Domestic violence marked the upbringing of director Lina Vdovîi, whose film “Tata” begins on the day her abuser reaches out to her in person – her father, long an immigrant and manual laborer in Italy, appears before the phone camera covered in bruises…
How did you react to your dad’s injuries, first of all to the physical ones because you first became aware of them, and then to the long-term psychological abuse?
When my father first reached out to me in the summer of 2018, I was taken aback, not just by the unexpected nature of his message, but by its deeply unsettling content. No one in the family had any idea of what he was going through at the time. I had always known him as a stern, authoritative figure – someone who inspired fear rather than vulnerability. To see him in such a fragile, helpless state was profoundly disorienting and stirred a complex mix of emotions in me: empathy, sorrow, and unresolved pain. My first instinctive reaction was to help him. Both Radu (husband and co-director Radu Ciorniciuc) and I come from investigative journalism backgrounds, and through our work, we were already familiar with stories of exploitation and abuse faced by Eastern European migrant workers. That context gave me a kind of emotional buffer; I initially approached the situation through the lens of a journalist, which allowed me to be present with him without becoming overwhelmed. Still, spending time with him inevitably reopened old wounds. Wounds I hadn’t realized were still so raw.
The way your father was treated in Italy in no way justifies his behavior towards the family. When he found himself in the situation of being abused, he obviously felt humiliated and hurt. However, his behavior towards your mother has not improved, he still yells at her and tries to control her. How difficult is it to correct entrenched behavior patterns?
In many ways, in that moment, this was my greatest disappointment both in terms of his personal evolution and as a character in the film. I had held on to a naive hope that, after all the time we spent together during this process, he would come out a changed man. That’s why his behavior toward my mother felt so devastating; it made me realize that, at his core, very little had truly changed. But my perspective has shifted over time. I’ve come to understand how difficult it is for someone to undergo a profound transformation without a meaningful support system. In fact, the priest he turned to for guidance didn’t challenge his beliefs, instead, he reinforced them.
My father was shaped by Soviet-era values, where violence was normalized and even institutionalized, from the highest levels of government down to the most intimate corners of family life. Within that framework, violence was not only accepted, it was a marker of masculinity. How can someone simply undo all of that in their 60s? Especially now, in a time when those same ideals seem to be resurfacing across the globe.
The tragedy lies not just in his failure to change, but in the broader systems that continue to uphold and validate the very patterns he’s trapped in.
Abuse in rural Moldova appears to have been widespread. Women seem somewhat more emancipated when talking to each other. Are things improving in recent years, or decades, are they taking concrete steps towards independence and liberation?
If we look at the statistics of the Police in Moldova, reported cases of domestic violence have more than doubled since 2013, rising from around 6,000 cases to well over 14,000 in 2024. However, I wouldn’t necessarily interpret this as a sign that domestic violence itself has increased—rather, it suggests that more women are finding the strength and support to report their abusers. This shift may, in part, be due to a broader public conversation that has emerged around the issue in recent years.
The public does not know enough about the bad attitude of some Italian employers towards migrant workers. How often does it happen that a worker reports bullying and is at least financially compensated, as your dad, with your great help, managed to do?
Unfortunately, cases like my father’s, where a migrant worker not only reports abuse but actually receives financial compensation, are extremely rare. While there is growing awareness of the exploitation and bullying that many migrant workers in Italy face, especially those from Eastern Europe, the path to justice is still filled with obstacles. Many workers are too afraid to speak up, fearing retaliation, job loss, or even deportation. Others simply don’t know their rights or lack access to legal support or trustworthy institutions. And even when they do report abuse, the legal process can be long, expensive, and emotionally draining.
In my father’s case, the fact that he was eventually compensated had more to do with finding the right lawyer than with a system that routinely delivers justice. Most migrant workers don’t have that.
The tenderness and love that your partner and co-director and you show towards daughter are evidence that hiding positive feelings is over in your family. Can this positive example be spread throughout Moldova and get the support of the education and health system?
Yes, I do believe that the tenderness and openness we show toward our daughter, and toward each other, can serve as a small but meaningful example of how things can be different. In our family, we’re making a conscious effort every day to break the cycle of emotional repression and violence that shaped past generations. Showing affection, expressing vulnerability, and creating a space where feelings are welcomed rather than feared, these are almost radical acts in a context like ours. But they are also deeply healing.
I believe it’s possible for this shift to be replicated more broadly across Moldova, but only if it’s supported at a systemic level. Public schools need to teach emotional literacy from an early age – how to recognize, name, and manage feelings in healthy ways. It does happen in some private educational institutions, but it should also be included in the public sector. And the health system, especially mental health services, needs far more investment and accessibility so that families in crisis can get the support they need. Change also comes through storytelling. Films, media, and public conversations can challenge harmful norms and offer alternative models of masculinity, parenting, and love.
If we’re brave enough to talk about what hurt us, we can also talk about what heals us. And that, I hope, can ripple outward.
