“Birds of War” premiered at the 2026 Sundance Film Festival, where it received the World Cinema Documentary Special Jury Award for Journalistic Impact. At its core, the film is a love story shaped by revolution, war, and exile. Told through thirteen years of personal archives, it traces the intertwined lives of London-based Lebanese journalist Janay Boulos and Syrian activist and cameraman Abd Alkader Habak, who first connected through work during the Syrian civil war. With international journalists barred from entering Syria, media outlets relied on activists like Habak to document events on the ground—footage that slowly transformed a professional collaboration into an intimate partnership.
Immersive and deeply emotional, “Birds of War” follows Boulos as she becomes increasingly disillusioned with traditional journalism, while Habak faces the fall of Aleppo and the personal cost of bearing witness. As Syria and Lebanon undergo seismic political shifts, the film reflects on what is lost—and what is gained—when love persists under extraordinary circumstances.
Cinema Femme spoke with directors Janay Boulos and Abd Alkader Habak about documenting revolution, the ethics of journalism, building a film from personal archives, and the love that ultimately anchors “Birds of War.”
Courtesy of Sundance Institute | photo by Habak Films.
First of all, it’s so nice to meet you both. I loved the film—it’s incredibly moving. Abd, I’d love to start with you. Can you talk about the importance of documenting what was happening where you were living, and how you first began filming during the revolution?
Abd Alkader Habak (AAH): When the revolution started in 2011, I was part of it. I was in the streets. At that time, the Assad regime had completely cut off international journalism from entering the country. Social media was just beginning, and I was one of the young people who knew how to use Facebook and YouTube. We started filming what was happening around us and uploading it online.
It became a responsibility. These people’s voices needed to be heard—internationally and in the Arab world—especially because the regime was saying nothing was happening. But we were there, demonstrating, filming. What started as something instinctive became my role in the revolution. Sometimes we would travel seven hours just to upload footage because the internet didn’t work. Other times we had to smuggle internet equipment into the country. It was extremely difficult, but it felt necessary.
Janay, can you talk about how you and Abd first connected and how that working relationship began?
Janay Boulos (JB): I started covering the Arab Spring in 2011. Because I’m Lebanese and speak Arabic, I focused a lot on Syria. At that time, we were constantly trying to connect with activists across the country who could send us footage, because there was no real access. Abd was one of the activists I connected with in Aleppo in 2016.
After the siege and evacuation of civilians, we lost touch for a while. He reached out again in 2017, and we began working together more regularly. At first, it was very functional—he would film, I would wait for footage—but gradually we started talking more about our days, our lives. I developed a deep sense of responsibility and care for him, especially knowing he was filming in such dangerous conditions.
That created a conflict inside me. I was sitting behind a desk in London while he was risking his life. And sometimes he would send footage back, only for the newsroom to say, “We don’t need this anymore—the news has moved on.” That disconnect made me question journalism itself.
The way you weave both of your personal archives together is so powerful. Can you talk about the editing process and how you shaped the story from so much material?
JB: We both film instinctively. I’ve been filming my life since I was very young—my family, Lebanon, my surroundings—as a way to observe and process the world. When we decided to make this film, we had to ask: what moments truly changed our lives?
For me, the Lebanese revolution in 2019, the economic collapse, and the regional shifts were essential. We used those turning points as the spine of the story—moments where our lives and our relationship shifted.
AAH: For me, it was different. When Aleppo was under siege, documenting everything felt urgent—even if the footage was never published. We were documenting war crimes. You never knew if you would survive, or who would be responsible for your footage if you didn’t.
I have around twelve terabytes of HD footage. Choosing what to include meant asking ourselves: when did we question our lives? When did everything change? Those moments became the drivers of the film.
There’s a moment in the film—after a particularly traumatic event—that feels like a turning point. Can you talk about that?
AAH: Yeah. In that specific event, I wasn’t there by myself. There were a few journalists with me, and we were trying to cover what was happening at that moment. It was during what’s known as the Four Villages Agreement, which involved many countries internationally.
It was actually a nice day—it was sunny, people were around us—and then suddenly the explosion happened. At first, no one was filming anything. I remember I had many friends around me, and we were all running to help. In those first moments, I didn’t really understand what was happening.
But for me, I have this instinct—I sometimes call it a gift, sometimes not—that I record everything, even when I’m not consciously looking at the camera. The second it happened, I started recording while running. For me, it’s always been like this: one hand is filming, and the other hand is helping. I can’t just stand there and film someone who needs help and say, “No, I’m a journalist.” That’s not easy to live with.
That moment was the last truly dangerous situation I was in, and it shifted everything in my life.
I love the title “Birds of War,” and the way you call each other “bird.” Can you talk about the meaning behind it?
JB: We call each other “birdie.” In Arabic, the word for love—hubb—and war—harb—are only one letter apart. So “Birds of War” is a play on “lovebirds.” In Arabic, it reads more like “warbirds,” but the meaning holds both love and conflict. It reflects our relationship and the world we come from.
Where are you both now, creatively and personally?
AAH: We live together in London, though we’re often apart for work. Janay is in Lebanon a lot, I’m in Syria, and we meet in London whenever we can.
JB: We’ve started a production company. We’ve made short films for Al Jazeera, an investigation for The New York Times, and we’re finishing another feature documentary called “Until the Buzzing Stops.” It feels like a continuation of this journey.
Finally, for audiences seeing “Birds of War” for the first time, what do you hope they take away from the film?
JB: I hope people see that beyond politics and headlines, we’re all human. Love, empathy, and conversation can challenge the forces that try to divide us.
AAH: Especially now, with social media fueling so much hate, it’s important not to judge people by their background. You never know what someone has lived through. Conversation is essential. We come from very different backgrounds, religions, and experiences—but dialogue brought us together.
Films like this remind us how powerful shared stories can be. Thank you both for making something so honest and deeply human.
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