Beyond lived experience: the responsibility of telling someone else’s story
Rachel McDonald, the director behind last year’s powerful short film Hermanos – about migrant families separated at the US border – explores the sensitivities required, and the privilege of, portraying someone else’s narrative.
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As a filmmaker, I believe it’s essential to recognise that some stories are best told by those who’ve lived them. We need to make space for storytellers from underrepresented communities to tell their own truths, in their own voices.
At the same time, I also believe that if a story moves you, if it grabs your heart and won’t let go, you shouldn’t be afraid to engage with it. But doing so requires humility, collaboration, and deep consideration. It demands that you show up not as an authority, but as a listener and a guest. That balance between honouring the source and recognising your position as an outsider influenced the way I approached Hermanos.
As I wrote and directed the film, I was constantly aware of the line between fiction and reality and of the different ethical considerations that come with each.
Hermanos is a fictional narrative short, but it was deeply inspired by real events and news stories I couldn’t shake. The film follows two young brothers fleeing violence in Mexico, only to be separated from their mother at the US border. Though the plot is imagined, the emotional truth of the story echoes countless real experiences
Credits
View on- Director Rachel McDonald
- Editing Cabin Editing Company
- Post Production Harbor Picture Company/USA
- Executive Producer Shawn Lacy
- Producer Rachel McDonald
- Producer Maury Strong
- Producer Ezra Venetos
- DP Amado Stachenfeld
Explore full credits, grab hi-res stills and more on shots Vault
Credits
powered by- Director Rachel McDonald
- Editing Cabin Editing Company
- Post Production Harbor Picture Company/USA
- Executive Producer Shawn Lacy
- Producer Rachel McDonald
- Producer Maury Strong
- Producer Ezra Venetos
- DP Amado Stachenfeld
As I wrote and directed the film, I was constantly aware of the line between fiction and reality and of the different ethical considerations that come with each. Documentary work carries its own set of responsibilities, especially when you're directly representing someone's lived truth. But narrative storytelling, while offering creative freedom, still demands care, especially when you’re drawing from deeply human, deeply painful real-world issues.
The image that first drove me to write Hermanos was one many of us saw: a father and his young daughter who drowned in the Rio Grande. That photograph devastated me. It stirred a need in me to respond—not politically, but personally. I wanted to humanise the experience behind that image. I didn’t want to talk about policy. I wanted to talk about people. But I also knew that wanting to tell the story wasn’t enough. I had a responsibility to honour the truth of those living it.
[Actor Jorge A. Jimenez] brought cultural insight and a personal sensitivity that sharpened the narrative and helped ensure we were approaching it with care and authenticity.
The story of Hermanos began with a series of real accounts that stayed with me: stories of immigrant families navigating unimaginable choices, separations at the border, and the quiet resilience of children forced to grow up too quickly.
From that emotional landscape, I began shaping a fictional narrative by crafting a story arc that could reflect those truths while existing within the space of a scripted film. But even as I wrote, I knew this couldn’t be something I carried alone. One of the most meaningful collaborations was with our lead actor, Jorge A. Jimenez.
From early drafts through rehearsal, Jorge and I workshopped the script together, discussing tone, language, and emotional detail. He brought cultural insight and a personal sensitivity that sharpened the narrative and helped ensure we were approaching it with care and authenticity. His contributions went far beyond performance, they helped ground the film in something deeply real.
A human rights lawyer helped ensure we weren’t unintentionally reinforcing misconceptions or reducing complex realities to simplified narrative beats.
Research played a huge role. My team and I studied detention centres, combed through legal cases, read firsthand accounts, and poured over journalism archives. I made sure to bring in expert voices—not to shape the story from the outset, but to help keep us honest once we had a draft in hand.
A human rights lawyer helped ensure we weren’t unintentionally reinforcing misconceptions or reducing complex realities to simplified narrative beats. I also worked closely with my production designer, Leila Dallal, to construct environments that didn’t just look accurate but felt emotionally resonant. Details carried weight not only in how they looked but in what they represented.
Since we were a very small crew for much of the shoot, we had the rare opportunity to spend time together when the cameras weren’t rolling, which helped build morale and create a truly familial atmosphere. For me, creating that emotional safety net and bond between the boys was just as vital as any line in the script.
The goal with Hermanos was never to speak for anyone, but to speak with intention.
Throughout production, I focused on building trust and maintaining open communication on set. We talked often about character motivation, about what each scene meant, and how the emotions behind it should feel. That openness allowed the actors to fully inhabit their roles and feel supported in exploring the complexity of the material. I wanted them to know that their voices mattered just as much as mine.
Storytelling, especially when it crosses into someone else’s lived experience, is not a neutral act. It can build bridges or it can do harm. For me, the goal with Hermanos was never to speak for anyone, but to speak with intention, mindful of those whose experiences shaped the world I was trying to portray.
If you’re a filmmaker drawn to stories outside your own experience, I encourage you to follow that instinct if you’re willing to do the work. Ask yourself: Why this story? Why me? Who else should be part of telling it? And how can I make sure the story honours, rather than appropriates, the truths it’s inspired by?
In the end, storytelling is a privilege. And when we use that privilege to foster empathy, amplify unheard voices, and approach difficult stories with care, we give film the chance to do what it does best: connect us - across borders, across differences, and straight to the heart.
