Siin experienceIn the midst of the scramble for a new Syria, the country’s musicians are warily eyeing the Islamist rebel leadership and hoping to build on hard-won achievements made during the almost 14-year civil war.
The conflict gave energy and focus to a nascent heavy metal scene.
As the fighting ebbed, a flourishing industry of electronic music and dance shows then rose from the ashes, leading to a resurgence of Syrian nightlife.
Now, its members are preparing to approach a government led by Hayat Tahrir al-Sham, or HTS – a group with roots in al-Qaeda and the Islamic State.
“We have to be organised before we go to them, because they are so organised,” said DJ and musician Maher Green. “We are willing to talk to them with logic. We are willing to talk to them with a real proposal.”
The electronic music organisers found a way to talk to the security services working for the former president, Green said.
“They didn’t understand the gathering of 50 boys and girls and dancing in such a goofy way,” he said. “We developed a relationship with them through the years to make it go in a good and peaceful way.”
The Assad regime was less tolerant with the heavy metal rockers who started up underground bands in the late 1990s and early 2000s.
They saw it as a subversive Western subculture connected with Satanism.
“I went to the intelligence force maybe three times, just because I sold this kind of music,” said Nael al-Hadidi, who owned a music shop. “They made me sign some papers that I wouldn’t do it again.”
The scrutiny shifted when the brutal suppression of Syria’s pro-democracy revolution triggered a bloody civil war.
“Before the war, even if you grew long hair, wore black T-shirts, metal dance T-shirts, the security would take you. They suspected that you were Satanic or something,” said al-Hadidi.
“After the war started, they were too busy to dig in this way. They were more afraid about the political stuff.”
This opened up space for the emergence of a vibrant heavy metal scene, the subject of a documentary by Monzer Darwish called Syrian Metal is War.
War may have energised the metal bands, but ultimately it led to a mass exodus of musicians that felt the country no longer offered a future.
“Ninety percent of my friends are now in Europe, the Netherlands and Germany,” said al-Hadidi, shaking his head.
Wajd Khair is a musician who stayed, but he quit music in 2011 when the killing started.
“It seemed that any lyrics I would write, they didn’t express what really happened, no words can express what was happening back then,” he told me.
Just last year Khair finally started playing and recording again. Now he is wondering what the Islamist leadership means for creative freedom.
“We have to be more bold,” he said when asked if he will keep a low profile until the situation becomes clearer.
“We have to be heard. We have to let all the people know that we are here. We exist. It’s not just Islamic Front and Islamic State here. I don’t think that keeping a low profile under these circumstances is good for anyone.”
Khair was encouraged by the pragmatism demonstrated in the days following the rebel takeover. “The indicators are that we are going to better place, hopefully,” he said.
But as he was speaking, we heard that HTS had closed the Opera House. “Not a good sign” if true, Khair exclaimed.
We rushed to the venue only to be told by officials outside it that this was a false alarm, that the venerable institution would open one week after the rebel victory along with other public buildings.
The HTS is certainly promising to respect rights and freedoms, declaring that it long ago broke with its extremist past.
It seems sensitive to the cosmopolitan culture of Damascus. State television started broadcasting Islamic chanting last week but withdrew it in less than 24 hours when social media erupted in protests.
In the square outside the Opera House, Safana Bakleh was trying to perform revolutionary songs with the choir she directs. Joined by enthusiastic youths, she handed over her drum and let them chant and sing.
“It’s maybe not going to be an easy path,” she said. “Maybe we will have some new obstacles, but we used to have corruption, we used to have dictatorship, we used to have secret police. We’re still very hopeful for the future…because we have a very, very large group of people that are opposition and artists and actors, musicians and composers and the future of Syria.”
But they do not want to exchange political authoritarianism for religious fundamentalism, said al-Hadidi.
“I hope that HTS stands by their words about freedom, because we don’t want to be another Afghanistan or another country ruled by a specific party or rulers who enforce you to (follow) some rules.”
Determined to stay part of Syria’s future, Green said it is important for the artistic community to act quickly.
“It doesn’t seem like in the first week of freeing Syria, (HTS) is willing to look for the cultural side. They have a lot of problems, they’re looking for the economy, looking for making a new government,” he said.
“We are trying to organise ourselves before they start looking at culture. So that we get there first, (and we must be) united in our opinions.”
Like others here, Green has been experimenting, mixing traditional Arabic music with electronic beats.
The culture of the Islamist rebels “is religious songs and that’s it,” he said.
“This is a little bit backward for us. We were here in Syria before the war, and inside during the war, (when) we had so many experiments. We evolved so much. We have so much mixed culture.”
Syria’s music scene revived and even thrived during the civil war – now it faces a new and unexpected test.