tried to form a new dialogue of understanding with Peja. As Festival Coordinator Kasapolli put it, “Instead of Peja coming to us, we came to Peja.” The shift was marked by the opening of the Bazaar Cinema, an initiative aimed at bringing the festival closer to the city.

Located in the heart of Peja’s historic marketplace, Çarshia e Gjatë, the Bazaar Cinema screen stands directly in front of the 15th-century Bajrakli Mosque, one of the most important Ottoman monuments in Kosovo. The Bajrakli Mosque itself stands as a testament to the city’s violent historic ruptures – destroyed twice, first by Italian forces in 1943 and again in 1999 by Serbian forces during the Kosovo War. 

Kasapolli’s words, which described Anibar, “coming to Peja,” took on a clear spatial significance when approaching the Bazaar Cinema. The new venue sat just beyond the city’s historic bazaar, near the Soliter – a 13-story brutalist apartment block that looms over the eastern edge of the city center – where my grandparents once lived. The route to the cinema mirrors a familiar path for many locals; it is the same one that once led home after late-night screenings. It now leads us into the heart of a reimagined community space.

As the muezzin’s call to prayer echoed across the bazaar before the screening, the convergence of Palestinian cinematic narratives and Islamic ritual induced a recognition of exile, erasure, and genocide. This powerful intersection highlighted the complexities of memory in post-conflict contexts, where acts of cultural preservation and artistic expression become vital sites of resistance against amnesia and erasure. Several films explored themes of war and conflict, most notably through the Palestine Animated program, which featured eight short films depicting life under occupation and the lasting trauma of war. These animations offered personal and often intimate portrayals of survival, memory, and resistance, further emphasizing the role of art in confronting historical violence and sustaining collective memory.

“We are a population that emerged from war; even those of us who didn’t experience it directly live with the inherited anxiety of our parents, and the memories of friends who did”, says Kasapolli. “This is why it was necessary to show these films at the festival.”

Pain expressed in all colors

Flaka Kokolli, director of the 17 o’clock film, which screened at Anibar, reflected on how animation, as a medium, shapes the representation of pain and trauma.

The festival’s Animated Documentary Program showcased films rooted in true events. These narratives were presented either from a first-person perspective or through voices closely associated with the producers, who worked with individuals to animate their personal experiences. 17o’clock centers on a family of four trying to preserve a sense of normalcy during the 2001 armed conflict in North Macedonia. The film follows its child protagonists as they hold onto their fragile innocence and yearn to play outside, in spite of the ever-present dangers surrounding them.

“What’s interesting about animation work is that you can portray a lot while still keeping characters anonymous, and you can be more selective with the details than in other forms of film”, says Kokolli. “On one hand, you don’t want to make it too sensational and show just gory details, as that will be the only thing that sticks with people. On the other hand, you don’t want to minimize what happened, especially when these are other people’s realities.” 

Kokolli explained the close communication between the producers and the woman who shared her story for the making of 17 o’clock. “The documentary is based on a real person, it’s no longer about the abstract nor the political, but about what that individual is feeling”, she explains. 

Kokolli also mentioned the Animation School in Prishtina, a nine-month course where young people learn the fundamentals of animation. The school was launched seven years ago, and Kokolli joined five years into the program. By the end of the course, each student completes a short film, and some of them are then screened at the Anibar Festival.

The program is entirely free of charge. “It’s essential to us that students never have to pay for it,” Kokolli explained. “If any of these programs had cost money, many of us wouldn’t have been able to become part of the industry.”

Now, Kokolli is receiving support through the Pitch It! initiative. Her film, I Still Haven’t Cried, won this year’s Pitch It! competition, a platform where animators present their project ideas to an international jury for the chance to receive funding, mentorship, and industry support.

The film places the audience in an intrusive and unsettling vantage point as two girls speak openly about grief and numbness. I Still Haven’t Cried explores how the objectification of young girls can silence vulnerable experiences. By securing first prize, Kokolli has gained both financial resources and mentorship, marking a significant step forward in the development of the film.

Reflecting on the moment, Kokolli says: “We were talking with Vullnet [Sanaja], the director of the organization, and he described what happened with Pitch It! as divine intervention. And I said it was divine intervention in the middle of the apocalypse.” 

Kokolli’s remarks are more than personal sentiment. They capture a broader existential anxiety which resonates across Kosovo’s younger generation, particularly those attempting to forge creative futures outside the capital.

In the Kosovar context, asymmetric centralization – including funding, infrastructure, higher education, cultural capital, and even visibility – has positioned Prishtina as the dominant urban centre, often to the detriment of regional cities like Peja.  

“If you want to study, you have to go to Prishtinë. If you want to get a job, go to Prishtinë,” says Kasapolli, Program Coordinator at Anibar. “Even if you do find a job in Pejë, it is difficult to feel okay in your individuality, in your clothes, in your friendships.” 

Anibar as a decentralized cultural infrastructure 

Many of Anibar’s key figures began their journeys within the festival itself, illustrating its deep-rooted role in nurturing local talent. Vita Kasapolli first engaged with Anibar by attending screenings and workshops. She later volunteered, joined the staff, and eventually rose to her current role as Festival Program Coordinator.

A similar path was taken by Kaltrina Berisha, who started as a workshop participant and volunteer. Over time, she began mentoring others and is now one of 10 emerging animators selected for Anibar Pro – Genesis—a new French–Kosovar initiative aimed at supporting young filmmakers and strengthening the region’s creative industries.

Kokolli joined Anibar as a volunteer in 2013, later participating in workshops, tutoring youth, and contributing to the selection of programming for younger audiences. After studying animation in Budapest, she returned to Anibar to present her own work and now runs her own animation studio, Flammorum.

In a landscape where recognition and legitimacy are often anchored by the capital, Anibar offers an alternative geography of belonging. As Berisha reflects, “Anibar has made us feel seen,” emphasizing that the festival is a space where youth are not merely mentored, but recognised, socially supported, and institutionally anchored.

“Given everything happening in Kosovo right now, I’m honestly scared that it might become really difficult to keep the festival going, not just Anibar, but all festivals”, Berisha says, referring to the fact that young people are moving to Prishtina for studies and work.

Nevertheless, she expresses optimism about the future, as Anibar’s attendance keeps growing every year. 

“Producers keep telling us: Kosovo is the next big thing in the industry. We can’t wait to see what you’ll come up with in three years”, she adds. “That gives me something to hold on to.”

As Kosovo’s youth navigate inherited trauma and an increasingly unstable global climate, Anibar continues to stand as a living infrastructure of imagination, turning animation into a collective form of expression.

Feature Image: Ferdi Limani / K2.0.

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