We follow the director's camera into the kitchens and living rooms of a community of Moroccan women. inside the walls of their apartment in Casablanca's old Medina, the women cook, clean, take care of their families and help each other. With their hands in the dough, in the soap whilst washing the laundry, doing the house chores, in the market or at the hammam, between laughter and tears ("We are housewives, that's all. ... Our sport? House cleaning!"). These courageous women, proud of their role, talk about their miserable lives with a great sense of awareness, but without self-pity. They show a surprising vitality, curiosity for life and solidarity. These house-proud housewives may not all know how to read, but they know exactly what would improve their lives: equal rights for women and men, more money, and a better future for their children so they wouldn't have to emigrate to support the family. A sense of hope and the possibility of change radiate out of the everyday lives of these heroines ("batalett").

The Mahabharata is the epic poem of oblivion; of forgetting the source.

“We were born into catastrophe and we have negotiated a strange and placid relationship with it, based on habit. A kind of intimacy, almost. As far as back as we can remember, there has been no reality but world civil war. We have been educated as survivors, as machines for survival. He have been trained in the idea that life consists of moving forward, advancing until we collapse in the midst of other bodies that are marching identically, that stumble and collapse, in turn, into indifference. At most, the novelty of this era is that none of this can be hidden any longer, that, in a sense, everybody knows how things stand. This is at the root of the recent, obvious, toughening of the system: their machinations have been laid bare, and it is useless to try and keep them secret...”

France, the summer of 1944. The public punishment of women accused of having affairs with Germans during the war.