“Being old and alone can trigger culture shock again” – Filmmaker Mohamed El Aboudi on ageing far from home

What does retirement mean when your life spans two countries? In his documentary, The Last Chapter (Viimeinen kotimaa), director Mohamed El Aboudi searches for answers. Following ageing migrants in Finland, he also confronts his own questions about belonging and identity in later life.

“Public discussion around immigration focuses mostly on new arrivals and employment,” says director Mohamed El Aboudi on why he chose ageing as his latest documentary topic.

Peter Seenan

Peter Seenan

Published 25.03.2026 at 2:49

Updated 25.03.2026 at 2:49

– Where did The Last Chapter begin?

– Normally I don’t choose topics, they come to me. This project began during COVID when I found myself with difficult questions that I couldn’t answer.

I realised I’m old, or starting to get old and I was thinking what next, how am I going to deal with retirement, am I going to be here or there, what if I die here in Finland. Many questions came up.

When I couldn’t find the answers, I began to think about finding people who were in a similar situation to mine, but further on in this journey of ageing.

– What is the central question of the film?

– Before retirement, most people have a job and colleagues. But after you retire, you don’t have colleagues and suddenly you don’t see anyone during the daytime. Your children grow up and make their own life, or perhaps you’re divorced.

But the main issue is being alone, and that can trigger this culture shock again. For me the question was, “Where am I going, who am I?”

I wondered about others: do they feel like they belong here, what problems do they have, are they also seeking answers to these questions.

I tried to find answers during my holiday in Morocco, trying to imagine how it would feel like to move back. After one month in my small town, I realised that everything had changed. I’m no longer the person who left more than thirty years ago, my friends have changed, the society has changed; I felt I didn’t belong anymore.

– You spent years with your protagonists. Why was that time important?

– One of the most important things about making documentaries is to spend time with your main characters. We would eat and drink together, talk, tell stories, and when it came to filming, they’d forget about the camera and trust me.

A son of one of the protagonists said to me after the screening: “Mohamed, I’ve only one question: how did you manage to get this kind of sensitivity and tenderness from my father?”

He told me he’d never seen his father like that: talking, saying that he misses his children, that he wants to sit with them, and that he wants his children to call him.

– What did the film teach you about family and absence?

– The process gave me some answers to my questions, but some of the stories, the relationships, the situations with children and families were tough. This teaches you a lot of things: how you behave with your family and deal with things, the mistakes you make and realising we are all human – that we make a lot of mistakes.

After the filming I reflected on the stories, thinking how you take steps forward and backwards, and eventually you have to stop and look in the mirror. When it comes to your kids, they are children only once. If you’re not there, you’re not there and returning later cannot repair everything. Seeing these fractured relationships forced me to reflect on mine as well.

– How do you reflect on belonging and ageing after living 35 years in Finland?

– My family, friends, colleagues, and life are here. I don’t think it is time for changes anymore. When I’m gone, I’m gone. I would rather my kids decide what to do with my body. If they want me to be close to them so they can visit me, that would be wonderful – I could be buried in Finland.

The real issue for me is ageing, not death. Many older foreign-born people wonder: Will I have to go to a nursing home? Will I be understood? Why did I come here? In the documentary, one of my main characters is worried that if he loses his memory, he will speak only his mother tongue Acholi – but with whom will he speak? “No one,” he answers. Even his children don’t speak it.