“Grief is more complex than an art project”: Maja-Ajmia Yde Zellama on Têtes brûlées 

For filmmaker Maja-Ajmia Yde Zellama, who lost a brother when she was 11, writing her debut feature Têtes brûlées was an attempt to supplant traumatic memories with ones she could control and imagine. 

In the film, young Eya shares a deep bond with older brother Younès, who often picks her up from school on his moped and invites her to hang out in his room with his friends. But her world is shattered when Younès is killed by a stray bullet during a football match. In the aftermath of her brother’s death, Eya begins to observe the adults around her: their silences, their rituals, and the quiet strength with which they carry their grief.

Through Yde Zellama’s lens, we witness Eya’s journey while navigating loss and identity, shaped by the gentleness, love and enduring Tunisian traditions of her immigrant community in Belgium.

Ahead of the film’s screenings in LFF’s Journey strand, we spoke to Yde Zellama about the sense of necessity behind her storytelling and the fictional elements that create distance from her lived experience.

You worked on your screenplay and initially made a short film. How did it evolve into a feature-length project?

I shot the short film with friends in two days, though I spent months rehearsing. I showed it at one festival in my city and in places like public schools, youth detention centres, and social associations. Then, three years later, a producer came to me and said, “I saw your short movie,” and suggested that I make a feature.

Younès’ death by a stray bullet isn’t explored in detail in the film. Why did you choose not to dig deeper into what happened?

I wanted to focus on the feeling of grief and Eya’s journey. It’s an intimate story. At the same time, I wanted to touch on the topic of brutality. In Brussels, like in London, young people, who aren’t criminals or drug dealers, can be shot just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I like when the audience is left wondering, asking questions. I don’t want to tell them exactly what to feel or understand.

The scene where Eya asks to name the street after her brother feels powerful and symbolic. Was that moment inspired by something personal?

No, it’s fictional, but it comes from something I truly wished for as a child, something I never dared to say out loud. Eya dared to ask and did what little Maja-Ajmia never had the courage to do.

Has sharing your story helped you in your healing journey?

I wished, but I don’t think so. It healed a part of me, but making the film showed me that grief is more complex than an art project. Honestly, it helped me more to embrace and build up my faith, which helped with grief, but that wasn’t the film’s journey. Making a film with many people takes time and is stressful, especially with distribution and lack of control. Cinema is a weird art form – an intimate story shared with many. Healing came more from small things, connections with people and conversations on set.

Would you say that Eya’s individuality helps shape a feminist reading of the story?

I’m happy if people see a feminist message in Eya’s character and the film, but, for me, it was natural – I didn’t plan it on paper. Eya’s freedom and space to be the girl or woman she wants to be, supported by people and men around her, is very feminist.

If not through a feminist lens, would you say the film expresses a sense of gentle, nurturing masculinity instead?

When I wrote the story, the question of masculinity was more defined than that of feminism. Though in the end they’re deeply connected. I felt a strong need to explore this on screen, especially because so many French films portray North African or Muslim people as violent or oppressive. I wanted to see men on screen who look like my dad and my brother. 

For me, it’s simply normal to be kind, to give space and freedom to your daughter or sister. It’s a natural gesture and an image I believe in. So I didn’t want to fall into clichés or swing to the opposite extreme. I found my balance through the friendships in the story, through the kindness and vulnerability shared between the brother and the sister, between his friends and her, and between the father and the little girl. And yes, for me, it’s connected to so many things. Fighting against toxic masculinity can only help us.

Why did you choose Têtes brûlées as the title?

It’s the title from a rap song by an old French group called Lunatic – two rappers, one very famous, the other no longer active. The song was symbolic and sensitive for me; I have many memories of it with my brothers. While working on the film, I kept writing Têtes brûlées as the title. It started as a working title but became more than the song. ‘Têtes brûlées’ means ‘burned heads’, which, to me, reflects the feeling of grief and loss.

I began to understand the title differently, but I didn’t want to use the song in the film. If it’s the title and in the film, it felt too much. I also didn’t want to be fully associated with it – it’s a violent song, and the lyrics don’t fully match the film. So I used other French rap tracks, more recent ones.

What inspired your choices for the film’s language and music?

I wanted to show the complexity of Brussels’ identity, because we have two languages, Flemish and French. The song that Eya dances to is in Flemish, and she’s speaking both languages in the film.

Young people in Brussels are very inspired by music from the Netherlands – something you can dance to. I wanted to show that young people here aren’t only listening to French music, but also to Dutch music. It’s a kind of sociology, expressed through different music styles. For example, if you’re watching a French movie, you’ll never hear a teenager listening to Dutch music.

What inspired the dance scene in the street, and how does it connect to your cultural background?

It’s inspired by the kind of joyful, collective atmospheres that exist in Tunisian culture and in my own family. But it naturally connects to other Arab peoples and cultures too. If Eya existed in real life, I’m sure she would have joined humanitarian boats heading to Palestine.

If your film could share one message with the world, what would you want it to be?

Grieving and growing older are common and universal experiences. The film is set in a Muslim Tunisian family in Belgium and, though it doesn’t talk about this identity, its depth reflects my belief that we all live through the same difficult things. As a mixed child – my mum is Christian and Danish, my father is Tunisian and Muslim – I was educated that way. 

Many people at festivals, even those who aren’t Muslim, Arabic, or from Brussels, felt a strong connection to the film. I appreciate when people with nothing in common with the characters deeply feel what the girl is feeling. That is also one of my messages.

Têtes brûlées screens at the 69th BFI London Film Festival.