Premiering in the main competition at CPH:DOX 2026, Little Sinner is a profoundly intimate documentary built from more than two decades of personal recordings. Helmed by Daro Hansen and Thomas Papapetros, the film traces Hansen’s journey from Damascus to Denmark while confronting the emotional aftermath of forced marriage, displacement and generational trauma.
Combining Hansen’s personal archive with scenes shot during the refugee crisis in Lebanon and Greece, the film moves between the inner landscape of its protagonist and the broader political upheavals shaping her life.
Speaking with Business Doc Europe, Hansen and Papapetros reflect on the long evolution of the project, the ethical and emotional challenges of filmmaking within their own lives, and the conversations they hope the film will spark about trauma, empathy and the human dimension behind refugee narratives.
For Hansen, the realization that the footage she had been collecting over the years might become a film came surprisingly late. The material had initially been recorded for personal reasons rather than as the foundation of a documentary.
“Back then we were working on different projects—one about refugees in Lebanon, another about the crisis in Lesbos. I always used the camera almost like therapy,” explains Hansen. “It was for my own well-being, so I filmed a lot of things over the years.”
The turning point happened during the editing process. Hansen recalls sitting in the editing room late at night when Papapetros suddenly pointed out something that, in retrospect, seemed obvious.
“Thomas said, ‘But this film is about you.’ I understood what he meant, but it took me years to accept that it was a personal film—and to dare to be in it and share it with others.”
Papapetros, however, sensed the potential of Hansen’s story much earlier. He notes that he often follows a rule suggested by another filmmaker friend. “He always says, ‘make the film about the film.’ If something goes wrong, at least you still have a film,” Papapetros explains.
Because the project grew organically over many years, shaping the final narrative required an extensive editing and development process. The filmmakers spent years working with the material before the structure of the film became clear.
“For us it was really important to find a balance between the personal story and the wider refugee crisis unfolding around it,” Hansen notes. “And the stories within it are incredibly important. So we wanted to balance things carefully. The film is only 90 minutes—how many stories can you tell in that time?”
Papapetros adds that once the project secured development funding and the team knew the film could move toward completion, they returned to Greece to rethink its structure. “For me it was important that the film had both an inner conflict and an outer conflict,” Papapetros underscores. “Daro’s inner chaos—her trauma and emotional state—could somehow reflect the chaos in the world around us. Refugees arriving, the system breaking down, everything out of control. Those two levels mirror each other.”
Given the deeply personal nature of the material, the filmmaking process inevitably raised questions about emotional protection and self-care. Hansen describes the entire project as a form of healing. “The film has really been my healing journey,” she says. “I didn’t have a specific plan for how to protect myself emotionally. Instead, I tried to listen to myself—my body, my feelings.”
She relied heavily on close friends and family for support during the process, as well as various forms of therapy and self-reflection. “I talked a lot with good friends who knew everything about me. I also spoke with my ex-husband, who supported me a lot. And I tried to understand myself better through podcasts, reading and sometimes body therapy.”
Papapetros notes that the broader filmmaking team also played an important role in supporting Hansen during the production. “Our commissioning editor from the Danish Film Institute, Frank Poulsen, was very protective of the project,” he says. “Even after he left his position, he continued to follow the film closely because he understood how sensitive the material was—not just for Daro but also for us as a couple.”
Thus, the project’s support system extended beyond professional mentorship. Hansen recalls that Poulsen strongly encouraged the pair to seek professional counselling during the editing process.
Hansen remained deeply involved in the editing process, spending extensive time in the editing room alongside Papapetros and editor Michael Aaglund. “I was there a lot—maybe too much,” she laughs.
Part of her presence was practical: much of the material required translation and contextual explanation. But it also meant repeatedly confronting difficult memories. “I had to translate everything, so I was there constantly,” she says. “I even edited parts of the film myself.”
As the project approached its final stages, Aaglund sometimes worked independently before presenting new edits to the directors. “Sometimes he would work alone for a few days,” Hansen explains. “Then we would come in, watch what he had done, discuss it and continue from there.”
Beyond the personal story, both filmmakers hope the film will spark broader conversations among audiences. Papapetros says early test screenings revealed a striking pattern. “What usually happens is that people start talking about their own traumas,” he says. “It could be something completely different—maybe a parent struggling with addiction or a difficult childhood. But the film somehow opens that door.”
Hansen often finds herself becoming a listener to these stories. “People come to me and start sharing things they’ve never talked about before,” she says. “In that sense, the film becomes like a magnet for these conversations.”
For Hansen, breaking the silence around trauma is one of the film’s central goals. “I really hope people start talking more openly—without shame—about pain, trauma and social control,” she says. “It’s okay not to be okay. It’s okay to struggle.”
At the same time, she hopes the documentary will challenge how audiences perceive refugees and displacement. “Too often refugees are discussed as numbers in the news, or as a crisis,” she says. “But the people you meet in the film have dreams, families and lives. They’re just human beings like everyone else.”
The message, she says, is ultimately one of empathy. “Today it’s them who are refugees. Tomorrow it could be me or you. So we should meet each other with openness instead of judgment.”
Now that Little Sinner is complete and beginning its festival run, Hansen says she has spent time reflecting on what the long process has meant for her personally. “Healing is a big word,” she says thoughtfully. “But I think I’m no longer afraid to face my own trauma. That’s a huge step.”
For years, she says, the film and her personal life were inseparable. “My life was the film, and the film was my life. They were completely merged together.”
Finishing the film has therefore created an unfamiliar sense of closure. “It feels strange that this chapter is now finished,” she admits. “But I also feel much more grounded. I’m not running anymore.”
Perhaps the most meaningful change has occurred in her relationship with her mother—a relationship that forms an important part of the documentary. “Because of the film, we finally had a conversation we had never had before,” Hansen says. “It removed a huge rock that had been between us for years.”
“The wounds don’t disappear,” she concludes. “They become scars. But now I can look at those scars without being afraid.”
