More than 50,000 audience votes were cast at the 2025 Vancouver International Film Festival (VIFF), where Gazelle—the debut feature by acclaimed Turkish actor Nadir Sarıbaca—won the Vanguard Audience Award.
Sarıbacak, best known for his unforgettable roles in Winter Sleep (Cannes Palme d’Or, 2014) and Ivy (Sundance contender), moved to New York in 2016 with his wife and children—just days before the failed coup attempt in Turkey. After a political speech during an award ceremony, he was blacklisted and suddenly found himself in exile, working double shifts in a clothing factory, driving a taxi, and selling secondhand books to support his family.
His co-writer, Ayhan Hülagü, one of only a handful of living artists trained in traditional Turkish theatre, came to the U.S. in 2017 on an artist visa after supporting the “Academics for Peace” initiative and facing political persecution. In New York, he rebuilt his life performing and teaching Karagöz, the traditional Turkish shadow theatre, to American audiences.
Together, the two turned their shared experience of migration into Gazelle—a powerful story about a Turkish music teacher named Yakup seeking asylum in the U.S. while struggling to reunite with his family.
Hi Nadir and Ayhan, and congratulations on winning the VIFF Vanguard Audience Award. How did you feel when you found out?
NS: Thank you. I actually found out while working on the set of our children’s theatre play. I checked my email late at night and saw the message—we had won! We are all over the moon and filled with hope.
AH: Creating Gazelle was a way to turn our pain into something meaningful. We’re so grateful that our story resonated so profoundly with the audience.
What kind of experience was it for you to attend VIFF?
NS: VIFF will always have a special place in my heart because it was the first festival to welcome me with my debut film as a director. Through it, I met so many Canadians with immigrant backgrounds who, like us, had been displaced or had to leave home behind. The festival’s Q&As were emotional and inspiring.
Why did you decide to direct the movie yourself?
NS: Honestly, I had no choice. The American film industry is huge—no one is waiting for a 50-year-old actor with poor English. I told agents, “I’ve won at Cannes, Sundance, Antalya…” but they didn’t care. The only way to act again was to write my own role. We searched for a director, but everyone was busy, so I did it myself. Migration gives you strange courage—you’ve already lost everything, so you have nothing left to fear.
The film feels both personal and universal. How did you shape Yakup’s story?
AH: We were inspired by real people—teachers, artists, and activists forced into exile. Two stories stayed with us: a South African imam telling a parable about a gazelle’s patience, and a jailed teacher whose daughter doesn’t know he’s in prison.
NS: As a father, that broke me. We wanted to show how trauma transforms people—who you really are shows up in crisis. Gazelle is about all of them.
You include a scene where U.S. police mock immigrants, saying, “Does this country have to feed you?” Has the atmosphere changed since you arrived?
NS: Absolutely. ICE is everywhere. People get deported overnight.
AH: The rise of right-wing populism after Trump changed everything—visas, jobs, even how people look at you. We were lucky to get our artist visas just in time.
Exile is harder than migration. What helped you heal?
NS: Faith and solidarity. I started reading spiritual texts, trying to make sense of my pain through dialogue with the divine. Helping others—cooking for refugees, volunteering—that saved me.
AH: I found love and a home here. Having “a room of my own,” as Virginia Woolf says, changed everything. Performing in English and hearing applause made me realize I could still exist as an artist.
In the film, Yakup keeps saying, “We’re fine, don’t worry.” What does that mean in an immigrant language?
NS: That’s what we tell our families back home. Even when we’re broken, we protect them from our pain. I cried only in my taxi so my kids wouldn’t see.
AH: It’s also about time and distance—the sun you say goodbye to is just rising on the other side. “We’re fine” means we’re still holding onto hope. As Kiarostami said, “I spent my life hoping. I need a new one.”
