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By
Marlin Dick
Ramadan television
in the Arab world is a showcase for “family values”
as production companies and advertisers make huge efforts to
attract millions of viewers gathered for the post-Iftar time
slots. Inevitably, controversies arise. Complaints come from
both producers and viewers, either condemning the broadcast
of glitzy vaudeville programs starring scantily clad women during
the holy month, or raising more serious concerns about Arabic-language
dramas and their problematic treatments of ancient and modern
Arab-Islamic societies. When a drama or comedy series (musalsal)
is set in a specific city or region, the locals might object
to being portrayed in an unflattering light. The same goes for
specific religious groups or members of certain professions.
Meanwhile, writers, directors and producers lament the lack
of freedom to say what they want, constrained by censors at
state-run television stations or executives at private channels,
which often finance production. The exceptions certainly prove
the rule, namely that television drama and comedy should not
overstep certain “red lines,” such as criticism
of actual politicians, and negative takes on national heritage,
religion, and moral values.
When the Syrian production
of Behind Bars (Khalf al-Qudban) premiered
during Ramadan 2005, one might have expected some fuss because
the 30-episode series contained the following elements: high-class
prostitutes with no regrets about their profession; lots of
alcohol consumption with no downside; Islamic teachings parroted
by unimaginative believers or unscrupulous “bad guys,
rape, masturbation, dope-smoking petty thieves portrayed as
sympathetic or charismatic protagonist, and a Christian boy-loves-Muslim
girl romance. But no such luck. In the satellite age’s
vibrant climate of Syria-based television production, Behind
Bars aired in 2005 to a largely receptive Syrian audience.
(1) When controversy did arise, it was from an unexpected direction,
recalling Gamal ‘Abd al-Nasir’s famous comment about
the Israeli surprise attack in the June 1967 War: “We
expected them to come from the east, but they came from the
west.”
The Rise
and Fall and Rise of Free Expression
Censorship and the
related taboos for television musalsals have undergone several
phases and producers today observe that the lines are becoming
increasingly blurry. In the 1970s, for example, when Syrian
production was state-financed and produced for local television,
alcohol consumption by characters was not a problem. A sea change
occurred in subsequent decades, when private companies emerged
that sought to sell their programs to state-run stations in
the Gulf, principally Saudi Arabia. Things like alcohol, revealing
clothing, private moments between couples (always keep the door
to a room open), and the “good guys” smoking cigarettes
now were off-limits. Arab producers were obliged to conform,
since they were paid for the amount of content aired after the
censors’ cuts. Few had an interest in spending to produce
material that would not be broadcast.
Many supposedly taboo
topics are not apparent before shooting begins. Producers and
directors cite lists of banned content, such as violating “public
mores,” but they complain that such terms are vague enough
to make every season an adventure. They remain unsure of what
is problematic and what is not. In the mid-1990s, the Syrian
private production of Khan al-Harir (The Silk Caravansery),
set in the politically turbulent climate of 1950s Aleppo, was
rejected by Saudi Arabia because the Kingdom wanted no part
of a show in which characters mentioned Egyptian President Gamal
‘Abd al-Nasir. “They didn’t want anything
about him, whether good or bad—just avoid him,”
said the show’s director, Haitham Haqqi.
Regarding
the same show, officials at Syrian state-run television objected
to characters referring to the political parties of the time
by their actual names. Haqqi was obliged to modify the official
titles: the Communist Party became the “reds,” the
Ba’thists became the “nationalists” (al-qawmiyyun),
etc. Haqqi said that the following year, Syrian state television
produced what he called “a clear response” to his
show. It was a series set in roughly the same time period called
Hammam al-Qishani, which glorified the struggle of
the Ba’th Party. Ironically, the political parties’
actual names were used and their flags and paraphernalia were
featured prominently, even though this had been “taboo”
just one year earlier. (2)
According to Haqqi
and others, today’s satellite industry is often amenable
to controversial treatments, such as poking fun at the mukhabarat
(secret police) in the Syrian sketch show Buq’at Daw’
(Spotlight), or the shows examining the motives
and consequences of terrorism in the last few years. Regimes
may want to relay certain political messages, while the industry’s
growth has led to competition and pressure to take chances rather
than play it safe. (3) As for daring social content, today’s
leading satellite stations (almost all privately-owned and linked
to Gulf money) have little problem with, for example, female
characters in sleeveless attire and “risqué”
items like nightgowns. Haqqi noted that this is acceptable when
the actors/characters are Egyptians and Syrians, who now seem
to be treated as non-Arab foreigners. Saudi stations broadcast
Western movies with women wearing skimpy clothes and it appears
okay for Syrians and Egyptians to don such clothing as well,
provided that Saudi characters do not engage in such objectionable
practices.
As the example of
Behind Bars demonstrates, the “red lines”
are becoming increasingly blurred, as private satellite stations
outstrip their state-owned competitors in importance. Industry
growth has meant more competition and stations increasingly
finance shows, whether directly or indirectly.
Heavy Re-write
The original screenplay
for Behind Bars was written by Palestinian Hani al-Sa’di,
one of the most famous writers to emerge from Syria’s
satellite television production boom. Al-Sa’di anchored
his screenplay on a one-hit-wonder novelist with a serious case
of writer’s block. He opts to enter prison to gather material
from his cellmates; each tells the novelist how he ended up
in the situation indicated in the show’s title. In this
version of the screenplay, the novelist spends several episodes
uncovering the personal trajectory of a convict, and then moves
on to the next one. The UAE-based Infinity satellite station
selected Syria’s al-Arabiyya firm as executive producers
and Laith Hajjo committed to directing the musalsal.
However, Hajjo decided
that each character’s motivations needed considerable
elaboration and wanted to ditch the Character A, then B, then
C, then D format. Hajjo employed a second writer to overhaul
the script. In the new version the novelist, Nadir Zihdi (played
by Basim Yakhur), is approached by an unscrupulous and filthy
rich businessman, Naji Sa’id (Bassam Kusa). Naji springs
an elaborate trap, offering friendship and an intriguing and
lucrative job: Write a novel about Naji that will be published
in Naji’s name. Naji smothers Nadir with advance on the
novel, gifts, an impromptu flight to Dubai for shopping, etc.
Since Nadir is reluctant to accept “charity” sums
from Naji, he stipulates that the advances be considered loans.
The unsuspecting Nadir then accepts several complicated re-payment
arrangements. The businessman’s attractive female assistant
is the bait, but she ends up falling in love with the novelist.
Nadir rejects Naji’s attempts to control every aspect
of the lives of those in his orbit and decides to write the
novel, but as an exposé of the morally corrupt and financially
ruthless businessman. The mogul discovers the ploy and engineers
Nadir’s imprisonment for a year on charges of passing
bad checks. In this version of Behind Bars, Nadir only
enters prison in the show’s final episodes, when he acquaints
himself with his cellmates and records their stories, but also
smuggles out his exposé on Naji and publishes it in a
local newspaper in installments.
In the new version,
several story-lines run in parallel to Nadir’s Faustian
bargain. One follows the family of Abu Tawfiq, a lower middle-class
paymaster at a private firm. Abu Tawfiq is falsely accused of
robbing the company safe after being set up by the actual thieves,
two of his co-workers. When Abu Tawfiq enters prison early in
the show, his family (a wife and four daughters) begins to fall
apart: university student Ranim becomes a high-class call-girl
who travels abroad and accompanies “tourist groups,”
rescuing the family financially. The oldest daughter, Rana,
disapproves of her sister’s sudden and suspicious wealth
and ends up marrying a rich Syrian-Lebanese émigré,
also in order to help out the family. Another main character,
Munir, is a petty thief who has left the family home because
of his father’s harsh treatment. A third plot line follows
‘Amir, a young Damascene whose face is horribly disfigured
in an industrial accident. He is shunned by society. ‘Amir’s
only friend is Muwaffaq, his former co-worker and army buddy
from the Syrian coast, speaking the thick dialect of that region.
Muwaffaq and his bride Najwa move to Damascus and see ‘Amir
regularly. During one visit, after falsely believing Najwa is
making overtures to him, ‘Amir rapes her after spiking
his friend’s drink. Original writer al-Sa’di said
that he had not been consulted on the changes; he disapproved
of them on several levels and announced that he had washed his
hands of the show. (4) The new version establishes a parallel
track for characters like Nadir and Ranim: both meet dominating
figures, the mogul and the madam, who insist on getting their
prey to enter arrangements of their own free will. They cannot
claim that they were coerced or that “the circumstances”
made them do it.
Many Taboos
and Few Regrets
While alcohol consumption
has not been absent from Syrian television production of recent
decades, drinking has a particularly prominent place in Behind
Bars and involves no negative repercussions for the characters.
‘Amir and his friend Muwaffaq have several drinking sessions
during the series, but it is the valium in the drink that allows
the rape to take place (‘Amir first tests the valium on
Muwaffaq in an earlier episode, dissolving it in tea). Novelist
Nadir and his friends meet at a club on a regular basis and
drink; after ‘Asim, a petty thief, robs the company safe
and sends the innocent Abu Tawfiq to prison, he heads to a cabaret
to down whiskey and carouse. While religious conservatism has
experienced a noticeable rise throughout the Arab world in the
last 30 years, a Syrian show produced by a UAE station had no
problem presenting viewers with characters downing glass after
glass of strong drink, during Ramadan, no less.
Another taboo that
has taken some battering in the last decade involves Christian
characters, although this does not appear to have extended yet
to all Muslim minorities. Christian characters in Arab soap
operas have become increasingly acceptable, judging by anecdotal
evidence. There are several such characters in Behind Bars
and refreshingly, not all of them are straight arrows, since
Christian characters might be used as “tokens” to
show that Arab countries exhibit national unity or religious
diversity, or both (5) Munir and Jabir, his partner in crime
and smoking hashish, pull a scam on Sallum, a goldsmith with
a nasty streak who sells stolen goods on the side. As a first
name, Sallum indicates the character is Christian; names like
“Tony,” “George ‘Abbud” and “Abu
Gaby” are also heard in the series, indicating how Syrian
production has matured to the point where referring to certain
religious minorities no longer raises any eyebrows. The Alawi
accent (actually that of the coast) has also been heard increasingly
over the last decade, although the sect is not mentioned. In
the past, Syrian shows often erased such diversity; fictional
characters usually had neutral names that did not imply a specific
sect. (6)
In Behind Bars,
the taboo against religious controversy is broken in the form
of a Christian-Muslim love story. After accountant Abu Tawfiq
enters prison, his teenage daughter Nagham is approached by
her classmate Samir, a Christian, who is determined to ask for
her hand in marriage. When Samir’s mother discovers that
her son wants to marry a Muslim, she berates him for doing something
that is socially unacceptable (and legally impossible unless
the Christian male converts to Islam). The father objects to
the mother’s over-reaction. Nonetheless, the mother spies
on her son, learns the identity of the girl and visits her mother,
successfully foiling the romance. This infuriates Samir, who
gets into a shouting match with his mother:
“You’d
have to change your religion!” the mother screams.
“So I’ll change my religion, so what! They’re
all the same! Does God have 100 faces? It’s all the same
God!”
“Lord, oh Lord! Don’t be stupid! I’ll tear
your eyes out! Where do you think we are, Sweden?!”
“Get off my back!”
Later, Samir approaches
a sheikh in a local mosque, walking in and saying “Hello,”
to which the sheikh responds, “‘Alaykum al-Salam.”
When Samir says that he’s Christian and wants to convert,
the sheikh sizes him up with a look of “oh, not this again,”
and calmly asks, “Are you in love, my boy?” Off
camera, the sheikh convinces Samir to not rush into things and
in a later episode, we learn that while Samir is still interested
in Nagham, he will bide his time to see if they should in fact
marry. There is no hasty conversion or definitive end to the
relationship. Instead, the more realistic and rewarding scenario
of “cool it for a while and see what happens” wins
the day.
Of course, religion,
sects, and fanaticism are not new subjects in Arab television
drama and comedy. However, Behind Bars takes things
quite a bit further visually in several scenes. One of the most
daring moments comes after the trial of Abu Shukri, the accountant.
His wife and daughters are in the courtroom when he is declared
guilty and sentenced to six years in prison. His daughter Ranim
rushes from the courtroom and to the home of Manal, the madame
who is recruiting her for work in “tourism services,”
i.e. being an escort outside the country. Ranim is distraught
and Manal tells her to calm down, suggesting that she dance
to relieve the tension. Also in the courtroom is Abu Tawfiq’s
colleague Shukri, who actually pulled off the heist with his
colleague. Shukri is overcome with guilt for his role in the
theft. He enters a mosque and begins handing out money to the
poor who have gathered there to receive charity. Shukri hears
noises from within the mosque and investigates, finding a group
of Sufis chanting the name of God and swinging back and forth
in a devotional dance. Shukri joins the chant and moves in rhythm
with them, trying to escape his situation. For several minutes,
the shots are inter-cut--Shukri swaying to the music and Ranim
twisting in an oriental dance as she tries to lose herself as
well. It is an equation of two very different initiates, one
into prostitution, one dabbling in Sufism. In other words, one
giving up body to God, the other about to give it up to men.
At home, Shukri lives
a conservative life with his wife Salwa, a veiled and genuinely
pious woman who suspects the evil co-worker ‘Asim from
the beginning, when he visits to talk “business”
with her husband. After the heist, Salwa discovers the stash
of stolen money in the house, confronts her spouse, and leaves
to consult her sheikha (female religious guide) about
the proper course of action. However, the salient point is that
Salwa’s character is domineering and abrasive. The co-worker
‘Asim uses religious arguments and his own dubious version
of the life of a companion of the Prophet Muhammad to convince
Shukri to help him rob the safe. Salwa’s irritating pieties
and ‘Asim’s twisted religious logic are contrasted
with the rational approach of the above-mentioned sheikh who
discourages rushing into an interfaith teenage marriage. However,
‘Asim the thief (played with aplomb by Qasim Milhu) is
easily one of the show’s most charismatic characters,
and he never regrets his actions. The fact that the big fish
can get away with corruption while the little ones cannot adds
to the resonant plot. Viewers might be attracted to the thief
rather than the two true believers.
Another daring cross-cut
involves Salwa as she prays at her home in the evening. Viewers
see her rise and stand to perform prayers. Then the camera cuts
to the disfigured ‘Amir at his home, sitting in a rocking
chair and watching (off camera) what we easily assume to be
a satellite channel broadcasting something pornographic. Frustrated
by his isolation from society, ‘Amir rocks back and forth
and his head rolls back. The camera closes in on his face and
implies is that he is masturbating. Cut back to Salwa, as she
performs her prayers. Despite the risk-taking images, no controversy
erupted during the first few airings of the show. The director
said he wanted to portray people using their free time in the
privacy of their homes in the late evening to achieve release,
which can involve a complicated mixture of the spiritual, the
emotional, and the physical.
Drama or
Controversy?
The 30th and final
episode of Behind Bars offers a masterful tying up
of the series’ plot lines as it addresses a Syrian society
beset by various types and levels of corruption. Abu Tawfiq,
who was released from jail after the arrest of ‘Asim and
Shukri, tells his wife his doubts about the source of Ranim’s
piles of money. The couple argues over who was responsible for
the deviation of the family during his jail time; the wife says
that he had earlier run the house like a tyrant, even refusing
to let the family have a telephone. In fact, this stifling environment
partly contributed to Ranim’s decision to work for an
escort service, in order to escape. During the final episode,
the camera shows the rich Naji trapped behind the bars of a
window at his palatial villa, having possibly engineered the
disappearance/death of Dana, his pretty assistant. Nadir the
writer, who had dumped Dana for seemingly deserting him, sits
in a café, still suffering from writer’s block,
like at the beginning of the series. Although he has produced
the prison novel, he has once again lost his motivation to write,
unaware that his Dana is now probably lost forever.
The episode reaches
several peaks during scenes in the prison, whether during Nadir’s
voice-over of his note-taking on his cellmates or his actual
conversations with them. Nadir’s musings veer toward dry
rhetoric about the state of society, but many comments are acidic
and the superb direction engineers dramatically successful interruptions
of the viewers’ learning process. Nadir is in awe of the
total self-absorption of ‘Asim, who coldly recounts how
he had no qualms about sending either Abu Tawfiq or Shukri to
prison. Nadir points out that such an attitude of utter indifference
to others, if adopted by everyone, would see things “fall
apart.” “Let them fall apart,” ‘Asim
sneers, as long as he gets what he wants. “See you in
the next installment,” ‘Asim tells the writer as
he walks off and immediately bumps into a prisoner in the courtyard.
The scene is not played for laughs, and the touch is therefore
an effective end to a dark trip through nihilism. If ‘Asim
is not a thief, Nadir recounts in a voice-over, “he is
a champion of words … to whom people listen, stupefied.”
This is an allusion to ‘Asim’s victim, the gullible
Shukri, who makes his confession to Nadir. Later, the writer
comments that Shukri worries him because he can be used so easily,
twisted by religious reasoning; therefore, Shukri represents
a “serious danger” to society. As Nadir writes,
we see Shukri out of focus in the background, wearing white
and praying. There is another masterful voice-over about the
negative repercussions that follow when the ‘Asim and
Shukri “models” of people meet, as one exploits
the other. Viewers hear Nadir’s laconically-delivered
comments over silent flashbacks of earlier, tense discussions
between the criminal and his stooge.
The disfigured ‘Amir
is repentant for raping his friend’s wife, and truly regrets
losing the friendship of the loyal Muwaffaq. He chillingly recounts
the events that led to the incident and the rape itself but
meekly and honestly swears that he did not intend for it to
happen. In a voice-over, Nadir concludes that ‘Amir requires
treatment and will be a time bomb if he is released without
rehabilitation. In an evening scene, Nadir speaks into his tape
recorder about ‘Amir, who is reclining at the other end
of the cellblock. Nadir finally asks whether a person “is
a merely a potential to be cared for or an individual who creates
a reason for survival.” ‘Amir approaches and asks
Nadir what he was saying; after a short discussion he requests
Nadir to stop commenting on his situation and walks off. After
a quick turn back ‘Amir demands that Nadir not forget
to mention in the book that ‘Amir still refuses to marry
his “ugly” cousin, a family suggestion made earlier
in the series. ‘Amir then laughs, and tosses these lines
over his shoulder as he walks away a second time: (They say
that women are) “Half of society, huh? And I can’t
even touch a single one. What kind of society is this?”
The petty thief Munir is playful in his confession, asking Nadir
if his interview is an episode of Hukm al-‘Adala
(Verdict of Justice), the popular, long-running radio crime
case show on Syrian State Radio. Munir grins while answering
a mock-serious “Yes, sir,” to Nadir’s questions,
mimicking the answers given by participants on the radio show.
The various levels of comedy, honesty and deep cynicism blend
together as the episode churns through its cast of characters,
whose motivations have been laid bare for the last 29 installments.
Alternative
Models
With these elements
in mind, it is tempting to say that achieving a dramatic success
can help ease the shock of broaching taboos. A fair hearing
for a given issue, social practice, or sect, for example, can
disarm critics of “distortion.” Of course, Syrian
society has become so jaded that no one would seriously consider
lambasting a soap opera for having a single rich businessman
character, who is repellant and corrupt, as a slap against everybody
in that line of work. However, in Behind Bars the one
women’s NGO head happens to be the madame running the
escort service, which earned criticism, made both publicly and
privately. And no alternative “good” character existed,
unlike the Christian or pious Muslim categories, for example.
The show is also
not a glorification or sympathetic portrayal of prostitution,
since the focus is on two sisters—Ranim and Rana—who
stick to choices that were apparently caused by their father’s
imprisonment. Even when the money is returned and the verdict
overturned, they continue in their paths, of prostitution and
marriage. In the final episode, Ranim and the madame’s
chauffer have an extremely cynical discussion about Ranim’s
view that the strong always call the shots. She receives a phone
call from her university friend, who had been pressing her about
how to get a job that was so lucrative. Without hesitating,
Ranim tells her to ask for Manal at the café where they
met. She shuts her cell phone and laughs with the chauffer at
what she has done. Things do not appear to be getting better
in society, with such people coming out on top in the end. Then
again, Muwaffaq finally reconciles himself to the idea that
his wife might be pregnant from ‘Amir’s rape, and
pledges to support her, whoever the father turns out to be.
Perhaps there is hope after all. After beginning with a shot
of the innocent Muwaffaq and Najwa as they contemplate moving
to Damascus, the final image of Behind Bars is of Naji
Sa’id in his villa, from the window, behind bars,
as he slowly removes his toupee for the first time in the musalsal.
Who wants to worry about taboos when you have great drama?
The Fallout
During Ramadan 2005,
Behind Bars was aired on three stations: Syria’s
state-run satellite channel, the state-run United Arab Emirates
station, and the private UAE station Infinity, which funded
the production. Director Hajjo said that officials at Syrian
Television objected to the many alcohol scenes but grudgingly
aired all of them, except one, when ‘Amir dissolves valium
in a glass of arak and offers it to Muwaffaq, to drug him just
prior to the rape scene. The result was even worse, implying
that the hapless husband falls asleep and fails to come to the
aid of his wife screaming in the next room. Hajjo pointed out
the error and convinced officials to restore the scene during
the series’ second run on Syria’s terrestrial station,
just after Ramadan.
The director has
a theory, confirmed by others with similar experiences, that
“the lower down in rank you go, the tougher the censorship.”
Hajjo gave examples of low-level bureaucrats who were more zealous
about cutting “objectionable” content, despite the
existence of written guidelines. In fact, censorship can often
be very subjective, whether due to the desire by functionaries
to please higher-ups or a general climate of self-censorship.
“At the initial phase, when you submit a screenplay, the
first decision will be that 20 scenes have to go,” Hajjo
said. In the next phase, when the decision moves upward, the
number might drop to 15 or ten, and then finally, “the
director-general might decide that only two should be dropped.”
Hajjo also claims certain political taboos now have become “easier”
to broach in Syria than social ones. Hajjo has directed the
ground-breaking satirical sketch show Spotlight, and
a spin-off, Al-Makshuf (In Public), where
it is easier to be caustic about the formerly-taboo topics of
pan-Arab nationalism and the behavior of the mukhabarat
than to tackle certain “social” topics like prostitution
with no regrets, or alcohol consumption with no repercussions.
Hajjo said that in his earlier efforts, he encountered no problem
presenting sketches such as one where an average citizen develops
a case of “political spasms”—every time he
hears a state-produced slogan his right hand involuntarily shoots
up and gives a V-for-victory sign. This is not the kind of sketch
that could have been aired a few decades ago in Syria, the “beating
heart of the Arab nation.”
The Red Lines:
A Case of Hit or Miss
Behind Bars
ends with a “seven years later” epilogue that tells
viewers what has happened to the main characters, both those
who have been imprisoned and those who have not. As it turns
out, few have learned much or changed radically. The petty thief
Munir now works as the assistant of Ranim, the call-girl, and
their brief segment ends with them looking to recruit a new
female for their stable. No regrets on the crime-prostitution
front. (7) Munir’s straight arrow brother has left his
state job and taken over his father’s rug repair business.
He comments that he is now at ease with himself after failing
to achieve anything by being an honest bureaucrat. “At
least I can fix something now, even if it’s only a rug,”
he says. We see Shukri vacuuming the rugs at a mosque but he
has not been changed by prison. He regretted his actions even
before being caught. ‘Asim, who involved the gullible
Shukri in crime, has no regrets and is shot during an unsuccessful
break-out attempt.
What turned out to
be the most controversial aspect of Behind Bars involved
only a brief shot of a magazine interview with Manal, the madame
who originally recruits Ranim. The occasion of the article is
the third anniversary of Manal’s founding a “Modern
Women’s Association” NGO that defends women’s
rights and freedoms. This is what raised hackles, associating
women’s advocacy with the world’s oldest profession.
Writer and activist Samar Yazbek, commenting in the Syrian daily
Al Thawra, called it an example of the “media
spreading poison” about the efforts of such groups, while
Hajjo responded by saying that women should not be separated
from the rest of society and treated as something completely
independent. (8) Hajjo had expected controversy from several
other items: a sheikh convincing a Christian to retain his religion;
a pious family in Old Damascus producing the Munir the petty
thief; the alcohol, etc., but not from several seconds of air
time that mentions a women’s NGO. The show’s earlier
portrayal of prostitutes who are aware of what they are getting
into, with no punishment at the end of the series, did not raise
a fuss.
The Syrian case exemplifies
the fluctuations in addressing “social controversy,”
with relative openness in both the state monopoly phase (up
to 1986) and during the heyday of satellite competition generated
by private firms (beginning in the latter half of the 1990s).
During the middle period, when private companies sold shows
to individual Gulf state terrestrial stations, a more rigid
social code was in effect. Perhaps Syrian (and Arab) society
has become more conservative in recent decades, but it still
accepts many controversial treatments. As for political taboos,
each period has seen risk-taking, albeit with varying results.
Important taboos remain, while there is sometimes cynicism about
the state encouraging critical material to “let off the
steam” building up in society. (9) Although proving the
accusation is difficult, Syria’s most respected actors
and directors have been accused at various times of performing
this role, whether directly or indirectly at the behest of the
authorities.
How taboos are broached
and the controversy generated by musalsals are broad
topics. In the end, identifying the shifting red lines must
come down to anecdotal information. One possible marker, in
the case of Syria, is that 30 years ago it was easy for the
state to produce a show mocking clergymen. Today, the industry
must be wary of a public not keen to see its religious symbols
ridiculed. Many were angered a few years ago by sketches on
Spotlight that made fun of both male sheikhs and female
religious guides, or sheikhas. Some writers are conservative
by nature; Hani al-Sa’di’s original script for Men
Behind Bars and his other works are seen as fairly mainstream,
willing to raise a topic but lacking a controversial treatment.
Behind Bars’ challenging of red (social) lines
was by no means the first such attempt, but the show does stand
out for going after several different taboos, often, and forcefully.
Political taboos
of varying importance have disappeared during the satellite
age, although easily-recognizable accusations of wrongdoing
leveled at leaders remain unacceptable. The Syrian case is special
in that its mid-1990s boom produced shows that angered France
and Turkey with very negative treatments of their colonial representatives.
The Syrian authorities directed the television industry to tone
it down.
Some genres have
yet to be mined fully, and taboos await breaking. Producers,
directors and writers, whether they seek to smash social or
political taboos, make their attempts while negotiating a complex
mix of factors: competing against earlier shows, copying them,
going back to history to produce analogy, addressing purely
contemporary issues, and worrying about what the competition
is doing. Some directors are known for wanting to get pointed
messages across, which often means taking chances with the current
“red lines” – directors like Haqqi, Hajjo
(with Spotlight) and Ma’mun al-Bunni (the Maraya
series of Yasir al-‘Azma) have pushed the boundaries.
How they and others navigate the shoals of state censors, conservative
publics and demanding station executives is an adventure each
time out.
Perhaps the fragmentation
and maturation of the television industry in the Arab world,
thanks to the astounding growth in stations and programming
hours, helps reduce the possibility that a given show will set
the region on fire with daring content. The top stations certainly
have big audiences and the shows that they broadcast will be
scrutinized, but when a show occupies a less-popular time slot
and is aired on a second or third-tier station, or one that
is available only to paying subscribers, some of the more controversial
content can remain largely hidden from the mass Arab public.
From the perspective of Arab viewers throughout the region,
Behind Bars was competing with other Syrian contemporary
soaps (including one centered on AIDS and written by Hani al-Sa’di),
successful satirical sketch programs, a handful of big-budget
historical epics, the modern pan-Arab treatment of terror by
director Najdat Anzur, a popular Syrian series chronicling the
life of poet Nizar Qabbani, and dozens of Egyptian and Gulf
offerings. Although a daring show might get noticed by the end
of the month, as media coverage and word of mouth do their work,
it appears easier for musalsals to get lost in the
shuffle.
In an age of fierce
competition over advertising revenues, the pan-Arab television
industry finds itself obliged to be controversial while remaining
uncertain about what constitutes controversy. The Gulf’s
impact on Arab production is noted for encouraging conservative
content, but the exceptions stand out. Shows like Behind
Bars might even help “raise the ceiling” for
further risk-taking.
Organized groups
in society, such as Islamists, certainly make their impact felt
as unofficial censors. In some ways, they might wield more influence
than the formerly “omnipotent” state-run media institutions
and ministries of information and culture. In any case, the
situation is certainly in flux. In the case of Behind Bars,
an original script was in effect considered too tame and was
heavily revamped to make it more daring. A musalsal
that featured heavy doses of “immoral” behavior
and provocative content ended up sparking only two mini-controversies:
the original writer’s complaints and a commotion about
whether it was acceptable to say that a person who has founded
an NGO might not be all that she seems. In Behind Bars,
only a single scene was cut by state censors and re-inserted
the very next month. In such a climate, ridding the industry
of its long-standing self-censorship remains the goal for the
foreseeable future, as taboos of all kinds are contested in
an annual competition for viewers and credibility.
Marlin
Dick is a freelance journalist residing in Lebanon.
He writes on politics and culture and has translated Arabic
literature and Syrian, Lebanese, and Palestinian films.
NOTES
1. The show was aired
on satellite stations but gauging its impact throughout the
Arab world is considerably more difficult than following its
local resonance. It was not aired on the region’s leading
stations. Fatin Yusuf, writing in the Syrian daily Tishrin,
praised the show’s technical artistry and plot, in “Khalf
al-Qudban: Jur’at al-Tarah . . . wa Thura’ al-Tasjid
al-Fanni,” (Behind Bars: Bold Ideas . . . and
Rich Artistic Personification), 21 January 2006. A leading advertising
executive in Syria said Behind Bars was one of the
half-dozen hits during Ramadan, in a “second tier”
just behind the top two shows: the satirical sketch program
Spotlight, and a series set in a girls’ high
school.
2. For the first
time, viewers saw the flag of the Syrian Social Nationalist
Party, which was banned at the time in Syria. Haqqi’s
comments for this article were made in a private interview in
March 2006.
3. For more on “terror”
and censorship in Egypt’s industry, see Ursula Lindsey,
“TV Versus Terrorism,” Transnational Broadcasting
Studies 15 (January-June 2006) and for a general overview
of trends in musalsals, see Marlin Dick, “The
State of the Musalsal,” in the same issue.
4. Al-Sa’di
has written both contemporary drama and historical fantasy epics.
In Layalina society magazine (issue 37, January 2006), al-Sa’di
claimed that when he saw Behind Bars he suffered a
bout of “high blood pressure and diabetes” due to
the shock at what happened to his original screenplay. He repeated
his complaints in Funun, 14 Feburary 2005.
6. When private Syrian
production took off 15 years ago, the famous Syrian actress
Nadine Khury, due to her obviously Christian family name that
means “priest,” took the professional name “Nadine”
to become acceptable in Saudi Arabia.
7. In an earlier
episode, the call-girl Ranim glances at a “Center for
Combating AIDS” sign on the road and flinches momentarily.
However, she has not contracted AIDS or abandoned her lifestyle
by the end of the show. Since we do not see the character ply
her trade, we are unaware of whether she practices safe sex.
8. Al Thawra,
7 and 14 November 2005. Hajjo also said that any female activist,
whatever her background, deserved the right to work for women’s
causes. Hajjo’s other comments were made in a private
interview for this article in March 2006. Al-Sa’di’s
original screenplay was entitled Men Behind Bars but
became Behind Bars, to suit the director’s desire
to focus on all of society.
9. The common term
for the phenomenon is “tanfiseh,” referring
to the concept of “letting air out.”
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