BAGHDAD, Iraq - Amal Ramzi Ismail had been up since dawn glancing out the window of her neighbor's house at the wreckage of her own home, destroyed when American soldiers blew up a munitions cache nearby. Then, at 10:40 a.m., what she had been waiting for all morning finally arrived - an Iraqi television crew pulled up in a blue minivan with a flurry of dust and rushed over to Ms. Ismail's house.
Laborers were already toiling away, hammering planks, laying bricks and pouring concrete. They had begun their work in early August, when an Iraqi television network hired a contractor to rebuild the house.
"I get chills thinking about this," said Ms. Ismail, whose father had died from injuries he suffered in the explosion, as she raced across the street in a blue robe toward a cameraman filming the laborers. "Words can't express how grateful I am."
So went a recent taping in mid-August of "Materials and Labor," a homegrown Iraqi show inspired by "This Old House" and "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition," but with a twist of "Apocalypse Now."
Reality TV could turn out to be the most durable Western import in Iraq. It has taken root with considerably greater ease than American-style democracy. Since spring 2004, when "Materials and Labor" made its debut, a constellation of reality shows has burst onto TV screens across Iraq.
True to the genre, "Materials and Labor" has a simple conceit at its heart - Al Sharqiya, an Iraqi satellite network, offers Baghdad residents the chance to have homes that were destroyed by the war rebuilt at no cost to them.
The same network also broadcasts a weekly show called "Congratulations!" featuring producers who help young, poor couples marry, and another that follows TV crews on road trips to hand out $1,000 to lottery winners.
This summer, a rival network, Sumeria, began running "Iraq Star," an amateur singing competition that bears more than a passing resemblance to "American Idol."
The phenomenon is a testament to both the globe-straddling reach of American popular culture and the ease with which people in other parts of the world - even those who are hostile toward the United States - adapt that culture for their own uses.
"This is the only good thing we've acquired from the American occupation," Majid al-Samarraie, the writer of "Materials and Labor," said as he watched the reconstruction of Ms. Ismail's home.
Since its start, the show has financed the repair of six homes. Two of those were destroyed by car bombs, two during the detonation of munitions by American soldiers, one by American armor and the sixth by an American airstrike. (After being rebuilt by Al Sharqiya, one of the homes had its windows blown out again by an explosion.)
Mr. Samarraie said each episode, by showing the ravages of war and the callousness of politicians, serves as a critique of the Americans and the Iraqi government.
"There are hundreds of homes damaged across Iraq," he said, his voice rising. "Falluja, Najaf, Karbala, Tal Afar, Haditha, Qaim - they're all asking for compensation, but it's hopeless. With our show, we're trying to plant a smile on the lips of those people."
Ala Dahan, the head of Al Sharqiya in Baghdad, said the reality TV boom here was similar to the Italian neorealist filmmaking that flowered in the rubble of World War II, in which depictions of life's harshness usurped cinematic escapism.
"These programs might seem strange at first to an Iraqi audience, but they really express what the Iraqi citizen suffers and goes through," Mr. Dahan said as he reclined in his office, five televisions tuned to Arab channels switched on across from him and a Stanley Kubrick DVD collection on his desk. "We wanted to get closer to the audience, so we needed to start this."
"Materials and Labor" and Al Sharqiya's other reality shows are the brainchildren of Saad al-Bazzaz,the network's owner and the publisher of Azzaman, a well-regarded newspaper.
Mr. Bazzaz was a top Information Ministry official under Saddam Hussein but moved to London in the mid 1990's after a falling-out with the government. There, he became exposed to Western cultural touchstones like "Big Brother."
Though the half-hour episodes of "Materials and Labor" are filled with scenes of manual construction - perhaps there is one shot too many of concrete being mixed - it is the human drama of war that the producers seek to evoke.
The first house that Al Sharqiya repaired was next door to Ms. Ismail's. A married couple and their three children lived there, but the husband was killed in the same munitions explosion that destroyed Ms. Ismail's home nearly two-and-a-half years ago, right after the American invasion.
The widow and children now live in the reconstructed house, done up in 35 days with sturdy concrete walls, green trim on the windows and doors, and a marble plaque by the outer gate that says, "On April 10, 2004, the Al Sharqiya network began to rebuild this home damaged by war."
In selecting the sixth house, the producers returned to the same neighborhood, apparently moved by the story of Ms. Ismail and her family.
Ms. Ismail, 44, said that since the explosion and her father's death she had lived with her two unmarried sisters, her brother and his family in a single room in the house of a neighboring family that took them in.
The homes are standard middle-class dwellings in a neighborhood of railway workers. That claustrophobic situation has given Mr. Samarraie some prurient grist worthy of MTV's "Real World."
"There's a sensitive issue here," he said. "How can the brother make love to his wife in front of his sisters without disturbing them? It's a bold issue that I want to deal with. I'm going to do it subtly."
The show is usually family-oriented, though, focusing on the strong personal bonds in Iraqi society. In a recent episode, Ms. Ismail's family az some neighbors slaughtered a sheep one afternoon to prepare a communal rice dish for the laborers. The show's perky anchor, Nival Ali Hassoun, pointed to a man hacking away at the sheep's carcass outside the neighbor's home where Ms. Ismail's family was staying. "Do you see the sheep being cut into parts?" she said into a microphone. "This is to cook lunch for the workers, even though it's getting late."
Outside each home under repair, the television network hangs a pink sign: "Sharqiya Builds Here." The reconstruction costs at least $30,000 and takes up to six weeks, Mr. Dahan said, adding that advertising revenue helps support the venture. The presentation of each new home is done with a big celebration, resulting in a 75- to 90-minute episode. "There's a kind of drama in the completion of these houses," Mr. Samarraie, the writer, said. "I've cried, I've wept."
But not all the episodes are focused on homebuilding.
In one series of episodes, a father told Al Sharqiya his first priority was to save the sight of his 4-year-old daughter, Dima, who had been injured in one eye by an attack. A producer and cameraman accompanied Dima to a surgeon in Jordan. The operation was successful, but Dima is still undergoing treatment."That has lasted for more than a year," Mr. Dahan said. "We might return to her."
The protagonists of the shows often take quickly to their newfound fame.
As the crew wrapped up a recent shoot, Ms. Ismail suggested to Mr. Samarraie that he call her before taping the next episode, just to make sure she would be on the scene. "It seems like I'm an important part of your show now," she said.
An elderly man in a white robe who lived nearby tugged at Mr. Samarraie.
"When will you repair my house?" he asked.
"We'll come back to you later," Mr. Samarraie said.
With that, he and the crew climbed into their minivan and sped away, leaving the residents of the street to listen to the sound of hammering.
