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How to restart democratic debate in Syria? Launch a version of The Archers How to restart democratic debate in Syria? Launch a version of The Archers
(about 3 hours later)
As politicians agonise about the wisdom of intervention in Syria, I have been involved in a somewhat smaller project but with big aspirations to help restart a democratic dialogue in the country. As politicians agonise about the wisdom of intervention in Syria, I have been involved in a somewhat smaller project but with big aspirations to help restart a democratic dialogue in the country.
Hay El-Matar – which translates as airport district, because every Syrian city has one whether it has an airport or not – is a radio drama series, produced by the BBC’s non-licence fee international development arm but written by Syrians for Syrians. It will air across Syria from this week for at least a year, all for a fraction of the price of a cruise missile. Hay El-Matar – which translates as airport district, because every Syrian city has one whether it has an airport or not – is a radio drama series, produced by the BBC’s non-licence fee international development arm, BBC Media Action, but written by Syrians for Syrians. It will air across Syria from this week for at least a year, all for a fraction of the price of a cruise missile.
Just as The Archers was originally conceived as a means of educating post-rationing Brits about agriculture (and as this week’s domestic abuse trial proves has achieved much more than that), Hay El-Matar is a three times-weekly drama series with the principal objective of humanising “the other”– whether Shia, Sunni, Armenian Christian or Alawite – and demonstrating that they aren’t so different.Just as The Archers was originally conceived as a means of educating post-rationing Brits about agriculture (and as this week’s domestic abuse trial proves has achieved much more than that), Hay El-Matar is a three times-weekly drama series with the principal objective of humanising “the other”– whether Shia, Sunni, Armenian Christian or Alawite – and demonstrating that they aren’t so different.
For once radio, all too frequently the poor relation of television, has the edge. In the midst of destruction, it is by far the easiest medium for audiences to follow, whether via BBC Arabic, local FM stations or podcast catch-ups. But its even greater advantage, to any dramatist’s delight, is that very lack of visuals. Without any glaring signifiers to warn the audience of a character’s ethnicity, it becomes possible to inveigle the listener to instinctively back the merit of a particular character’s agenda, say, and only much later discover that he or she is one of those feared “others”.For once radio, all too frequently the poor relation of television, has the edge. In the midst of destruction, it is by far the easiest medium for audiences to follow, whether via BBC Arabic, local FM stations or podcast catch-ups. But its even greater advantage, to any dramatist’s delight, is that very lack of visuals. Without any glaring signifiers to warn the audience of a character’s ethnicity, it becomes possible to inveigle the listener to instinctively back the merit of a particular character’s agenda, say, and only much later discover that he or she is one of those feared “others”.
The project began in December last year, with a roomful of Syrian writers of all ages, some exiled in Beirut where we met, some commuting from Damascus. Naturally, there were hurdles. For instance, there is no tradition of “endless” drama series in the Middle East so the idea of a slow-burning, multi-stranded, never-quite-climaxing drama was a novelty. As was the almost brutal realism of a British-style “soap”. Here we decided unashamedly to expose the audience to this unfamiliar genre: how else could the drama confront the very real issues encountered daily by Syrians? It turned out that a good number of the writers understandably yearned to use the storylines to create something uplifting, to generate a cheering distraction for their traumatised audiences. But eventually it was agreed that realism must always trump any fake happy outcomes.The project began in December last year, with a roomful of Syrian writers of all ages, some exiled in Beirut where we met, some commuting from Damascus. Naturally, there were hurdles. For instance, there is no tradition of “endless” drama series in the Middle East so the idea of a slow-burning, multi-stranded, never-quite-climaxing drama was a novelty. As was the almost brutal realism of a British-style “soap”. Here we decided unashamedly to expose the audience to this unfamiliar genre: how else could the drama confront the very real issues encountered daily by Syrians? It turned out that a good number of the writers understandably yearned to use the storylines to create something uplifting, to generate a cheering distraction for their traumatised audiences. But eventually it was agreed that realism must always trump any fake happy outcomes.
Together we whittled our blank page down to specifics. The most contentious decision was location. It became clear that we would have to set the story in a government-controlled area – anything else would be too limiting and too partisan. Fortunately this could be offset by the characters: families from each grouping, from Palestinians to Kurds; jobs in all sectors of Syrian life, from the guys who run the checkpoint to the brassy hairdresser; those who are determined to stay and those who are saving up for Germany; the formerly radicalised doctor who now regrets it and the teenager whose self-esteem is so battered that radicalisation now seems the solution.Together we whittled our blank page down to specifics. The most contentious decision was location. It became clear that we would have to set the story in a government-controlled area – anything else would be too limiting and too partisan. Fortunately this could be offset by the characters: families from each grouping, from Palestinians to Kurds; jobs in all sectors of Syrian life, from the guys who run the checkpoint to the brassy hairdresser; those who are determined to stay and those who are saving up for Germany; the formerly radicalised doctor who now regrets it and the teenager whose self-esteem is so battered that radicalisation now seems the solution.
Then came the eye-opening moment when we played our pilot episodes to focus groups. After listening to a seemingly innocuous scene where the wife insists on opening a cafe against her husband’s wishes, our group found themselves furiously debating women’s rights. When university students heard the behind-the-scenes dialogue of the checkpoint guys – thugs? protectors? patriots? – reality seemed to shift for them as well. Authenticity was paying dividends. Then came the eye-opening moment when we played our pilot episodes to focus groups. After listening to a seemingly innocuous scene where the wife insists on opening a cafe against her husband’s wishes, our group found themselves furiously debating women’s rights. When university students heard the behind-the-scenes dialogue of the checkpoint guys – thugs? protectors? patriots? – reality seemed to shift for them as well. Authenticity was paying dividends.
By getting hooked into the myriad tiny twists which result in each character’s eventual action, the listener could be helped to begin that slow journey back to the kind of democratic discourse which will prove essential when Syria is rebuilt. Meanwhile the true strength of this project – and we aim to prove it can be more potent than anything strapped to the fuselage of a Tornado – stems from something both brave and eternal: the sheer human complexity of storytelling.By getting hooked into the myriad tiny twists which result in each character’s eventual action, the listener could be helped to begin that slow journey back to the kind of democratic discourse which will prove essential when Syria is rebuilt. Meanwhile the true strength of this project – and we aim to prove it can be more potent than anything strapped to the fuselage of a Tornado – stems from something both brave and eternal: the sheer human complexity of storytelling.