‘Under The Sky Of Damascus’: Berlin Review

Dirs: Heba Khaled, Talal Derki, Ali Wajeeh. Denmark, Germany, USA, Syria. 2003. 88mins

There’s a moment in this hard-hitting documentary in which a young woman stands alone at the side of a dusty Damascus road. Waiting to cross, she is hit by a car whose male driver simply does not see her. The woman is furious rather than hurt, but the impact is more than physical. It encapsulates perfectly the invisible status of women in war-ravaged Syria who are fighting a battle for recognition and survival. Their stories are the backbone of this essential film which gives voice to a collective terror and rage that, one hopes, should be a renewed call to arms. 

A  particularly impressive achievement given that Derki and Khaled oversaw the whole project remotely from their home in Berlin.

Under The Sky… joins a host of films hoping to raise awareness about the fate of women in the region, both documentary and fiction. But that doesn’t dilute the power of Under The Sky Of Damascus. Its unflinching look at a difficult issue should attract further festival attention following its premiere in Berlin’s Panorama, and socially conscious distributors are likely to take notice.

The non-fiction Under The Sky of Damascus follows an all-female theatre troupe who are planning to mount a radical stage production — called, simply, The Play — built around the real-life testimonies of Syrian women. This is not just an effective way to present multiple stories, but also a practical workaround to the fact that the film’s directors, Oscar-nominated Talal Derki (Return To Homs, Of Fathers And Sons) and his wife Heba Khaled (a former journalist who was raised in Damascus and makes her feature debut here) are banned from entering their native Syria. In collaboration with Damascus-based co-director Ali Wajeeh, they finance and support the development of the play in return for access to the group’s filmed creative processes and — crucially — their research interviews with women across Damascus. 

These interviews are difficult to watch. Filmed at their homes or places of work (notably menial places including a rundown cloth factory and a rubbish dump) some women stare unflinchingly into the camera while others hide in the shadows, concerned about the possible life-threatening consequences of speaking out. Some weep, others have a steely resign as they recount stories of physical and sexual abuse — often at the hands of husbands, fathers and brothers who are protected by Syrian customs and a corrupt legal system.

Wives have been beaten by their husbands, mothers separated from children. One woman recalls being raped by three men, only to be forced to marry one of them to save her honour. Many have been confined to the city’s mental hospital, often for the depression caused by such inhumane treatment. They are all – as described by one witness, the former professional actress Sabah – “prisoners of a thousand stories.” Throughout, an intimate voice over from Khaled puts these accounts into a wider context.

Immersive camerawork from Raed Sandeed captures the constant sense of threat; wide shots take in bomb-damaged neighbourhoods in which life is a constant hardscrabble, catch the predatory leer of men as women pass by. One early sequence follows theatre director Farah as she walks through the deep, dark canyons of the city’s alleyways, the unease compounded by Ari Jan’s melancholy, ominous score — well used throughout — which comes to a halt as she reaches the sanctuary of her creative space.

Fear permeates even these walls, however. As Farah and writer/performers Eliana (the woman who had the altercation with the car), Souhir, Grace and the outspoken Inana struggle with the play and its potential repercussions, their anxiety is writ large in furrowed brows, chain smoking, habitual skin picking. Indeed, Under The Sky Of Damascus is a rich tapestry of moments both large and small, sensitively edited by Marion Tuor, which speaks to the ominpresence of everyday trauma. It’s a particularly impressive achievement given that Derki and Khaled oversaw the whole project remotely from their home in Berlin.

A seismic consequence of this long distance relationship between filmmakers and subjects is revealed late in the film, when those involved are forced to confront the insidious Syrian culture of misogyny and abuse in uncomfortably close quarters. It’s an upsetting end to a difficult film, which doesn’t pretend to offer any easy answers. It does remind us, however, that when people are prepared to give voice to injustice, we all have a duty to keep listening.