Original subtitles

This place.

Legend says it used to be called "the plains of weeping"...

long before the arrival of Eugėne Casalis

and Thomas Arbousset.

They named the plains "Nasaretha", or "Nazareth," after their faith.

The people

just called it home.

They say if you go a little further, to the edges of the dam ,

you can still hear the church bell tolling

beneath, under the waters.

Take a walk closer to the dam. You will hear for yourself.

The church bell speaks, tolling beneath, under the waters.

Tolling.

In the deep, bells speak when people cannot.

I saw with my own eyes, in the year of the Red Dust,

following the arrival of the men with iron cups.

Cups that could never be filled.

I saw with my own eyes, the dead burying their own dead.

Gather round, little children.

Cheer up.

For this is not a death march, nor a burial.

This is a resurrection.

The genesis.

The dead buried their own dead.

You - You shall follow in the future.

They say

in Nasaretha, if you place your ear to the ground,

you can still hear the cries and whispers

of those who perished under the flood,

their spirits hallowing from the deep.

December has arrived.

It is the day of jubilee in a widow's house.

Before this day, Mantoa began counting down

months, weeks, days, hours, seconds.

Her son

is coming from the South African gold mines.

He is coming home for Christmas.

One must understand that at this time of the year,

a miner coming home is like a war hero.

As the soldiers

hear the whistling of bullets in the trenches,

the miners

hear the earth trembling beneath their feet.

For one to come home alive, it was a day of the Lord.

It was a day of the Lord!

Motlaleng.

Molantoa.

Where is my child?

Molantoa...

Where was my child taken? Where is he?

It's Christmas. My son should be here.

Her husband died years ago.

Then her daughter

and grandchild died.

For days and days she wept.

She wept and wept.

She looked up to the heavens, her palms opened skyward,

and she cried out to God.

Her son was her only comfort, the only way God answered her supplications.

Through her son, the widow saw the benevolence of God.

Now that her son was dead...

she didn't cry,

nor look up to the heavens.

"By the sweat of your brow, you will eat your food

until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken.

For dust you are to dust you will return."

Besides God...

reality too felt further and further away, until it become little.

It became dark.

It became dark.

Repeat after me.

The benevolence of God.

Listen, l am saying to you.

The benevolence of God.

That which was once

the old widow's cornerstone

has now become a stumbling block.

We're happy that he is home.

It's different singing your songs without you.

And your friend the gravedigger fell off of his horse.

In this house that Ralichaba built with his bare bands,

an invisible wall of bewilderment has arisen

and stands between the old widow and the world outside.

The situation does not look good...

We might have to leave...

I was very lost.

I was very lost when my wife died.

You saw me.

I was filled with so much anger and pain.

I don't remember much from those months.

The weeks that followed...

I was in a... dark place.

My sermons were just words. They meant nothing.

Perhaps they did mean something,

because for the first time, I had no control...

and there was nothing to hold on to.

That's why I call this

a holy place.

It's a place that subjected me to

a total surrender,

where faith, courage and will...

become obsolete.

My loss became a mirror that reflected the holiest of places...

within me.

You are loved.

You are loved.

Lord, your mercy be upon all those who have departed.

Hide them under the shadow of your wings.

May they see your grace when Judgment Day comes.

Lord, from your highest throne,

cast your mercy upon them.

We hereby announce the death of Malakabane Morumuoa.

She passed away in the Thaba-Tseka district on May 27th.

She will be laid to rest on June 15th.

This is an obituary by Mahalefele Morumuoa.

We hereby announce the death of Rabohlale Thakholi.

He passed away in Ha Rampolelle village on May 22nd.

He will be laid to rest on June 8th.

This is an obituary by Halefele Thakholi.

The long night has come.

Rest in the arms of Morpheus

and hope that you die in your sleep.

Adorn your body with this dress.

This offering of love that your husband gave to you.

Go to bed

and summon your death.

Will it to you.

Pray for your eternal slumber.

The wind howls with the unwholesome call of death,

but death does not come.

Lament.

Lament, old widow.

Weep.

Weep.

For death has forgotten you.

Take off your cloak of mourning,

for your mourning period has long ended.

Lest they confuse you for a sorceress

who is struck by madness.

But the widow refused to remove her mourning dress.

Her mouth was bitter with the taste of death.

If she were to sing,

a tempest of vile blasphemies would break forth from her mouth.

So she took a vow of silence.

Regarding God and nature in silent contempt.

Mantoa.

Mantoa!

Grandpa is injured. He fell off his horse.

My aunt from the capital is here. She brought me some candy.

Mokolobetsi.

Don't rest too long.

There is a grave to dig.

Do you hear me, Mokolobetsi?

I will wait for you, my friend.

I will wait and prepare a plot for my grave so long.

I came to see you regarding the trash at the cemetery.

The trash is not my priority right now.

So what is the priority?

The village is my priority.

The cemetery is the village.

Your father is buried there.

Your mother, your sister-in-law

and your grandchild.

Mantoa.

We are going to be resettled.

This place is going to be flooded. A dam will be built here.

I did not come here as a parliamentarian.

I am here as one of you.

I am your child.

I am your messenger.

You know me. I know you.

You said , "Go and represent us.

Speak for us."

I feel truly honored.

Can you shout, "up"?

Up with development!

You sent me and said,

"Go and represent us.

Be our eyes and ears."

I did as you asked.

Today

we are knocking at the door of the modern world.

Your voice

has been heard.

I assure you

that it will be worth it. Please be patient.

What about our graves?

You sang at my mother's funeral.

The one whose voice...

mirrors men's hearts

to the heavens.

I was too young then...

Mantoa.

It's your call what you do with your graves.

But I am telling you that when the water level rises,

the graves will be flooded.

As I mentioned before, the ministry will provide assistance

to those who choose

to move their graves.

I am from the Nasaretha village.

I am here to see the minister.

What is it about?

It's about the dam to be built

on my home and my graves.

There is a form on the shelves.

Fill it in capital letters.

Your village chief must sign it

and attach the stamped letter detailing the problem.

Then you can come back

and throw it in that box of complaints.

I will be here if you need any guidance.

It's not a complaint.

It's a request to meet the minister.

Everything goes in the same box.

We will have to wait for one more passenger.

The new god prays to the old god.

The Red Dust has erupted.

No! l refuse!

This is not a death march.

No, no! l refuse!

This is the march

Of the living and the dead

This is the march

Of the living and the dead

What will my horse graze on in the capital?

Underestimating one's stupidity

is a common mistake...

especially in a pack of shepherds.

My chief,

I am not asking you to part the Red Sea here.

I'm only asking you to uphold common sense.

My chief...

we are talking advancement here.

Can you please explain the hectare measurement?

Can you just show us?

We were expecting the measurement

to be based on the productivity of the field, not these hectares and acres.

I toil on this earth.

I feed my family from this earth.

This soil was a gift from my mother.

This piece of land that has now become so little

is the inheritance of my children and their children.

My field ends over there, where your colleague has just passed.

It's small, but enough for my family.

You see, gentlemen, that's a hectare.

-What the hell? -Are you crazy?

What are you doing?

What are you doing?

I am a hired hand and a witness.

I know exactly where this is heading.

The dam will be built and the flood will come.

When the water level rises, your homes and your fields will disappear.

If you don't take their offer, by that time there will be no compensation at all.

My child.

There will be so much water everywhere. All of the graves will be covered.

I wonder how deep the water is going to be. Above my head?

It's hard to imagine this place covered in water and fish swimming everywhere.

Do you know how this village came about?

No, I don't.

Many, many years ago,

before your great grandfather was even born,

this place was called the Plains of Weeping.

During the time of a black plague,

when the people from the far villages

were carrying their sick to healing centers in the capital,

they would have to pass through these plains.

Most often, by the time they arrived in this valley,

their sick would have already died.

They couldn't leave their dead behind, so they buried them here.

They decided to settle in these plains.

And then the missionaries who had come from afar

also settled here and they named it "Nasaretha."

But to us, it's always been the Plains of Weeping.

So many people died here?

That's how our village came about?

Yes, my child.

There are going to be lots of dead to exhume.

It's getting late.

You better get home.

...he passed away in Motimposo on May 29th.

He will be laid to rest in the district of Leribe on June 17th.

What are you doing?

People are here to mourn and yet there is no death.

Mantoa.

Please stop.

I am begging you to stop.

This is a disgrace.

Almost everyone in this village thinks you have gone completely mad.

-I defended you! And now this. -I am alone.

-Maybe they were not wrong after all. -There is nothing left for me here.

Before I let you go...

you have to apologize to everyone.

I buried my husband on this land.

My children and grandchildren.

My mother and father are buried here

and their mothers and fathers too.

So are their umbilical cords.

So are mine and my children's.

And all of my mother's placentas are buried in this earth.

My only wish is to be buried here, just like my family.

Buried with our feet, knees and head facing east

to a place of reeds and water.

If we are to dig up our graves,

then every single grave on these plains must be exhumed.

The bodies of Lerotholi, Seeiso...

Letsie, bo Nthati, bo Masopha -

Everyone.

And those who perished in the Lifaqane wars and Boer wars.

And those who perished in the black plague!

We are not moving! We are not going anywhere!

We can't desecrate our dead!

Peace, peace, my people.

Technically...

this land is the king's land. It's lent to us.

The Land Act says we are only entitled to claim ownership of the land for 90 years.

Don't forget...

throughout our generation...

it has just been a verbal lease based on trust.

We don't have papers to claim anything. We don't own the land.

As your chief...

your troubles are mine.

Now please, everyone, go home.

We intend to remain on our land.

We demand that the ministry workers

cease their work and leave our village.

Every time I say the word "progress"...

my tongue literally rolls backwards.

I can't get myself to spit it out.

My old man was one of the workers

when they wiped out the entire Boliba forest.

They were making way

for the main road.

During a ribbon-cutting ceremony we were standing in the crowd, my old man and I.

My father looked me straight in the eye and said to me,

"My son, what they call progress...

it is when men point their damning finger at nature

and proclaim

conquest over it."

"Dear King Teele.

We live in Nasaretha,

far in the outskirts of a small town in the Leribe district.

We live deep down in the plains along the Senqu river,

a river that is layered

with black soil."

I don't remember any of us saying that. This is not a love letter.

We should be straightforward...

and leave these romantics.

Writing is like...

a song,

or a dance.

Is that not so?

Let's give him a chance.

I hope that I am entrusted with the task of writing because of my skill,

not because none of you can write.

Can someone pour me some tea please?

I am going to start from the beginning.

As I said, it's like music.

"There is plenty of arable and pastoral land.

It's small, but it's enough for us.

No family has ever gone to bed without food.

Any showers of rain coming?

In the next days.

Tomorrow, then, the hoes will split the earth.

It's been a long time since I've seen our village alive like this.

It might be short-lived...

but we feel alive and it feels good!

I know every single herb that grows in these plains

like the back of my hands.

I would dream

of herbs that could mend wounds.

I have done mixtures that can foretell the future, repel a thunderstorm,

summon the rain in dry season.

This has shown me many things in my life.

And yet, there was not even one mixture or one dream

that could prepare me for the death of my son.

On the day before my husband's accident,

we were supposed to go for a walk and pick flowers.

He hated coming with me.

He would rather have brew with his friends and tell jokes.

But he did come for me.

But later,

he went to the mountains

to supply our shepherds with warm blankets and food

and mixtures of herbs so they could withstand the harsh winter.

We knew that it was probably snowing in the mountains that weekend,

but none of us expected a blizzard.

I wanted to go and look for him because he was late

and we planned to renovate our chicken coop.

The blizzard was bad in the mountains and all of the roads were blocked.

I had to wait for the blizzard to pass.

I got weary of waiting.

But I waited.

When the snow cleared up, we went. I don't have memories of that journey.

I just remember being led to the cave where my husband was.

I swore to myself

I would come in and he would be sitting around the fire with our shepherds.

Telling them jokes about how I love the smell of wild flowers.

They would all be laughing and my husband would see me

and say to them, "Oh, well! It's over now, boys!

She found me! Even here, she found me by smell!"

I don't want to sleep. The night is so long.

And when I stand up,

I am just waiting for the time to arrive, so I can lie down again.

And when I lie down, I want to get up again.

I don't want to sleep anymore and I don't want to be awake anymore.

Even though it feels long,

soon I will be with my family.

He hasn't eaten anything today.

We are ceaselessly praying for him.

Soon he will be running like a newborn calf.

The doctor said we should try to talk to him.

Mokolobetsi, how are you feeling?

We are all praying for you.

We really miss you at church.

So today...

I was going through the history records of our church.

You know, our church was built in 1850!

It was built by French missionaries.

It took them 20 years to build it.

And 15 years...

to forge the church bell!

Our people had to surrender their spears...

to the blacksmiths so that they could melt the iron

and beat it into that bell.

The interesting thing is that

they didn't just surrender their spears,

but their gods too.

Every single toll of that bell made way for the new. A new God.

A new way of life.

With each toll of that bell, anything from the old was soon forgotten.

Today we find ourselves staring into the end of the beginning,

making way...

for the new.

I have come to realize that nothing will ever endure. Nothing!

A season comes and a season goes.

When one soul...

is lost...

another is born.

Life is like a wheel.

We end up where we started...

and start all over again.

New dreams...

new hopes, new ambitions.

Who knows?

Maybe even a new God?

I am taking my brother to the capital.

He is well taken care of here. There is no need.

My leave is almost over

and commuting every day to the capital would be wasteful.

Besides, he will be nearer to the hospital.

The baby is crying.

Times are changing.

I am afraid we can't withstand the march of time.

We just have to adapt to change.

You know what you will see, Father?

Nothing. You will see nothing.

No meaning.

There is no meaning...

to all this.

There is no meaning to my husband's death,

no meaning to my children's deaths and my grandchild's death.

So it is with your wife's death.

She will die over and over again for the rest of your remaining life.

Yes, that's grief.

It's a senseless suffering.

There's no meaning to it.

My house doors are always open.

You want money?

I need a grave. For me.

I'll pay you a thousand maloti right now.

What are you saying?

I'll give you money.

I need the money,

but digging a grave for someone who is still alive -

It's unnatural. It's -

I will double the amount.

No, no.

I'll dig your grave, and then what?

This round is for the fast contenders!

That's enough. Stop!

You cut the sheep!

Look at you!

Look at your hands.

It's not his blood.

It's mine.

It's just a game. Don't take it so seriously.

Let the dead bury their own dead.

Under this roof that Ralichaba thatched.

Within these walls that your daughter smeared with her own hands.

You shall leave no trace of yourself here.

Bury your existence,

lest they say there once lived a sufferer.

The soulless march of time has surmounted you.

Redeem your days, old widow,

for the wheel of time has cast you out like an old cloth

and turned you into a dung beetle.

It's finished.

It's finished.

There was silence.

Even adders and locusts

could be heard

in the faraway hills.

Greetings.

Greetings to you.

We might have an assailant among us.

It may be one of Morui's associates...

or one of the young people in the village.

Or some other unfathomable forces are at work here.

I have come to believe that this incident is connected to the dam.

You can come and stay with us.

No, thank you. I'll stay at my son's house.

I should get going.

Greetings.

I would like to talk about my funeral arrangements.

Immediately following my death,

I would like to be buried on the same day.

I don't want to be dressed in church attire.

I want a simple coffin...

not those ugly ones with golden angels.

And the songs -

I would prefer our own songs.

Who is leading the choir?

Maphefo.

I don't want her.

I would prefer someone else.

You know what?

I would recommend Marantso.

She will be singing at the church this Sunday

and we will have guests visiting from the capital.

Maybe you can come by.

Here are my son's clothes.

To give away.

Have faith, people of Nasareth!

Out of your womb will come the fire!

Visitor, please sing us a song.

I want to fall asleep like an animal

Between the clods of clay

I want to lay my tiny skull on my belly

As a swan, under my wing

I am sure that the swan falls asleep

To the drumming sound of its own heart

You are not from the capital.

That song is for the initiates when they take down the bull.

My home is no more.

It was the first village to be flooded.

When I close my eyes, I still dream of our village.

It was just like this one.

The next moment, I opened my eyes

and I found myself in the city of lights.

I have been living in the capital for 12 years and I can't seem to find a light.

At least, not until Father Neirotti took me in.

We come to villages where the word of God is most needed.

The rumors are that you are going to be resettled in the city

to a place called Motimposo.

If the rumors are true,

you are going to need faith.

Whatever the outcome.

We don't intend to leave these plains.

You didn't honor our agreement.

Son of Petjapetja, where is my grave?

I changed my mind.

But we agreed.

Sorry. I can't bear such a sin.

I told you not to get your uniform dirty. I am the one who has to wash it!

You should take it off as soon as we're done here.

Come closer and help me stand up.

Go and help Mantoa. There she is.

Dance, my boy! Dance!

Hey, what happened?

Lasaro? Lasaro!

Let her see her son!

Why are you staring at me like an owl?

Blame me! I am the one to be blamed!

Go ahead and strike me! I got you into this, you sons of dogs!

Are you just going to stand there and stare?

The child is dead! Is that not what you want to hear?

Are you just going to stand there and stare?

I killed the child! Strike me!

You walk away with your tails between your legs!

The murderer and arsonist became a coyote that sprawled in the night.

They heard rumors. They were surrounded by mortal fear.

It was the longest night.

A single night became an eternity.

They became the departed.

The infants clung their mothers' breasts

and refused to grow.

Fetuses refused to be born.

The days were of perilous times

and the days were of perilous men that no one could withstand.

If that perilous night was not shortened,

no one would have survived.

"God will wipe away every tear from their eyes

and there will no longer be any death.

There will no longer be any mourning , or crying or pain."

Our ancestors...

we stand here before you. We have come to take you to our new home.

A new home...

in the capital.

Even though it is not by our own will.

For those that we leave behind...

forgive us.

We now part with a song.

Stop! Don't come any closer!

Many saw death,

but Ke'moralioamang, Daughter of No One,

saw a resurrection.

It wasn't for the dead,

but for the living.