Some films don’t need to raise their voice to leave a lasting impression. Promised Sky, directed by Franco-Tunisian filmmaker Erige Sehiri, is one of them. With a patient and empathetic gaze, the film immerses itself in the everyday lives of three Ivorian migrant women who, far from home, try to reinvent their lives in Tunisia. Rather than offering a strident denunciation drama or an exemplary tragedy, Sehiri opts for an intimate narrative, focused on the bonds woven when the outside world seems to fall apart. From its very first scene—a communal bath for a small girl named Kenza—Promised Sky sets the tone for what follows: a delicate exploration of the small gestures that constitute care, resistance, and solidarity. In this simple moment, the protagonists are not only washing the girl’s body, but also, symbolically, trying to cleanse the fears and abandonment that surround her. We don’t know much about Kenza or her parents, only that she survived a shipwreck and is now being taken in by three strangers who, without being family or having any guarantees, decide to accompany her.

Marie, Jolie, and Naney are the protagonists of this ensemble story. Each represents a different way of inhabiting exile. Marie has achieved a degree of institutional stability as a pastor and mother figure in the community. Jolie trusts in education as a passport to a more stable future, while Naney survives through sheer intuition and courage. Together, these women draw an emotional map of displacement, where precarity does not prevent the formation of bonds or the persistence of hope. What’s remarkable about the film is its ability to capture the nuances of this collective experience without falling into victimization. Sehiri does not aim to provoke outrage or overdramatize, but rather to accompany her characters in their daily struggle against a system that renders them invisible. Yes, there is racism, and institutional violence too, but these elements are never presented as climactic moments—they exist as a constant and oppressive background against which the protagonists must assert themselves with small acts of dignity.

The shared space among the women serves as both a physical and symbolic refuge. It is not a paradise, but it is a place where they can talk, laugh, plan, and, above all, recognize one another. In this precarious home, they cook, discuss religion, and share dreams. The “promised sky” evoked by the title is not some external promised land, but the intimate horizon they try to preserve in spite of their circumstances.

One of Promised Sky’s most moving achievements is the way it articulates the idea of community without idealizing it. Tensions exist, as do contradictions. Jolie is skeptical of the faith that guides Marie; Naney resists being part of anything that might distract her from her most urgent goal: saving enough money to reunite with her daughter. And yet, it is in the sum of their disagreements that the possibility of a we emerges. The film offers no solutions or grand revelations, but it does offer moments of truth: a broken promise, a whispered conversation, an outstretched hand. Kenza, the silent girl observing it all, becomes an involuntary witness to this microcosm of fragile bonds. Her presence acts as a mirror to open wounds but also as a symbol of hope that has not yet been extinguished. Through her, Promised Sky suggests that motherhood is not always biological or conventional—it can emerge from the shared need to protect the vulnerable. Far from grandiose speeches, Promised Sky presents itself as a serene and honest film. Its strength lies in attentive listening, in the respect it grants the stories it portrays, in the way it allows the camera to breathe alongside its protagonists. It is a cinema of observation and care, one that trusts in the power of the minimal to build an ethics of the present.