The historical divide between secularists and religious believers in Turkey makes it easy to see the polarized camps in a strict dichotomy: nationalists against Muslims. Director Nehir Tuna grew up in the 1990s, where tensions were mounting to new heights and observing one’s faith had to be done in private spaces. And even though his film Yurt (translated as Dormitory) is shot in crisp black-and-white, Tuna is interested in the nuances of being adolescent in an incredibly specific moment in history.

It’s a tradition that continues today, young Muslim men being provided for in Muslim dormitories where they are fed, housed, and educated away from their families and political violence. Of course, as Ahmet (Doga Karakas) and his friend Hakan (Can Bartu Aslan) realize, they’re also hidden away from external oversight, and mistreatment is rife within the dormitory walls. Projektor spoke to Tuna at the Venice Film Festival about his stark but humane debut feature.

Projektor: This debut expands a short you made five years ago, and the screenplay was developed in a lab at Sundance. Were there elements that stayed throughout, were there any additions?

Nehir Tuna: The script didn’t have dramatic changes, it’s just that nuances developed. I knew from the beginning what I wanted to do—I will say 60% of it was there, maybe more. But those details and how to communicate them visually, I paid more attention to those. It went on until the very last moment, or even in the second takes—“Oh, I have this new idea, let’s try that.” Each take is different, because I don’t shoot like “shot, counter-shot.” I just have a very specific idea [of] how I want to see the film and how it should be seen. So in terms of acting, I try to shoot different things.

In the editing room, you always need harmony between scenes, because sometimes the acting can be a little bit too much. But at that moment you think it’s the best way to go, and you will never know until the edit. You might end up saying, “I wish I had this differently, maybe less energy or even more energy.” So that gives me a lot of things to try out in the edit.

This project came from your own personal relationship with dormitories. During production, did you make connections with other people’s experiences?

When I said I was working on a project that takes place in a religious dormitory, people I would never have expected said, “Oh, I also stayed in a dormitory once.” Maybe [for] a week or a month. These institutions are very common because they give free education, [and] it’s very convenient for a lot of families to send their kids and just not have the responsibility of raising them. And I don’t blame them. These boys tend to come from poor families, and they need a place to survive—that’s what these places offer.

How early did you make the decision to shoot in black-and-white? How did you develop the texture of the film’s visual palette?

I knew it from the very beginning. Before shooting, my cinematographer and colorist worked on the look. Even when we were shooting, I saw it [in] black and white. To me, it’s a symbolic representation of life where there is no color, there are no nuances. You’re either this or that, either a Muslim or an infidel. To me, it was a perfect way to represent that idea. [Often] we put a lot of light on their faces to show the innocence and the beauty of these kids; they are new in life and they are learning, not like adults who have maybe done bad things in the past. They are subjected to indoctrination, and I was trying to make them look as pure as possible, as opposed to adults.

[These kids] are subjected to indoctrination, and I was trying to make them look as pure as possible, as opposed to adults.

The young characters often have these raw outbursts of anguish and emotion. Was this something you developed through rehearsals or on set?

The two actors [Doga Karakas and Can Bartu Aslan] knew each other for a year and a half before shooting. On and off, we had rehearsal periods and they became friends. It was a really important process because you don’t come on set ready to start immediately; you create a bond and go from there. Because our rooms were next to each other, I could hear their voices from the next room. I just applied those little things into their friendship. It became very organic.

What was the young actors’ understanding of dormitories during this time? Were they aware of how politically charged they were?

They had no idea, and actually [Can Bartu Aslan] said it was very helpful for him to listen to the music that I shared with him from that era; through the music, he understood the period. Also, they were just reacting to the violence without the political background. We know it’s political, but they don’t have to know that. They are not really fully aware of [the politics].

By the end, Ahmet’s life has changed severely, but his development has definitely not stopped when the credits roll. What did you want to convey with an open-ended conclusion?

In the end, I wanted to compare these two sides that Ahmet has been shuffling between. I wanted to show these two dogmatic belief systems that have been racing for the hearts and minds of young boys. It looks like Ahmet makes an active choice to go [back] to the dormitory, but he becomes immune to the indoctrination, like Hakan. In a way he becomes free, internally.

At the very end, I want to point out that in the credits we hear the sound of a squirrel. Hakan keeps saying it’s a rat that represents ego but Ahmet says, “Can I think of it as a squirrel?” And we hear the sound of a squirrel and we know that it’s alive. He will be a free man.