Carl Stellweg
Six years ago, I traveled to occupied territory to write a story about the Palestinian Circus School. Since it remains one of my favourite stories to date, I thought I'd repost it on my new weblog. The Palestinian Circus School, by the way, is still thriving.
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It’s a typical spring day. The sky’s an innocent blue. On
such a day even Jenin, a city in Palestinian territory on the West Bank, shows
a conciliatory face. Strolling along the multi-coloured merchandise of its
shopkeepers, it’s hard to imagine the town was once known as the world capital
of suicide terrorism.
Not all traces of
fruitless heroism have vanished, though.
They’re still there, the pictures of young martyrs,
automatic rifles slung over their shoulders, the Dome of the Rock Mosque appearing as a
golden beacon in the background. They’ve not disappeared, the slogans singing
the praises of a brutalized homeland.
But they’re faded and have made way for ordinary people’s
activities: stalls selling little clocks and cuddly toys, barrows laden with
fruit.
Jenin ©Carl Stellweg |
To add to this feeling of spring and promise of a normal
life, the Palestinian Circus School has arrived.
At the entrance of the cinema where this exceptional
ensemble will perform, cheerful youngsters, timid families and a solitary
elderly gentleman gather in the gentle evening twilight. They offer a movingly
relaxed, even hopeful sight.
But nothing in
Palestine is carefree, without implications or political meaning. What is
offered is not a traditional circus. No monkeys on tricycles or dogs in skirts,
no mediocre clowns or MCs uttering worn out phrases.
The performance is a mixture of acrobatics and movement
theatre by four energetic young men. At times funny, frequently sparkling – but
above all a story without words, the symbolism of which is tellingly accessible
to the local audience.
With the help of just a balance beam, a trapeze mast and
some props, a fight for domination and possession is depicted. Humour is never
far away, but the underlying grimness becomes clear also from the title Kol
Saber, meaning: ‘eat the cactus’. Or: ‘eat patience’. In other words: ‘like it or lump it’ – a sentiment all too
familiar to Palestinians.
“This was politics, disguised as entertainment,” the
solitary gentleman says, adding smilingly: “That was a pleasant surprise.’’ And
a middle-aged mother of four: “Our whole story was in it, our struggle with the
powers that dominate us.”
The Palestinian Circus School is a small but unique
institution. Founded in 2006, it’s headquarters is an Ottoman villa in Bir
Zeit. This suburb of Ramallah, hidden high in the hills, is the only place in
Palestine where you may see someone pass by on a unicycle.
A picture that is matched by the equally fairy tale
improbability of the school’s history itself. It originated from nothing. There
was no circus tradition on the West Bank, there were no attributes.
There was just the dream of a couple: the Flemish Jessika
Devlieghere and the Palestinian Shadi Zmorrod. The dream even preceded their
love: before they fell for each other, they were colleagues wanting to bring
the circus to Palestine.
Jessika’s interest in youth work and her concern with social
inequality brought her to Latin America. But when visiting Lebanese refugee
camps, she was swept away by the Palestinian saga of expulsion. She grew
annoyed, though, with the rigid, sentimental nationalism through which many
Palestinians lock themselves up in an idealized past.
She wanted to counterbalance this victim culture and
discovered ‘social’ or ‘didactic’ circus: “The energy with which the past is
cherished should be swung around to the future. But you can’t believe in the
future without self-confidence. To create that in young people living in a
negative climate, circus is a perfect tool. Because if you want to be an
acrobat or juggler, you need to learn to trust yourself and others: acrobats
must, quite literally, never drop each other.”
Mutual trust and faith in collaboration are precisely what
is missing in Palestinian society. “Inertia rules,” says Devlieghere. “The Palestinian Authority has partially sucked dry local organizations, while foreign aid agencies, with
all their good intentions, threaten to render the population structurally
needy. Then there is the wrecking hatred created by the occupation.”
Certainly Jessika’s husband Shadi knows about what that
occupation does to the psyche. During the second intifada he carried off the
injured at checkpoints and once had to stuff back someone’s intestines. Ever
since there’s little that can move him. “I don’t jump up instantly when our
young son gets hurt. That parent reflex has been robbed from me.”
Shadi grew up in East Jerusalem. From the age of twelve he
regarded the theatre as his destination and taught himself to juggle.
He joined an Arab-Jewish circus initiative, but was put off
by the hypocritical mixture of obligated political neutrality and condescending
sympathy for him as a Palestinian. He decided to make circus by Palestinians
for Palestinians only. “I could pocket a small fortune in subsidies with some
reconciliation project, but that would be a lie,” he says. “Exchanges are no
use as long as there’s so much inequality between our peoples.”
Shadi moved to Ramallah and met Jessika, who was following a
course in Arabic there. Their intention to create a circus met with
considerable problems. Shadi refused to give up. “I’m a Palestinian: I always
see that tiny light at the end of a tunnel.”
People with whom he had collaborated in Jerusalem joined him
and Jessika. With their own hands they stitched juggling balls and transformed
toilet brushes into juggling cones. Foreign coaches rushed to help. All this
resulted in a miracle: within weeks ‘Circus behind the wall’ was performed for
an audience of 250 in Ramallah.
©Carl Stellweg |
The still limited technical ability of the artists was
compensated by a compelling story line. The school always had a message, and is
often groundbreaking. Jessika and Shadi like to gently push the limits of a
conservative society.
So in ‘Kol Saber’, a Naked Man was featured. That is to say,
Mohammad Abu Sakha (21) wore longish underpants, and this caused some upheaval.
“But listen to this,” Mohammed says grinningly. “My father is a very religious
man, visits the mosque each morning at five. My mother asked him to stop me
from exhibiting myself. Guess what? He
refused, saying the story needed it.”
Mohammad contends the
circus learned him to dig more deeply. “If you ask people here what they want,
they say: a car, a house. Nobody says: I want to walk a tightrope. They think
it’s too difficult. But it’s easy.” He smiles. “I mean: You can learn it.”
The school’s star shines. Dozens of pupils follow weekly lessons. There have been tours in Belgium, Germany, Egypt, France, Italy.
At the same time, lives are unprotected as ever. Hopes can
be smashed any time. The light at the end of the tunnel can narrow down to a
pinprick – or extinguish. There’s still
all this vindictiveness. There’s fences, walls, roadblocks, checkpoints,
watchtowers, and the threat of the paranoid murdering machine that every army
on the alert is, not in the least the Israeli one. So what good does a
Palestinian Circus School?
The answer may be: it creates a self-esteem that eventually
will overcome all the hatred and tragedy.
The house of the late Mohammed Al-Salaymeh in Hebron is a
stone hovel in an alley ten meters long and two meters wide. Checkpoints
encircle the neighbourhood, clumps of weeds grow from cracks in the wall.
Inside Mohammed’s mother serves Seven Up in pretty glasses.
She tells me how her sturdy, red haired son got into a quarrel with a soldier
at a nearby checkpoint. Another soldier thought she saw he had a weapon and
fired six bullets from close range.
Mohammed turned out to be unarmed. His father rushed to the
checkpoint after hearing what had happened and was beaten by soldiers. A row
involving bystanders ensued, teargas and rubber bullets were fired with the
boy’s corpse lying on the road.
Mohammad al-Salameh (l.), ours before he was killed by Nofar Mizrahi, a member of the Israeli border police (r.). |
This happened on 12 December 2012, on Mohammed’s 17th birthday. Hours before his life ended, friends had treated him to a big birthday cake.
Mohammed’s mother and I fall silent. I search for words. Suddenly I think of something.
Shukran, she says. And through
her tears a proud smile appears.
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