In a handful of Hive’s quieter moments, main character Fahrije (Yllka Gashi) brushes up against an inverted version of her own existence: her son and father-in-law discuss the risk of losing the Queen piece in a game of chess; Fahrije’s homegrown business depends upon the matriarchal hierarchy of the bee colony that affords her some semblance of independence through her ability to sell honey to a local supermarket. And yet, Fahrije’s position as the wife of a ‘disappeared’ husband, an apparent victim of the Kosovo war, in a society ruled by an ingrained patriarchal conservatism, renders her a second-class citizen, even under her own roof. Alongside a group of other, effectively widowed, women, Fahrije attempts to support her family in the absence of her husband Agim by starting up a local business selling honey and ajvar.
Debut director Blerta Basholli’s camera follows Fahrije’s small but powerful efforts to establish her own value and independence within a very backwards cultural and societal sphere, placing her front and centre in a shallow depth-of-focus throughout the vast majority of the film’s runtime. But this is no happy-go-lucky story of entrepreneurial spirit and endeavour. In one striking scene, not long after we see Fahrije pass her business-dependent driving exam (a lone woman in an otherwise male cohort), a group of café patrons, watching in disbelief as Fahrije drives past, throws a rock through her car window in apparent protest of her independence.
Hive is about a woman left to fend for herself within a society in which her ability or even right to do so is questioned, ridiculed, or actively supressed. At every juncture in this journey, a new obstacle or instance of sexism or prejudice is thrown at her and her hive-like community of friends and co-workers, but it is Fahrije’s stoical acceptance, her unwillingness to step outside of societal convention by exhibiting any emotion or reaction to the extremities of misogyny continually perpetrated against her, which underlines the true horror of this narrative which, as both the beginning and end credits remind us, is ‘based on a true story’. Instead, Fahrije’s is a world of quiet resolve and bitter acceptance of an unfair status quo, a culture in which the idea of a woman driving a car, let alone working, is enough to warrant abuse, community gossip and even outright assault at the hands of not only men, but unquestioning women as well. As Fahrije’s daughter Zana misguidedly complains following her mother’s choice to embark upon her societally-condemned career, something that she resents for how it will make her and her family social pariahs, ‘you never cry about anything!’ But how can Fahrije exhibit fear or anger in a society that will condemn and punish such emotions or agency? This is simply a fact of existence. It is only when, upon learning of her daughter’s first period and the realisation that she is now ‘grown up’ that we see Fahrije cry, knowing, as we do, that Zana will have to contend with the same limitations and abuses that she has.
Hive’s interrogation of gender inequality set against the backdrop of a specific historical trauma makes for an unflinching, but never exploitative drama, accomplished most readily by its strong lead performance and controlled plotting.
Notes from the Multiplex 