Tell us a bit about yourself - all the basics! Where you’re from, where you grew up, interests, hobbies, siblings, causes you’re passionate about, anything else that comes to mind…

My name is Daham Alasaad. I am a Syrian filmmaker, born in the middle of the Syrian desert in the ancient city of Palmyra, a place known for its ruins and layered histories stretching back thousands of years. I grew up there until the revolution began in 2011. I was forced to leave the country because of the images I captured, documenting the violence committed by the Syrian regime against civilians. That act of witnessing changed the course of my life. Since childhood, I have been drawn to writing and poetry, and spent much of my free time around the ruins of Palmyra, especially the ancient theatre. I used to sit there, imagining the voices and stories that once echoed through its stone corridors. That space taught me to listen to silence, to see stories where others might see only dust and stones. I am also passionate about long desert walks and the quiet solitude of landscapes. Storytelling, in any form, moves me, even a single quote can spark an idea. I have always believed stories are alive, with their own rhythm and will. My role as a filmmaker is to help them come into being, whether through film, poetry, or whatever form they demand. For me, cinema isn’t just a tool for documentation, it’s a way of remembering, resisting, and reconnecting with what was lost.

How did you become interested in film?

My path into film began long before I called myself a filmmaker. In Palmyra, I worked as a tour guide, walking visitors through ruins. Occasionally, I assisted film crews shooting historical or fictional scenes among the ancient stones. I was fascinated by the process, but it felt like something distant from my own life. One day, a tourist gave me a small camera as a gift, something simple, but powerful. I didn’t know then how much that gesture would shape my future. When the Syrian revolution began, that camera became my tool for witnessing. I used it to document peaceful protests and the regime’s violence against civilians in my hometown. That act of recording, of preserving truth, changed my path entirely. From that moment on, filmmaking became my language. At first, it was about survival and testimony. Later, it evolved into a deeper form of storytelling, one that could hold memory, grief, beauty, and resistance all at once. The camera has been with me ever since, not just as a device, but as a companion in exile. So, in a way, filmmaking found me — not the other way around.

How did you arrive at the subject of your Close Up project?

This project grew from both personal urgency and a generational need to preserve what’s at risk of being forgotten. I didn’t arrive at this story as an outsider, I have been living it. As a Syrian in exile, I have spent years documenting the lives of Syrian people navigating displacement, justice, and memory. The film is a visual archive of survival, a living record of what has emerged in the wake of authoritarian collapse. It’s my way of preserving the emotional weight and political fragility of this transitional moment, as Syrians piece together dignity, history, and a sense of belonging. It is both a cinematic act of witnessing and a long-term commitment to archive-building, for the present and for future generations.

If you weren’t a filmmaker, what might you be?

If I weren’t a filmmaker or storyteller, I would probably be fixing bicycles. These are the only two things I truly know how to do. I can’t really imagine doing anything else. As a child, I dreamed of becoming an archaeologist. I was fascinated by the idea of uncovering what was hidden beneath the surface. In some ways, I think that instinct is still with me, filmmaking has become my way of digging through emotional and historical ruins, searching for what was lost or silenced. It's just a different kind of excavation, using images instead of shovels.

What advice would you give to your younger self?

I would tell myself. (you don’t have to rush. Let time do its work). There’s so much pressure to prove something when you’re young, especially when your world is falling apart. But stories take time. Healing takes time. I would remind myself to listen more, to hold onto the moments that seem small, because they often become the most meaningful later. And, practically speaking: always back up your footage. Always.

Other than documentaries, what’s your favorite film genre and why?

I’m drawn to poetic political cinema, films that don’t separate beauty from resistance. I admire works that blur the line between fiction and reality, especially when they use silence, rhythm, and absence as storytelling tools. Directors like Omar Amiralay, Mohamed Malas, Nabil Maleh, and Hatem Ali shaped my understanding of Syrian cinema as a space for critique, memory, and radical imagination. I gravitate toward films that linger, not just because of what they show, but because of how they make you feel the weight of time, history, and loss. I think this kind of cinema often carries emotional truths that remain long after facts have faded. For me, that’s where the power of filmmaking lives.

What has influenced your work as a filmmaker the most?

Filmmaking is my way of living, not just a profession. I don’t have one specific filmmaker or film that has influenced me the most. Instead, it’s the countless stories and experiences I’ve gathered through my work as a journalist that shape my imagination and deeply influence my films. Those human connections and real-life journeys inspire everything I create.

If you could have coffee with any filmmaker, living or dead, who would it be and why?

I would choose Omar Amiralay. His work was not just filmmaking, it was an act of courage and resistance. He gave voice to stories that many wanted to silence, showing the complexities of Syrian society with honesty and compassion. I would want to listen to him — to understand how he balanced artistic expression with political engagement, especially during the time of Assad the father, and how he kept hope alive in the face of so much oppression. His films stay with people long after the credits roll.

Is there an anecdote about your project you’d like to share?

This film is my personal journey, a search for justice and a return to a home I thought I would never see again after 12 years in exile. It’s about facing the past and the future when they are tangled together. Like a plant growing slowly from desert stone, it asks: can something new rise from the ashes of loss? That tension is at the heart of the story.

What accomplishment thus far are you most proud of?