DARAYA, Syria 鈥� The Syrian soldier sprinted past the pulverized buildings, swerving at a rubble-strewn roundabout before coming to a stop at the entrance of an abandoned shop.
He saluted the officers huddled inside, struggling to catch his breath to speak.
鈥淪ir, I need to 鈥� 鈥� he stammered.
A voice from the side yelled: 鈥淐ut!鈥�
It was Aref Tawil, the 52-year-old director of a new Syrian television drama called Rozanna. The actors relaxed for a moment, then retook their positions.
鈥淟et鈥檚 go through that line again,鈥� Tawil said. 鈥淵alla baba, let鈥檚 do this.鈥�
The set of Rozanna, which tells the story of a Syrian soldier, can be difficult to distinguish from the actual war zone that surrounds it. The show was being shot that day in Daraya, a devastated suburb of Damascus standing in for the iconic city of Aleppo.
Rozanna is part of a new crop of Syrian-made dramas that, seven years into a civil war that鈥檚 claimed hundreds of thousands of lives, are helping revive a television industry that once dominated the Arab world 鈥� even as that industry grapples with how to portray the war.
In 2015, a total of 17 shows were in production in Syria. That number has almost doubled as security has improved in the government-held areas. And it doesn鈥檛 include Syrian-themed productions made by Syrians who left the country.
While television once skirted the war entirely or amounted to little more than propaganda, the new shows are more likely to address universal truths about the conflict and the absurdities of daily life amid so much violence.
In the years before the conflict, Syrian dramas known as musalsalat had come to dominate television channels throughout the Middle East, even edging out the Egyptian shows that had ruled for decades.
Production companies churned out dozens of 30-episode dramas, and the Middle East Broadcasting Center, Rotana and other Gulf powerhouses competed for exclusive broadcast rights. The bidding wars were especially intense for shows to air during the holy month of Ramadan, when feasting and watching television are the main activities.
In 2010, you could binge on 28 different Syrian series on 26 channels across the Arab world, according to the cultural website Discover Syria.
No fewer than seven channels aired Bab Al Hara (The Neighbourhood鈥檚 Gate), a hit show about a Damascus neighbourhood at the turn of the 20th century.
But after the start of the civil war in 2011, the number of productions was instantly cut almost in half.
鈥淭he factory of the Syrian drama was the street, the old Damascene house. ... Many of those locations were destroyed or had clashes nearby so you just couldn鈥檛 film,鈥� said Rafi Wahbi, a director, scriptwriter and actor.
Celebrity actors and directors were soon embroiled in the same bitter clashes that divided their audiences, as gossip columns breathlessly reported on who supported the government and who sided with the rebels.
At least eight famous actors were targeted and killed, while others were effectively blacklisted because of their political leanings. Much of Syria鈥檚 top talent left for Egypt or Lebanon.
The shows that did get made often struggled to find takers as regional entertainment giants followed the lead of their governments and cut ties with Syria.
鈥淚t was part of the siege on the country in all fields,鈥� said Maher Khouly, head of the state-owned General Establishment for Television and Radio Productions, in an interview at his office in Damascus. 鈥淐ompanies stopped buying our productions 鈥� especially if the series was made by Syrians who don鈥檛 agree with their politics.鈥�
One company even dropped the word 鈥淪yria鈥� from its name, opting for the more generic 鈥淪ama Al Fan,鈥� which translates to 鈥淪ky of Art.鈥�
In the early years of the war, plot lines rarely mentioned it. Companies instead focused on genres such as 鈥淪hamiyaat,鈥� dramas depicting Damascus at the turn of the 19th century 鈥� a politically safe subject.
鈥淲e were raised as a generation with the idea of built-in censorship, even if there鈥檚 no censorship, because who knows what happens if you say something?鈥� said Abeer Hariri, a Syrian actress now living in Cairo.
鈥淭his was reflected in all fields, including the dramas, which were in denial and were saying that everything was fine.鈥�
When the war eventually started showing up in dramas, two years into the crisis, it was usually to make a heavy-handed political point.
鈥淓ven 鈥橞ab Al Hara鈥� started incorporating plot lines about nationalism and loyalty to the government,鈥� said Wahbi.
Khouly, the head of the state production company, said there is no requirement to speak about the war or to only show the government鈥檚 point of view. The script鈥檚 quality, he said, is the main driver of what gets made.
But Tawil, the director of Rozanna, is unapologetic about his staunch support for the government or the pro-government message running through the drama.
鈥淵ou鈥檙e here in Daraya, an area that was with the militants and liberated by the Syrian Army,鈥� he said as actors prepped for a scene near a bombed-out square. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 ignore a seven-year war in the streets, inside houses. ... No art can ignore this.鈥�
He said his series, which he expects to be completed before the Ramadan season in May, will show how the army took back Aleppo in late 2016.
鈥淭he liberation of Aleppo was the start of the liberation of other areas of Syria,鈥� he said.
鈥淲e want to show how society supported the army until those victories were achieved.鈥�
His approach stands in contrast to that of Wahbi, who said that for the last five years he has been 鈥渙bsessed in searching for something common among Syrians.鈥�
鈥淚n civil wars, there鈥檚 this extreme polarization that makes both sides unable to hear each other. I wanted to look for what we agreed upon, at the very least,鈥� said Wahbi, who left Syria in 2012 and now divides his time between Beirut and Madrid.
One product of that effort is 鈥淏idoon Qayd鈥� (Without Document), a web series he launched with Lebanese writer Bassem Breish and Lebanese director Amin Dora two months ago. Made in Lebanon, it already has 40 million views on YouTube.
The show consists of 29 episodes, each about three minutes long, and highlights the stories of three Syrians affected by the war: Karim, a private school teacher caught by police for sheltering an activist friend; Reem, an irrigation engineer who flees the country after uncovering a corruption ring that diverts water from farmers to developers; and Wafiq, a colonel in the state鈥檚 political security apparatus who refuses to co-operate with well-connected officials to falsify IDs.
The show is unflinching in its portrayal of the indignities and absurdities of daily life in wartime: the scrum of people trying to get various types of applications past bored officials, the elegant Damascus restaurants where the well-heeled come to make backdoor deals, the men rummaging through trash cans for food, and the shabby, bleak corridors of Syria鈥檚 notorious security services that are now a regular stop for so many.
At one point in the show, the character of Reem 鈥� played by Hariri 鈥� yearns to return to the prewar Syria she remembers: 鈥淚 missed my house and land, and I鈥檓 tired of the daily difficulties of a life in a country not my own.鈥�
That was a line that resonated with Hariri, who left Damascus for Cairo when she felt the quality of the shows meant she could no longer perform at her best.
鈥淎s a Syrian I felt what it meant to live in a country not your own,鈥� she said. 鈥淏ut all the time my heart and feelings were in Syria. This is our pain now.鈥�
The show wound up on the web rather than television because Wahbi doubted its portrayal of the security services 鈥� or its racy love scenes 鈥� would have passed muster with censors in the Arab world.
鈥淪yrians have spent seven years paying a high price,鈥� Wahbi said. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 think the viewer is able to deal with any more lying. ... The person wants to see the real story.鈥�
He said the series had been discussed on Syrian state TV as well as Orient, a pro-opposition network station: 鈥淭hey鈥檝e never agreed on anything except on this show. Part of its success is that Syrians feel it talks about human stories. It leaves it to the audience to choose their point of view, and not call this person a hero, a traitor.鈥�
Actor Ajaj Salim, who lives in Damascus and traveled to Beirut for the shooting of 鈥淏idoon Qayd,鈥� said the show is the beginning of a much-needed shakeup in Syrian drama at a time when actors work for fees that 鈥渃an barely buy them a sandwich.鈥�
鈥淗e who loves his country should present issues this way,鈥� he said in an interview in Damascus. 鈥淢ost Syrian dramas weren鈥檛 able to do this, but if after seven years we can鈥檛 take a dose of courage in our works, then it鈥檚 a problem.鈥�
Though the war destroyed his industry, Salim pointed to an artistic boom in post-WWII Europe as his hope for Syria.
鈥淲ar is the worst thing man has ever invented, but it鈥檚 a furnace that shows one鈥檚 mettle,鈥� he said.
鈥淭wo years ago we were drowning in the crisis ... but you feel now that people are just waiting for the opportunity, for that spark.鈥�
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