'One of the most important films I’ve ever made is the one you'll never see'.

And I'm very proud of that.

The Climbing Hangar came to me with a brief that really stood out. They'd been quietly doing something special - opening their walls across the UK to refugees and people seeking asylum, free of charge, through a programme called Refugees Rock, built in partnership with Asylum Link Merseyside. They wanted a documentary to tell that story, and through some shared contacts they found their way to us.

The first decision I made wasn't about cameras or aesthetics.

I come from a low-income background in rural North Cumbria, and faced challenges growing up. I know how it feels to have my story told by someone who doesn't really understand it - who shapes it to fit their political agenda, their aesthetic, their career. Over the years, through my creative work, I’ve found a way to control my own story, and to be heard.

From the start of the project, I felt we needed people with lived experience of forced migration and the asylum system on the film team. Not only as subjects, but also as collaborators. People who could educate me, challenge my assumptions, and have creative autonomy in how the story was told.

Asha Panjwani - a settled refugee living in Liverpool who had experience of making films before she was forced to leave Pakistan - stepped in as a producer. Emma, lead co-ordinator at Asylum Link, also worked as a producer. Another member of the refugee community, still going through the asylum process at the time, worked with us as a photographer. We sat around a table with the Refugees Rock community and talked about how we could tell this story. We created space for those who were ready to step forward and shape it. Nobody was pushed. The people who had lived this were the ones who knew how it should be told.

I’ve had the privilege to travel and work in developing countries, and I’m conscious of white savourism. The colonial hangover of - oh, wouldn't it be great to take these people's stories and get them out into the world… (maybe we can save them in the process). That's not storytelling, it's extraction. And sadly, it’s everywhere.

Nicky Harris, who was marketing manager at The Climbing Hangar, put it simply when we spoke about it recently:

"To me, it's just common sense. How would it be anything other than a collaboration?"

She's right. But in the documentary industries, it’s not always like this (though things are slowly changing). The approach felt novel to many people we spoke with at the time. That says something uncomfortable about how storytelling often works.

Consent isn't a form you sign at the beginning.

This is something I believe deeply, and it often runs counter to standard industry practice.

In documentary filmmaking, it's normal to get consent signed at the start and consider the matter closed. I've always thought that's ethically lazy. On this project, it could have been actively harmful.

Consent, to me, is an evolving conversation. The people in front of my camera have a right to see the shape of the evolving story and have their say - including, if it comes to it, the right to withdraw. That's a hard truth for a storyteller. You build something, you love it, but you can’t hold it too tightly - because it’s not just yours. If you're not willing to see that, you're not really telling their story. You're taking it without full consent.

As Nicky reflected, "People should always have the opportunity to say no. Like - I've changed my mind."

The film got made, and it’s good. Really good.

It premiered at Kendal Mountain Festival - one of the most respected outdoor film events in the world. The Refugees Rock community came. They watched their own story together, with an audience. Many of us shed tears. It was one of those rare evenings when you feel the full weight of why this work matters.

The film was screened at two other festivals to a very positive reception. We began planning community screenings at Climbing Hangar venues across the UK and an online release - the goal being to share the story, welcome more climbers and walls into the community, and grow Refugees Rock.

But the world shifted.

While we were in post-production, the political climate around refugees became increasingly hostile. Right-wing protests were taking place on the streets, and there were shocking scenes of asylum hotels being set on fire. Divisive rhetoric was coming from politicians and public figures. The visibility that could come for our participants began to feel less like empowerment and more like a target on their backs. I know that once a film is released online, you can never fully get it back.

I talked this over with the team and said, " We need to slow down now. We need to think carefully about what releasing this film could mean for the people in it.”

Three participants came to us with concerns.

One had built a new life - a prominent role leading a faith community in Liverpool. He’d become a public figure, and this new identity was important to him. His family back home worried deeply about his safety. Two others had finally received their refugee status after years of uncertainty and wanted to move on. They'd made friends and built something stable. They no longer wanted to be known as refugees - with all the baggage that brings.

The asylum process is destabilising in ways that are hard to overstate - ways that we (who have more stability) will never fully understand. These individuals had already been through more than most of us will ever face. They didn’t want their vulnerability permanently placed on the internet, searchable and shareable beyond their control.

The whole team could understand that completely.

We didn't release the film.

After conversations with Nicky, Emma at Asylum Link, and other team members with lived experience, we made the decision together that this film would not be released.

It wasn't an easy call internally. Nicky was honest about what that conversation looked like at board level at the Climbing Hangar,

"That's a tricky conversation, to say we've invested X amount, and they're asking - what's the PR opportunity? How are we going to see the value invested back into the business? And I can't give them a tangible answer on that. What I was pitching to them is the relationships, the trust, and what that signals to the wider community."

She made the pitch, and thankfully, the board listened.

Our festival screenings were a success. The people in the film could watch it with those they trusted, in spaces that felt safe. The Climbing Hangar team gathered together and watched it at their Christmas social, half the room in tears. Everyone walked away with a shared sense of pride and purpose. At Kendal and Sheffield, the judges and hundreds of audience members were moved by it. 

As Nicky put it: "It wasn't as big as the potential we saw at first. But there was still so much good that came from it."

The process was the point.

The most striking thing that Nicky and I agreed on, and I keep coming back to it, was this:

If we hadn't created that safety from the start, the contributors probably wouldn't have felt safe enough to say, hang on, I don't know about this now. And people should always have the opportunity to say no. That's consent, isn't it? Do I feel listened to? All of those basic human needs - they're just as valid here, and all the more important for the refugee community, who may have little tangible control over their future.

It became clear within the process that those who stepped in front of the camera wanted to be heard and wanted their stories to be honoured. But maybe we all got enough from the relationships we built and the moments we shared when making the film together. Projecting it out into the world was just too much in the end. It didn't feel safe.

This is what I want potential clients to understand about how we work.

A great film is not always one that gets the biggest audience. Sometimes the original outcome… isn’t the outcome.

I don't measure the success of a project purely in views, reach, or festival screenings - though this film had all of those where it needed to. What matters most is whether the people who trusted me with their story feel, at the end, that their trust was honoured.

That standard applies to every project we take on at Land & Sky.

If you're a brand, charity, or organisation working with communities whose stories carry real weight - people who've been marginalised, who've been through difficult experiences, who deserve more than to be seen as content, we want to work with you.

The most powerful stories aren't just well-told. They are told with integrity. And audiences feel that difference, even when they can't name it. Dom

I used AI to help create a structure for this post, and check my grammar and spelling!