Turtles Can Fly

In a dusty Kurdish refugee camp perched on the Iraq–Turkey border, daily life unfolds beneath the uneasy calm that precedes a looming conflict. The makeshift settlement, a patchwork of canvas tents and bartered supplies, echoes with the distant rumble of war while its inhabitants cling to the thin threads of routine that give their world shape. The atmosphere is both harsh and intimate, a place where the harshness of displacement meets the stubborn pulse of community.

At the heart of this fragile enclave is Kak Satellite, a thirteen‑year‑old who has become the unofficial “handyman” for the camp’s children. Known for his uncanny knack for installing satellite dishes and coaxing signals from the sky, he supplies a rare glimpse of the outside world to those who have never left the camp’s perimeter. His quick wit and resourcefulness make him a magnetic, if sometimes mercurial, leader, guiding his peers through the precarious tasks that keep them occupied and safe.

Among the faces that orbit his world is Agrin, a quiet girl who arrives bearing the weight of a painful past and a fierce protective instinct toward her younger brother Hengov and a newborn they call Riga. The trio forms an unlikely family, navigating the camp’s limited comforts while each grapples with their own shadows. Their interactions are tinged with tenderness and unspoken tension, hinting at deeper stories that linger just beneath the surface.

The film’s tone is a blend of stark realism and lyrical melancholy, drawing viewers into a landscape where innocence is constantly tested by forces far beyond the children’s control. It paints a portrait of resilience that glimmers amid the dust, inviting curiosity about how these young lives will respond to the ever‑approaching storm without ever revealing the exact path they will tread.

Last Updated: August 10, 2025 at 10:33