Permanently Temporary is a story about people caught in the in-between—between borders, nations, identities, belonging, and not belonging. The film is partly based on my own biography. Like Miška, I carried the scars of war as I left Bosnia and Herzegovina, searching for a new life in the world, eventually ending up in Vienna. Vienna, a city that becomes home only after many years of “invisible struggle,” while the old home no longer truly exists. The other foundation of the film is my dissertation, Unterwegs zur Transmigration, written at the University of Vienna, where I explored xenophobia, systemic demoralization and the search for identity among Eastern European migrants in Germany, Switzerland and Austria.

Miška’s story blends personal reality, academic research, and fiction: brutal enough to leave a mark, poetic enough to create space for a dream of resistance. I didn’t have to search far for inspiration. All it takes is to open your eyes and observe the people passing by: the ones in the shadows, invisible, marginalized. This isn’t a story about heroes, but about surviving without applause, every single day. Resilience isn’t a choice; it’s a necessity.

My love for cinema began in early childhood when video rental stores arrived in Bosnia in the 1980s. I was obsessed, renting films daily, often watching four or five in a single day. Those films were my window into the world. Honestly, I don’t remember the first movie I ever watched, but one of the earliest films that left a deep impression on me was The She-Butterfly by Đorđe Kadijević, which I accidentally stumbled upon on TV when I was nine or ten years old. It was a short horror film, minimal in dialogue but rich in atmosphere, carrying more truth in its simplicity than many epic tales I’ve seen since.

It’s hard to single out specific directors because each one brings a unique spark. But, if I had to mention a few, Živko Nikolić was the first who, even in my childhood, introduced me to the idea that film is not just a story but a mirror to society. His poetic realism combined with symbolic storytelling courageously dissected tradition and patriarchy in Montenegro, turning rural landscapes into universal portraits. Sarah Maldoror is another name that guides me toward authenticity and resistance. Her Sambizanga isn’t just a film, it’s a manifesto of liberation, a story of struggle told from a woman’s perspective in a colonial context. Her camera doesn’t merely observe; it participates, connects and disrupts. Agnes Varda infuses poetry into the everyday, while Jasmila Žbanić lays bare the wounds we must confront. The Yugoslav Black Wave taught me that film doesn’t need to be polished, it can be raw, brutal, and true as well.

Favorite movie? Any film that shakes me! Whether to tears, laughter or deep reflection. For me, cinema is not just an escape or entertainment but a collision of reality and imagination, a socio-political-artistic space where boundaries dissolve.

The first defining moment was thanks to my father, a lover of technology, who gave me early access to a projector and a camera. When I picked up a camera for the first time, I felt that this was my voice. The second moment came from immersing myself in DIY culture—music, comics, books—all those raw, unpolished forms that taught me how to tell stories in my own way. The third, and most painful, was the loss of my brother during the war. He was an artist, and through creation, his spirit remains with me, a constant reminder of the power of art.

Film became my answer to an internal dilemma: should I dedicate myself to music, visual arts or literature? I could never limit myself to just one, and film is the only medium that combines all these elements. At the same time, it gives me the space to be politically engaged and to work on plural remembrance. Film isn’t about glamour; it’s a powerful artistic tool to connect people, ideas and realities.

The biggest challenge was working with an extremely limited budget. Essentially no budget at all. Independent filmmaking often feels like running through mud. Every step is difficult, but it forces you to extract the maximum from whatever resources you have. Everything that could be improvised, we improvised, from locations to equipment. At times, it felt like every force in the world was working against us, as my assistant director Cosimo Nando often joked.

Another significant challenge was emotional. The film tackles heavy themes of migration, trauma and identity, and balancing personal pain with a professional approach wasn’t easy. This isn’t just a social-political story; it’s also an intimate confession.

Every step of this film was an improvisation. Casting wasn’t traditional. I looked for people who could bring authenticity, often choosing non-professional actors. This meant giving them room to improvise and bring their personal stories to the characters. Authenticity couldn’t be acted; it had to come from lived experience.

Post-production was another challenge, particularly with sound and limited resources, but my DIY background was crucial. The rule was simple: “Make the film now, with what you have.” That philosophy kept us going, even when everything seemed impossible.

This film was a collective effort—the commitment, time and talent of the crew were what brought this story to life. Despite the challenges, we stayed true to the film’s message and completed it.

For me, “originality” lies in perspective, not necessarily in form. A film doesn’t always have to be revolutionary in style, but it should carry honesty, truth and a touch of mystery. What’s beautiful about cinema is that it always has room for new forms. Take the Yugoslav Black Wave as an example. Films that were experimental and initially censored by authorities, but are now celebrated in film schools for their courage and innovation. Those films proved that even with limited resources, authenticity and subversion can create works that leave a lasting impact.

So, I think it’s not about choosing between classical or original, but having the courage to speak from your own position, whether relying on established styles or exploring entirely new territories. Cinema is where reality and imagination collide, and each story carries the potential to expand its boundaries.

I don’t have extensive experience with filmmaking industry to speak as an expert, but what seems most important about festivals is the connection they foster. Festivals aren’t just platforms for promotion. They’re spaces for dialogue. It’s where you meet people who understand your work, who may think like you or completely differently, but inspire and elevate you.

Awards? Honestly, they don’t mean much to me. What matters more are the encounters, conversations and the feeling that you’re not alone in what you do. Festivals are where a film stops being just yours and becomes part of a community. It’s that sense of solidarity and exchange that makes them invaluable.

To get the most out of them, I focus on showing up, meeting other filmmakers, absorbing different perspectives and being open to collaboration. For me, festivals are not just about the film; they’re about the connections that come after the credits roll.

I plan to continue building stories that push boundaries and explore the spaces where the personal collides with the social-political. Currently, I’m working on two scripts, one of which is for my first feature-length film. This project will combine documentary and fiction to explore DIY culture within migration and social borders in Vienna. I’m also developing a project focused on plural remembrance through art, connecting narratives from different communities and collective imagination. The goal isn’t just to archive the past but to activate it, through stories that inspire solidarity and resistance.