July 6, 2026
Twenty-five years ago, during the first edition of DokuFest, rain came down hard. Bad timing, perhaps. A strange omen. There was no dreamlike beginning and no certainty that any of it would last, only the willingness to work inside a half-ruined Lumbardhi Cinema, open the doors and keep watching films together.
The world is on fire, the doors open at eight. History repeats itself: this August, in our own way: so, do we. Over twenty-five years, there has rarely been a perfect moment to stop and celebrate. There was always something unfinished, something under pressure, another reason to postpone joy until the world made more sense. It never really did. So perhaps our bad timing has become part of the point: we show up, we open the cinemas and we keep looking, even when looking is uncomfortable.
What began in one cinema spread quickly through Prizren, with new cinemas, reclaiming forgotten places and gradually creating a parallel city for everyone to blend in. But change was never only physical. Films shaped conversations, strangers became friends, young people began to imagine different futures, and many of us learned to make Prizren, with all its interruptions, a room of one’s one.
Twenty-five years may be proof of persistence, though not of endless resilience. And we still refuse to look away. This year, showing up gets political, existential, a core prospect that lays its roots in persisting and defying. Persisting and defying. Against all structures, hierarchies and what professes to be normal.
Twenty-five for twenty-five is our way of marking those years without standing still: the number repeats, turns and stacks into a rhythm until one breaks the pattern, much like the festival has always tried to do. There is gratitude in reaching this point, but also restlessness, because there are still films to show, conversations to begin, minds to change and a city we are still discovering together. This is how DokuFest was made. This is how it persisted. This is how we continue – persistently defiant.
