Morteza Atabaki: I Was Making a Film About Women Quietly Changing the Rules of Their Own Community

In the small Turkish village of Huğlu residents are so peaceful that the local police station was closed years ago due to the remarkably low crime rate

Although the villagers have a long tradition of manufacturing hunting rifles and shotguns – and many local women work in the factories—using firearms has always been considered a male privilege. Shooting competitions, too, have been almost exclusively reserved for men. That changes when Halime, an energetic mature woman who has been skilled with a rifle since childhood, decides it is time for women to take aim as well.

In the film “32 Meters” director Morteza Atabaki show how Halime, Gönül and several like-minded women, challenged the village’s patriarchal traditions by organizing the first women’s shooting competition. Through determination, hard work, and plenty of laughter, the women transform not only the event itself but also the community around them. Huğlu is never quite the same again.

How did you first meet this remarkable group of women?

I first went to Huğlu because I was fascinated by its unique gun-making tradition. But soon I discovered something far more interesting: many of the rifles and shotguns were actually made by women, yet those same women were not allowed to use them in shooting competitions. That contradiction immediately caught my attention.

Then I met Halime. She spoke about organizing a women's shooting competition with such confidence that it didn't sound like an act of rebellion. It sounded like common sense. She simply kept asking, "Why not?"

As I got to know Halime, Gönül, and the other women, I realized what made them special wasn't only their determination, but also their humor and solidarity. They even called themselves the "outlaw girl gang." At that moment, I knew I wasn't making a film about guns or even about a competition. I was making a film about women quietly changing the rules of their own community.

Emancipation, of course, begins at home – with a conversation between spouses. While some husbands supported their wives from the very beginning, others responded with silence, pretended not to hear, insisted that women should not appear in public, or simply refused to give in. You captured several intimate conversations that took place in the family home. How did the husbands feel about having these discussions filmed?

Trust was the foundation of this film, and trust takes time. Before bringing a camera into anyone’s home, I spent a long time in the village. I shared tea with people, spent hours in the factories, and listened far more than I filmed. By the time the camera entered their homes, I was no longer a stranger.

Some husbands supported their wives from the very beginning and even helped organize the competition. Others were hesitant, uncomfortable, or simply silent. I respected all of those reactions. For me, it was important not to divide people into heroes and villains. The film isn’t about judging anyone. It’s about showing how change happens inside families, and how complicated—and gradual—that process can be. I never asked anyone to repeat a conversation or perform for the camera. If I felt that my presence was changing the reality of a moment, I preferred not to film it at all.

How did the women behave in front of the camera? Did they ever set boundaries regarding what you could or could not film?

Absolutely, and I think that's essential in documentary filmmaking. If someone wanted a moment to remain private, I always respected that. No film is more important than a person's trust.

But something beautiful happened over time. The camera gradually became part of everyday life. They stopped thinking about being filmed and simply carried on being themselves. They worked, laughed, argued, climbed trees to hang the targets, carried heavy equipment, got tired, and kept going.

One thing I really admired was that none of them ever tried to look heroic. They weren't performing courage for the camera – they were simply living their lives. I think that's where the warmth and humor of the film come from.

How did your protagonists react when they saw the finished film, and do they hope it might inspire women living in other patriarchal communities?

Watching the finished film was an emotional experience for all of them.
They laughed at seeing themselves on screen, and at certain moments they became emotional as they realized how far they had come. What made me happiest was that nobody felt the film was against men. Even some of the husbands who had initially opposed the idea later spoke proudly about the women's achievement.

To me, that's one of the most meaningful things the film reveals – that change doesn't always require creating enemies. Sometimes it simply begins with a conversation, patience, and the courage to take the first step. Many of the women told me they hope the film will reach women living in other traditional communities and encourage them to believe that change is possible. Not through confrontation, but through persistence, solidarity, and self-confidence.

One thing Halime said has stayed with me ever since: "Now nobody can say that women can't shoot." For me, that sentence goes far beyond shooting. It is about being seen, being trusted, and being given the same opportunities. The women of Huğlu were never asking for permission to become someone else. They were simply asking for permission to be themselves.

I think that's what 32 Meters is ultimately about – not just a shooting competition, but dignity, equality, and the quiet courage to claim a place that should always have belonged to them.