Sentence to Hope: A Sa'dallah Wannous Reader 9780300245479

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Sentence to Hope

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Sentence to Hope: A Saʿdallah Wannous Reader TRANSLATED FROM THE ARABIC AND WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY ROBERT MYERS AND NADA SAAB

YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS

NEW HAVEN & LONDON

The Margellos World Republic of Letters is dedicated to making literary works from around the globe available in English through translation. It brings to the English-­speaking world the work of leading poets, novelists, essayists, philosophers, and playwrights from Europe, Latin America, Africa, Asia, and the Middle East to stimulate international discourse and creative exchange. English translation and introduction copyright © 2019 by Yale University. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers. The selections in Sentence to Hope are translated from Saʿdallah Wannous, al-­Aʿmal al-­Kamila (Complete works), published in three volumes by Dar al-­Adab in 2004. Rituals of Signs and Transformations, An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June, and The Adventure of the Head of Mamlouk Jabir first appeared in English translation in Four Plays from Syria: Saʿdallah Wannous, published by Martin E. Segal Theatre Center Publications, New York, in 2014. Yale University Press books may be purchased in quantity for educational, business, or promotional use. For information, please e-­mail [email protected] (U.S. office) or [email protected] (U.K. office). Set in Electra and Nobel types by Tseng Information Systems, Inc., Durham, North Carolina. Printed in the United States of America. Library of Congress Control Number: 2018955858 ISBN 978-­0 -­300-­22134-­3 (hardcover : alk. paper) A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-­1992 (Permanence of Paper). 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS

A Note on Transcription vii Acknowledgments ix Introduction xiii PLAYS

An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June 3 The Adventure of the Head of Mamlouk Jabir 120 Wretched Dreams 208 Rituals of Signs and Transformations 266 SPEECHES, ESSAYS, AND INTERVIEWS

Thirst for Dialogue 387 The Dream Falls Apart 391 On the Performance of The Adventure of the Head of Mamlouk Jabir in Moscow 395 Theater as Mirror 403 It All Begins with the Audience 405 For the First Time Writing Is a Form of Freedom, for the First Time Writing Is a Pleasure 415

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A NOTE ON TRANSCRIPTION

In general, words that are already Anglicized and familiar to English speakers or found in English dictionaries are not transcribed. To simplify reading, diacritical marks that indicate emphatic consonants or the lengthening of the vowels “a” and “i” have been omitted. The exception to this principle is the long vowel “u,” which is rendered as “ou” so as to reproduce the Arabic sound as closely as possible in English. For example, we use “Wannous” instead of Wannus and “Mamlouk” instead of Mamluk. A hamza, or glottal stop, is rendered as ʾ. The letter ʿayn, which, for those unfamiliar with the Arabic alphabet, sounds like a vocalized “h,” is rendered as ʿ. The ʿayn is used, for example, in the spelling of the name of the author, Saʿdallah Wannous.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A volume such as this cannot come into being without the support of an enormous number of people. Since this volume contains four theater plays, it was especially helpful for us to see a full production and several readings of our translation of one of them and to stage translations of several other modern and contemporary works from the Arab world, including another play by Saʿdallah Wannous. The administrations of the American University of Beirut, where Robert Myers teaches, and the Lebanese American University of Beirut, where Nada Saab teaches, were both instrumental in supporting our work as translators. Our colleague and friend, the Lebanese director and actor Sahar Assaf, worked with us to transform our translations into beautiful theatrical productions, which was a great gift for any translator. Silk Road Rising Theater in Chicago, and its directors Jamil Khoury and Malik Gilani, in conjunction with a grant from the MacArthur Foundation, supported the translation and production in Beirut and reading in Chicago of our translation of Rituals of Signs and Transformations. Marvin Carlson and Frank Hentschker, of the Segal Center at CUNY in New York, not only invited us to pre­sent a reading of this same play there, Marvin also included it in his groundbreaking volume Four Plays from Syria. Frank and Marvin also very graciously allowed us to offer our own translations of An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June and The Adventure of the Head of Mamlouk Jabir. Marvin and Safi Mahfouz first offered versions of these works in Four Plays from Syria, published by the Segal Center, which is the most important venue for world theater in North America. Thanassis Cambanis wrote a wonderful piece about Wanix

x Acknowledgments

nous and our Beirut production of Rituals in the Boston Globe, and our friend the renowned journalist Rami Khoury wrote an extraordinary tribute to the New York reading of the play that was published in his syndicated column. We are especially grateful to the poet Marilyn Hacker, who first suggested we contact John Donatich at Yale University Press about publishing translations of Wannous’s work for the Margellos World Republic of Letters. Both John and his staff, including Danielle D’Orlando and Kristy Leonard, were exceedingly helpful and patient as we suggested alterations in the content so as to offer the best possible introduction to Wannous’s work to an English-­speaking audience. Yasmina Jraissati, of the Raya Agency, who represents the Wannous estate, went out of her way to help facilitate our work in every way, as did Saʿdallah Wannous’s daughter, the writer Dima Wannous, and his widow, Fayza Wannous. Another important supporter of our work and of scholarship about and translations of plays from the Arab world more generally has been Margaret Litvin of Boston University. Miriam Ayres, whom we both met when we were all graduate students in New Haven, was an impeccable copyeditor and proofreader, and Rawan Nasser, an MA student in the literature program of the English Department at AUB, meticulously examined our translations alongside the original Arabic versions and assisted with innumerable editorial corrections. Sonja Mejcher-­Atassi, chair of the English Department at AUB, and David Wrisley, the former chair, both supported our work as translators, and Elise Salem, a celebrated scholar of Arabic literature and a Vice President of LAU, offered us support and guidance at every turn. The Theater Department of LAU and Dean Nashat Mansour also coproduced one of our Wannous productions. President Fadlo Khuri and Dean Nadia El Cheikh of FAS have been ardent supporters of AUB’s Theater Initiative and the production of plays at AUB. The former Provost of AUB, Ahmad Dallal, and the former Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Sciences at AUB, Patrick McGreevy, helped us fund productions and generate inter-

Acknowledgments xi

est in the theater of Wannous. We would also like to thank the actors who performed our translations of Wannous’s dialogue and the audience members from AUB, LAU, Beirut, New York, and Chicago. The beautiful cover of this volume, a reproduction of a painting by the Iraqi artist Jamil Hammoudi, was selected as a result of the efforts of Kaoukab Chebaro, Associate University Librarian for Archives and Special Collections and Assistant Professor at AUB. Ms. Ishtar Jamil, the daughter of Jamil Hammoudi, kindly granted us permission to use the painting for the cover of the book. We are, of course, especially grateful to Saʿdallah Wannous. Although, because he passed away two decades ago, neither of us knew him, we have had the enormous pleasure of becoming acquainted with him through his literary and theatrical legacy. We are indebted to Yale University Press and the Margellos World Republic of Letters for providing us with this medium for sharing that legacy with other lovers of theater and literature.

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INTRODUCTION

To characterize Saʿdallah Wannous as an Arab writer is, at the same time, to say something essential about his identity and his oeuvre and assert something potentially misleading for many English-­language readers, who probably know few writers from the Arab world except perhaps the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish, the Syrian-­Lebanese poet Adonis, or Naguib Mahfouz, the Egyptian novelist who won the Nobel Prize in 1988. The confusion evoked by characterizing Wannous as an Arab writer is likely to be compounded by the fact that he is Syrian, and the little that well-­read English speakers probably know about Syria’s history and culture has been filtered through the narrow lens of the Western media’s coverage of the brutal civil war that began there in 2011. Moreover, Wannous is known principally as a playwright even in the Arab world, and few literate people, with the exception of specialists and theater artists, read plays—as opposed to seeing them performed—with the possible exception of those of Shakespeare. The current volume, which is the first widely distributed English-­language anthology devoted to Wannous’s plays and writings about theater, is, however, likely to change more than a few minds about the pleasures of reading plays, especially since Wannous clearly intended that his works should be read simultaneously as cultural critiques, political and philosophical treatises, and innovative rewritings of traditional storytelling and performance modes, as well as serious dramas to be staged. Wannous was born in 1941 into a peasant family in a small village above the Syrian port of Tartous, which, it is worth noting, has housed a Soviet, and later Russian, naval facility since the early 1970s. xiii

xiv Introduction

Although Wannous became an atheist, a Marxist, and a committed secularist, his family and he were nominally ʿAlawites, a small heterodox Islamic sect to which President Bashar al-­Assad also belongs, as did his father, President Hafez al-­Assad, who preceded him. In 1959, after completing his baccalaureate degree, Wannous moved to Cairo, which was then the cultural and political center of the Arab world. This was the so-­called golden age of Egyptian cinema, the era of the celebrated diva Umm Kulthoum and of Egypt’s charismatic leader and former military officer Gamal Abdel Nasser, who led a coup in July 1952 to overthrow the spectacularly corrupt King Farouq. In 1956, Nasser became the most revered leader in the Arab world when he was given credit for facing down the British, the French, and the Israelis, who had tried to seize control of the Suez Canal. This victory—which, along with the 1958–1961 union of Syria and Egypt into a single political entity, the United Arab Republic, constituted the apex of Arab nationalism—was the Arabs’ only success before a string of devastating military and diplomatic defeats during the remainder of the century. While in Egypt, Wannous, who at this time was an ardent Arab nationalist and admirer of Nasser, studied journalism at Cairo University and, according to ʿAli al-­Anezi, “became a regular reader of al-­Adab (Belles Lettres), the most influential Arab literary journal, which translated and published works by Camus and Sartre.”1 Wannous also wrote an essay, which has subsequently been lost, about the renowned Egyptian absurdist playwright Tawfiq al-­Hakim, perhaps the most celebrated dramatist from the Arab world in the first half of the twentieth century.2 In 1963, after Wannous returned to Syria, which was now ruled by the nominally socialist Baʿth Party, he became the theater editor for the state-­controlled cultural publication al-­Maʿrifa (Knowledge) and wrote a series of philosophical plays—dramatic treatises composed more for the page than the stage, largely based on al-­Hakim’s model. At the age of twenty-­five, in 1966, Wannous moved to Paris to study theater at the Sorbonne, where he

Introduction xv

continued his career as a cultural journalist, interviewing over the years artists such as his own professor, the theater director Jean-­Marie Serreau, Jean Genet, and the renowned theater actor and director Jean-­Louis Barrault, best known to English-­speaking audiences for his role in the film Les Enfants du Paradis (Children of Paradise). He also continued his apprenticeship as an aspiring playwright, attending performances at the Comédie-­Française and by foreign troupes such as Judith Molina and Julian Beck’s Living Theater and artists such as Peter Brook and Peter Weiss. Brook, one of the premier theater directors of the twentieth century, had just created the innovative theatrical “happening” entitled US, an improvised performance opposing U.S. military intervention in Vietnam, produced in London in 1966. One can see clear formal echoes of US in Wannous’s first theatrical success, the equally innovative and revolutionary An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June, the play that opens this volume, which is a scathing critique of the deceit and betrayal of peasants, soldiers, and the Palestinians by Nasser and the Arab regimes during the June 1967 War. During this same period, when Wannous was first living in France, the Living Theater performed their adaptation of Brecht’s version of Antigone and their own Paradise Now, a work replete with nudity and audience participation, which at the urging of company members spilled into streets during the 1968 Avignon Theater Festival. Like US and An Evening’s Entertainment, both of these works obliterated what Bertolt Brecht has referred to as the fourth wall between audience and performers and attempted to destroy the distinction between theatrical performance and revolutionary political action. Peter Weiss, best known for his groundbreaking 1963 play Marat/Sade—a work strongly influenced by Brecht and Antonin Artaud that lays bare the failure of the French Revolution—and his 1965 documentary play The Investigation, about the Frankfurt-­Auschwitz war crime trials, also became a theatrical model and mentor for the budding Syrian playwright and theater theoretician. Wannous met Weiss in Paris in 1968, the same year he wrote An

xvi Introduction

Evening’s Entertainment and attended a conference in East Berlin devoted to Brecht. Wannous developed a close relationship with his teacher Jean-­ Marie Serreau, a comedian turned theater director who also became a mentor for the revolutionary Algerian playwright Kateb Yacine and the renowned Caribbean writer and political theorist Aimé Césaire. It is clear in Wannous’s plays from the late 1960s and the 1970s, however, that the principal theatrical influence during this period was Bertolt Brecht, as playwright, theatrical theoretician, and political thinker. During this period, Brecht’s vision of drama as an instrument of social critique and revolutionary change offered an aesthetic and political model for a number of other theater artists from the so-­ called developing world, among them Augusto Boal, Wole Soyinka, and Athol Fugard. On June 5, 1967, when Israel attacked Egypt, Wannous was living and studying in Paris. In less than a week the decimated armies of Egypt, Jordan, and Syria had capitulated, with the political landscape in the Middle East having radically changed and Israel having occupied the Gaza Strip, the Sinai, the West Bank, and the Golan Heights in Syria. As Wannous recounts, Nasser’s acknowledgment of the truth and scale of the Arabs’ defeat left the young Syrian playwright feeling as if he were “suffocating.”3 He returned briefly to Damascus and then went back to Paris where he dropped the project he was working on and began writing the bitterly ironic An Evening’s Entertainment. Thus much of the play, which is itself a clarion call for revolution, was composed in Paris during the period leading up to and including the mass demonstrations at the Sorbonne and elsewhere in France in May 1968. The play, unlike anything that had ever been staged in the Arab world, is a highly original metatheatrical hybrid that draws on both Brecht’s teaching plays and his technique of breaking the fourth wall, although in Wannous’s case he shatters even the semblance of a demarcation between performers and audience by placing throughout

Introduction xvii

the playing arena actors who comment upon the action, offer choral counterpoints to stage dialogue, and enter the main action by walking up onto the stage. The “play” itself is little more than the sketch of a second-­rate, socialist-­realist, peasant drama dreamed up by the apparatchik director of the theater who has had no personal experience of the recent defeat and who has hired a playwright to expand upon the facile piece of propaganda that he, the director, has cooked up. However, the playwright, who has decided that the words in his text smell like a “prostitute’s vagina,” has refused to allow the play to go forward, and when the theater director attempts to dramatize the scene of his refusal with an actor, the “actual” playwright comes up out of the audience to join the fray and play himself. This dramatic ruse, which in the hands of a less adroit playwright might fall completely flat, is but one of a seemingly endless series of sly theatrical tricks that Wannous employs as he simultaneously enacts the gruesome truth of the recent war, questions the ability of any theatrical rendering to dramatize war’s actual horrors, and repeatedly skewers the terrifying regime of the Baʿth Party and its cultural toadies for the Orwellian lies they have perpetrated. Wannous brilliantly frames all of these theatrical proceedings about a catastrophic defeat under the saccharine title of a haflat samar (literally, “an evening of entertainment”), a soirée or traditional evening of song and dance and other light entertainment in the Arab world. Wannous says he hoped that the play, which ends with a literal call to arms, would spill into the streets and spark an insurrection. He was bitterly disappointed when it was first produced in Damascus in 1969 and met with tepid approbation and mixed reviews. He should not have been surprised, since many of those in the audience were themselves very similar to the compromised Eastern bloc cultural bureaucrats he so successfully satirizes in the play, and the regime—though it did not punish him and would itself be overthrown by Hafez al-­Assad two years later— was notorious for vicious retribution against its perceived political opponents.

xviii Introduction

Assad seized power in 1971 shortly before Wannous’s next play, The Adventure of the Head of Mamlouk Jabir, the second in this volume, was set to be staged. Like a number of Wannous’s plays, Mamlouk Jabir draws on a significant historical event in the Arab world, in this case the sack of Baghdad by Hulagu Khan in the thirteenth century with the connivance of the chief Arab minister, who betrays his caliph. Assad’s censors, who no doubt perceived the allegory of betrayal as too reminiscent of the treacherous political atmosphere of contemporary Syria, refused to allow the play to be performed. Ironically, Assad’s government, as it frequently did, promoted the play as an example of Syrian culture elsewhere in the Eastern bloc, where it was unlikely to be read as a denunciation of Assad for betraying his superiors. The play was first staged in East Berlin and later in Moscow and elsewhere in the Soviet Union. In one of the two interviews included in this volume, Wannous talks about the reception of his play in the Soviet Union, and his discussion, among other things, reminds the reader that not only did Brecht spend the final years of his career working for the state theater in the German Democratic Republic, but also that theater in Syria, which was effectively an Eastern bloc country, was inevitably deeply influenced by Russian theater. In fact, when one comes to understand how profound the influence of the Moscow Art Theatre, Meyerhold, Stanislavsky, and Chekhov was in places like Damascus, the notion of Wannous as an “Arab” writer—in the sense that contemporary parlance about Islamism, the Middle East, and the Syrian civil war in the Western media might suggest—is particularly fatuous. Not only was Wannous, like almost all of the artists of his generation in the Arab world at this time, a committed Marxist, he was a cosmopolitan, postcolonial writer who read and studied a wide range of literary, theatrical, and philosophical traditions and repeatedly compared his country’s predicament and struggle—and that of the Palestinians against the United States’s only ally in the region, Israel—to that of the Vietcong in Vietnam, who were fighting the American military directly.

Introduction xix

Although Mamlouk Jabir may be read as a Brechtian allegory, it, like An Evening’s Entertainment, is another extraordinarily innovative hybrid. Wannous’s work is another play-­within-­a-­play, but in this case he frames the drama by setting it in the most traditional of settings in the Arab world, a coffeehouse, and by utilizing the most traditional of Arab performative figures, the hakawati, or storyteller. Wannous continues his preoccupation with the audience—one that is central to the aesthetic of his earlier works and elaborated in his essay “It All Begins with the Audience,” also included here—but in this case instead of bringing audience members onto the stage to join the drama, they are central to its dynamic from the play’s inception. As Muʾnis, the storyteller, tells the tale of the Mamlouk Jabir, a slave who works for the vizier, the minister who is conniving to betray the caliph to the general of the army encircling Baghdad, the figures whom Muʾnis is describing appear onstage in front of the patrons. Throughout the action the coffeehouse patrons serve as an unruly audience onstage, alternately commenting on the characters’ actions, requesting that another story be told, ordering additional cups of coffee from the waiter, and expressing their dismay at how different this tale is from the lighthearted fare to which they are accustomed. In another striking departure from traditional modern plays from the Arab world and elsewhere during this period and earlier, Mamlouk Jabir, like Brecht’s Mother Courage, offers the story of a significant historical event from below, from the point of view of servants and slaves. Not only do these characters offer novel interpretations of political events and the behavior of their better-­known superiors, their perspectives inevitably foreground concerns that had heretofore been largely excluded from respectable bourgeois drama such as heightened consciousness of class and a necessary preoccupation with the basic necessities of life such as bread. Arguably Wannous’s most significant innovation in Mamlouk Jabir is his creation of the title character, a charming slave who, out of necessity, has learned to live by his wits and charm. It is he who, in a moment of acute politi-

xx Introduction

cal crisis, seizes an opportunity, contriving a brilliant solution for how to smuggle a message through the heavily guarded checkpoints surrounding the city to the general of the besieging army. Taking what he sees as his one chance to rise in social status and win the hand of the servant girl who has caught his eye, he offers up his own body as a textual medium. In an interview included here that was conducted after the performances of the play in what was then the USSR, Wannous discusses his pleasure at the production’s emphasis on the work’s comic aspects. Nevertheless, the text as written, as is so often the case in Wannous’s work, begins as a seemingly lighthearted and humorous tale but abruptly takes a darkly ironic turn that is reminiscent of the story of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in Hamlet. Critics generally divide Wannous’s work into plays written before and after 1977. Not only are the works from the two periods starkly different, the year 1977, for a number of reasons, constitutes much more than an arbitrary demarcation in Wannous’s oeuvre. For many in the West, Anwar Sadat’s visit to Jerusalem and the ensuing thaw in Egyptian-­Israeli relations that led to the Camp David Accords constitute two of the few bright spots in a seemingly interminable and intractable conflict between Israel, the Palestinians, and the larger Arab world. For Wannous and many Arab intellectuals of his generation, however, Sadat’s gesture represented not a realistic accommodation to an implacable and determined foe that had humiliated Arab armies twice in the space of seven years, but a complete capitulation to a colonial oppressor and U.S. proxy. Whereas many African states had recently succeeded in shedding their colonial masters, and just two years prior the United States had abandoned Saigon to the Vietcong, who had soundly defeated two imperial powers in two decades, Arab nationalism had, in the same span of twenty years, been obliterated and, in the eyes of Wannous and others, its leaders reduced to pathetic figures groveling before their tormentors. Moreover, as the architect of the accord, former President Jimmy Carter, has subsequently admitted, the agreement left unresolved the thorniest and

Introduction xxi

the most emotional issue between Israel and the Arabs, the continuing occupation of Palestinian territory. For supporters of Palestine like Wannous, Sadat’s failure to insist on a resolution on the status of the Palestinians in the accord and his willingness to make a separate peace with Israel must have seemed a rank betrayal. In an interview for There Are So Many Things Still to Say, a documentary about Wannous by Syrian filmmaker Omar Amiralay made shortly before the playwright’s death in 1997, Wannous says that, although Sadat’s visit to Jerusalem did not take him completely by surprise, it left him emotionally and artistically shattered. The event became the catalyst for a complete nervous breakdown and an unsuccessful suicide attempt that left him unable or unwilling to write plays for a dozen years. During this period Wannous did not completely abandon Brecht as an aesthetic and political model, nor did he immediately repudiate his previous engagé approach to playwriting that viewed theater as a tool for civic and political transformation. In fact, when he did finally compose another play, The Rape, published in 1989, it was an adaptation of The Double Life of Dr. Valmy, a work about torture in Franco’s Spain by the Spanish playwright Antonio Buero Vallejo, transplanted to the West Bank and set during the first Intifada in 1987. The play contains a ferocious condemnation of the use of rape by Israel’s internal security service, Shin Bet, as a tool of interrogation and humiliation for the purpose of suppressing the uprising, and several Israeli Zionist characters are portrayed as unremittingly repugnant. However, the work also contains a Palestinian who collaborates with the Israelis so he can be reunited with his family, and it offers nuanced and sympathetic portraits of both a conflicted and repentant Shin Bet interrogator and his Israeli psychiatrist, who abhors Zionism. A character named Saʿdallah Wannous appears at the end of the play to engage in dialogue with the psychiatrist and to denounce Arab demagogues and what he describes as “Arab Zionism.” Not surprisingly, the play’s multifaceted rendering of Israeli characters garnered him few plaudits in the Arab world, and accord-

xxii Introduction

ing to an interview Wannous granted to the New York Times, not only was the production of the play banned by Syrian censors, the appearance of Wannous’s name in party-­controlled newspapers in Syria was also forbidden.4 The play was first produced in Beirut in 1991 by the Iraqi director Jawad al-­Assadi, who removed the storyline related to the Palestinians. Wannous condemned the changes when an integral version was later published in his collected works. Nonetheless, al-­Assadi’s production received awards and excellent reviews when it was staged in Cairo and in other Arab countries.5 As is clear in Elizabeth Suzanne Kassab’s study Contemporary Arab Thought, Wannous was as much a social and political theorist as playwright. Like most Arab intellectuals of his generation, he was—at least in his early career—a Marxist, Arab nationalist, and anticolonialist who had in substantial measure been shaped by the creation of Israel in 1948, the wars between Israel and the Arab states, and the Israeli-­Palestinian conflict. Both politically and artistically he had absorbed a wide range of influences from France, elsewhere in Europe, and the Eastern bloc. As he engaged in the process of interrogating his own programmatic Marxist and anti-­Zionist worldview that presupposed an eventual socialist revolution of which committed art was an essential component, he increasingly turned his attention to a group of nineteenth- and twentieth-­century Arab intellectuals associated with the Nahda, or “enlightenment,” whose project was to critique and modernize the Arab world. Although he never abandoned Marxism, even after the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1989, and he frequently expressed repulsion at what he saw as the devastation to culture, especially Arab folk culture, wrought by globalization and the rampant spread of consumerism, he became increasingly preoccupied with the internal reasons for the failures in Arab and Islamic societies. Two especially illuminating examples of Wannous’s social, political, and philosophical reconsiderations in the late 1980s and 1990s can be found in his writings during that period about Sayyid Qutb

Introduction xxiii

and Taha Hussein. Qutb, who was hanged in 1965 after supposedly plotting along with his cohorts in the Muslim Brotherhood to assassinate Nasser, was one of the principal intellectual architects of the modern Muslim Brotherhood, which briefly came to power in Egypt in 2012 via elections after Hosni Mubarak was deposed, and one of the most significant spiritual and political influences on Ayman al-­ Zawahri, the spiritual and operational leader of al Qaeda. As Kassab outlines, Wannous unequivocally rejected Qutb’s resort in his thinking to the idea of turath (heritage or civilizational culture) as an ahistorical talismanic concept suggesting that all Arabs are united through the glorious Islamic past. Conversely, Wannous pointed to Taha Hussein, a twentieth-­century Egyptian literary scholar, translator, and educator, who, like Wannous, studied at the Sorbonne, as a model of the modern Arab thinker. Hussein had written historically about literature, including Islamic literature, rejected religious education and rote learning, acknowledged the extent of Greek and Roman influence on Arab literature, and, like Wannous, viewed civil society in a secular, democratic state with guaranteed freedoms as a prerequisite for political and intellectual advancement.6 In addition to admiring various political and philosophical thinkers of the Nahda, Wannous continued to view two nineteenth-­century theater artists from the Levant, the Syrian playwright Abou Khalil al-­Qabbani and the Lebanese playwright Maroun al-­Naqqash, as precursors and political models. Al-­Naqqash was the first writer to introduce European-­ style drama to the region with his adaptation of Molière’s The Miser, staged in Beirut in 1848. Al-­Qabbani, whose life and theater were subjects of a 1972 play by Wannous in which he interrogates the concepts of heritage and cultural authenticity, ran afoul of the religious authorities in Damascus in the 1880s, who shut down his theater for subverting public morals by, among other things, using female actors. As Wannous told Mary Ilyas in a 1994 interview included here entitled “For the First Time Writing Is a Form of Freedom,” he particularly admired the experimentation these playwrights undertook. “The

xxiv Introduction

solutions they came up with to cultivate a particular kind of theater provoke awe,” he said. “These pioneers constitute the tradition that influenced me more than any other.” Another key factor in Wannous’s reassessment of his artistic and intellectual projects was the fact that in 1992 he was diagnosed with cancer of the pharynx. After an initial remission, the disease spread to his liver, and his doctor told him he had only six months to live. As he said in his speech “Thirst for Dialogue,” also included in this volume, which he gave in 1996, the year before his death, after being selected by UNESCO to give an address on “World Theater Day” that was circulated to theaters worldwide, he was determined after the diagnosis to go on writing as long as possible to engender dialogue and defend theater, which he saw as besieged by commercialism. “Writing,” he said, “and specifically writing for the theater, has been one of the most important means I have had to fight [cancer].” As a result of his reflections on the Arab Nahda, his intensive reconsideration of programmatic Marxism, his own attempts to transform an underdeveloped and authoritarian society through theater, and a medical diagnosis that amounted to a death sentence, Wannous’s writing underwent a profound transformation. As Wannous acknowledged in the 1994 interview with Mary Ilyas, he had previously believed that “individual strife or personal idiosyncrasies were unessential shallow bourgeois matters that should be set aside. My concern was all focused on the comprehension of history so I mistakenly thought that my consideration of the process of history must transcend individualities and the traps of bourgeois writing.” By his own admission, after his cancer diagnosis his works no longer portrayed individuals as forces and products of history and social conditions but as complex, contradictory, feeling beings whose weaknesses and tenacity in the face of the intractable forces arrayed against them often made them seem heroic. He suddenly expressed open admiration for the work of Chekhov, a political liberal whose tragicomedies about human foibles eschew programmatic solutions, and

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of Shakespeare, whose depictions of human psychology at every level of society defy reductive ideological interpretations. In the 1990s, in chameleonlike fashion, Wannous rapidly produced plays in a variety of styles such as Historical Miniatures, a series of dramatizations of key episodes in Arab history that draws on the visual arts in a manner similar to that later used by Orhan Pamuk in his novel My Name Is Red; and Drunken Days, based on the life of the mother of his friend Omar Amiralay, which is the story of a Lebanese Christian woman in the 1930s who receives visitations from a jinn, or spirit, that clearly seems to be a manifestation of her suppressed erotic desires and who eventually abandons her husband and children for a Muslim man with whom she has fallen in love. In the 1990s, female characters began to figure much more prominently in Wannous’s work, in part because, like Shaw at the end of the nineteenth century in Europe, he recognized that the predicament of women—in this case in the Arab world at the end of the twentieth century—was the ideal subject for the stage. He also wished to use the stage as an arena for explicating the dilemmas of women and for imagining radically different futures for Arab women as his legacy to his own daughter, Dima, who herself ultimately became a writer. Wretched Dreams, which is also included in this volume, appears on the surface to draw on some of the themes from Wannous’s earliest works for the stage. The play takes place in the 1960s immediately after the Baʿthists have come to power and are attempting to tighten their grip on Syria through a network of low-­level spies. The principal character, Mary, lives in a home in rural Syria with her feckless husband, Faris, whom we soon discover gave her a venereal disease years earlier, shortly after they were married, which left her sterile. They share the house, which Mary owns and which has an adjoining coffeehouse, with another couple, Kazim, who is a low-­level intelligence officer and abusive husband, and his wife and cousin Ghada, who is Mary’s friend. All but one of the scenes take place in the claustrophobic rooms in the house, which also contains a sophis-

xxvi Introduction

ticated and mysterious lodger who, to Faris’s profound distress, Mary claims is her long-­lost son. The appearance of this ghost child, now decades older, at first brings the two women much closer but eventually wreaks havoc in the lives of both couples. In the play’s most extraordinary and inventive scene, which may or may not be one or more characters’ dreams, we see the lodger for the first and only time as he engages in a series of grotesque and deeply disturbing interactions with Mary and Faris. Although the solidarity that Mary and Ghada achieve as they admire the cultured lodger and conspire against their male tormentors is tragically thwarted, the theme of women directly challenging the authority of powerful men is central to Wannous’s most accomplished later work, Rituals of Signs and Transformations, which is the final play in this volume. Written in 1994, the play is loosely based on a historical incident in Damascus in the 1880s when the two most powerful religious leaders in the city, the Mufti and the Naqib al-­Ashraf, were involved in a feud and the Mufti arranged his rival’s arrest for lovemaking in a private park with his female consort. From this thread, Wannous weaves a fictional story of female empowerment in which the Naqib’s wife, Muʾmina, agrees to the Mufti’s request to save her husband from complete humiliation by substituting herself for the consort who is sharing his jail cell in exchange for a divorce. Once free of the Naqib, she changes her name to Almasa, “the diamond,” and embarks on a journey of self-­discovery, sexual liberation, and spiritual transformation that upends the entire social and political order of the city. However, Almasa is but one of a number of characters who undergo radical metamorphoses in a play that deals overtly with male homosexuality, religious and legal corruption, prostitution, and pedophilia. Drawing on the ritual theatricality and promise of self-­ enlightenment inherent in Sufism and plot elements drawn from Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure and Twelfth Night, Wannous has created another stunningly original theatrical hybrid that presaged many of the latent desires in Arab societies that began to emerge

Introduction xxvii

during the so-­called Arab Spring, which began more than a dozen years after Wannous’s death in 1997. In fact, a production of the play in 2011 at the American University of Cairo was explicitly linked to the uprising in Syria. Rituals of Signs and Transformations was also translated into French and produced at the Comédie-­Française in 2013, and the translation in this collection was the basis of the first English-­language version, which was also produced in 2013 at Babel Theater in Beirut. Although Wannous wrote two more plays after Rituals, since his death it has become a sort of epic valedictory that has ensured his position as the most important playwright from the Arab world in the second half of the twentieth century and one of its most important writers and thinkers. Although shortly before he died Wannous spoke for himself in the often quoted line from his 1997 address on World Theater Day that gives this volume its title, one cannot help but also hear his voice in the words of Almasa, who near the end of Rituals tries to explain her desire for a new self and society to the Mufti. Almasa tells the clergyman, who has by now fallen hopelessly in love with her: “My approach to love is impossible in a place where everyone’s either a slave or a prisoner . . . I don’t want to own or be owned by anyone . . . I want to be free, to live without a brand. Around me I see nothing but trivialities. I’ve lost. It’s possible I was unable to differentiate among my desires, but I won’t retreat.” As if he himself were a product of the magically contradictory logic of Sufism he employs in the play, Wannous was an Arab writer who embraced cosmopolitanism, an Arab nationalist who relentlessly explored defeat instead of celebrating victory, and a political playwright whose most powerful ideological statement was the creation of a female protagonist doomed by an almost erotic desire for a new kind of society. Nonetheless, within the dark vision of his own society that his plays dramatize, he offers his readers glints of the hope he claims we cannot live without. Robert Myers and Nada Saab

xxviii Introduction

Notes 1. Ali Naji al-­Anezi, An Analytical Study of the Theatre of the Syrian Playwright Saadallah Wannous, With Particular Emphasis on the Plays Written After the 1967 War (University of Sheffield, UK, unpublished dissertation, 2006), 3. 2. Ibid., 4. 3. Ibid., 5. 4. Ibid., 215. 5. Edward Ziter, Political Performance in Syria: From the Six-­Day War to the Syrian Uprising (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 142. 6. Elizabeth Suzanne Kassab, Contemporary Arab Thought (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010).

AN EVENING’S ENTERTAINMENT FOR THE FIFTH OF JUNE

Characters

D i rect o r A udien ce/Spec tators (#1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7) Fem a le Spectato rs (#1, 2) C ho ru s Act o r s (#1, 2) ʿ Abda lghani al -­S ha ʿ ir W o rker s A nno u n cer M e n (#1, 2) Sm all C hi l d S ol diers (#1, 2, 3, 4) V i lla gers P easan t ʿ Al i Ma gis tr a te ʿ A bda lla h No tab les (#1, 2, 3) Yo un g M en (#1, 2) Shei kh

First published in Arabic as “Haflat Samar min Ajl 5 Huzayran,” Saʿdallah Wannous, in the journal Mawaqif, no. 3 (1969). First performed in Arabic in Lebanon and Sudan in 1970.

3

4 Plays

F a ther M e n in ʿ A bda l lah ’s Gr oup (#1, 2, 3) Yo un g W o m an ʿ A bda lra hm an ʿ Izza t A bou F a r aj Co m panion T ro upe M usi cians (#1, 2, 3) D an cer s Ol d Man Man in Sui t Arm e d Me n (#1, 2) The audience, history, government officials, and professional actors participate in this play.

■

Soon after the 1967 June War, most directors and heads of cultural institutions, more specifically governmental institutions, were, with their customary zeal, eager to confirm the significance of the institutions they headed. Governmental institutions are, after all, required to validate their existence through political events. The June War was for them but another of those political events, nothing more. A state theater invites the public to watch a play, The Whistling of Spirits, by ʿAbdalghani al-­Shaʿir. For the opening night, which is the night on which the events of our play take place, routine invitations are sent out to officials and pillars of government, in addition to refugees and third-­class citizens. In the case of these latter invitations, the status quo is best camouflaged so as to disguise its intrinsic reality. As is the case in our country, the director of the play is also the theater manager. I should add that he is an actor and an official whose presence extends well beyond the stage on which he stands and the building housing the theater. This play has no characters in the conventional sense, and the director and playwright, ʿAbdalrahman, Abou Faraj, and ʿIzzat are no exceptions. Like the other characters they are voices or manifestations of specific historical conditions. The characters have no special, individual characteristics but instead obtain these features as they sketch in the details of the general historical picture that constitutes both the form and content of the play. The auditorium is lit and so is the stage, which instead of a curtain has, hanging in front, a blackboard. On it is written “At eight forty-­five on the morning of June Fifth of 1967, Israel, a country that represents the most dangerous and harsh form of international imperialism, launched a thunderous attack upon the Arab countries, defeated their armies and occupied yet more of their land. If the attack clearly exposed the ferocity of imperialism and its lurking dangers, it

5

6 Plays

more clearly exposed the need to look at ourselves, to look into our mirrors and ask ourselves, ‘Who are we and why?’” The entertainment [referred to in the title of the play] is supposed to begin at eight-­thirty, but the time can be changed depending on the program of the theater that pre­sents it. Time passes, but no actor appears onstage and there is no indication that the performance will begin. The audience begins to complain. The sound of whispers gradually fills the auditorium, whistles come from the back seats, there are giggles, and heads turn. Another whistle, more noise and heads turn, displaying impatience. Sentences are heard. —What is this? We’re not slaves of their fathers. —What a farce! Is this a theater or a hotel? A loud whistle followed by another. —We didn’t come here to fall asleep. Whistles from different parts of the auditorium are heard. People in the audience shift restlessly in their seats. Chaos and complaints grow, but the stage remains empty and well-­lit as if it were an apathetic and wide-­open eye. This lighting may in fact be the factor increasing the discontent on the part of the spectators. —A technical error. —Like a typographical error. The perfect excuse for all kinds of nonsense. Whistle. —It could be a crisis backstage. —Or maybe the actors forgot their lines. —Whatever it is, it shows a lack of respect for the audience. —It could be an imperialist conspiracy. Laughs. —What they’re doing’s unacceptable. —You’re right. It’s unacceptable.

An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June 7

—They’re mocking us. —It’s almost nine. Voices and confusion. Complaints and expressions of discontent increase. The auditorium becomes tense as the Director enters trying to walk steadily. He is a confident and obese man. His tanned, full face reveals an almost indiscernible idiocy. He walks forward until he is directly facing the audience. He looks at the audience for several moments, appearing worried. The noise begins to subside. When there is total silence he begins to speak. D I RECT O R . (Confused) How difficult this is. Honestly, don’t misjudge us, please. If you want to call it a conspiracy, we were victims of it before you. AU DI E NCE . (From the auditorium) —What happened? —What sort of story is this? —So the play’s not going to begin? Noise gradually increases. DI RECT OR . (Loudly) Quiet, please. Quiet. I’ll explain everything, in detail . . . and faithfully. I was prepared for anything to happen this evening except what’s happening right now. We artists are generally prepared for all kinds of surprises, but this particular surprise is worse than anything I could have imagined. Suppose . . . we were suddenly deprived of our roles and had fallen into a sticky trap. No . . . I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I’m going to have to rely on your patience so that I can explain our crisis in detail. You have no idea how much we’re relying on your patience today so that we can find a way out of this crisis. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —Enough with the preludes. —Get to the point. —What’s wrong?

8 Plays

—Is there going to be a play or not? Noise from the audience. DI RECT OR . Gentlemen . . . please help me perform this difficult task. I had considerable hesitation about doing it . . . but what else was I supposed to do? Dignitaries had received their invitations and most of the tickets had already been sold. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —Well . . . so what? —So what? DI RECT OR . Quiet . . . quiet. (He wipes his forehead looking embarrassed and annoyed) Besides, you have the right to know the whole truth. Otherwise trust between us would be impossible. (Pause. He wipes his forehead again) You’re obviously aware of the difficult historical situation that we’re trying to navigate. It’s as if the earth had shaken under all our feet and we’d all experienced a bitter taste that I’d describe as dramatic. Of course I don’t want to re-­open our wounds. Our goal this evening was nobler and more elevated than to simply stir up gloomy memories. To be absolutely candid, memory is not the province of theater. It may be the province of history, but here our only province is art. Art that is at every single moment a demonstration. Ever since the “events” began, I’ve believed that our theater should not remain in the shadows. Haven’t we demonstrated at every moment, haven’t we celebrated every change? Our demonstration needs to be even more vivid and boisterous. The events that transpired around us were neither normal nor easy to endure. (Pause) At the beginning, while our daily lives and the thoughts illuminating our minds were framed by exploding shells, I dreamed of preparing an evening of readings at which we would dramatically recite poems that had emerged from the current circumstances or were related to them. (Acting begins) The lights would be dim, as if the sound of bullets were throbbing in their veins. (Lights dim, bullets are heard) The actor would move downstage like a mythic figure

An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June 9

bathed in a multicolored halo. (He is bathed in multicolored light) He would stand before you here . . . scrutinizing you. There would be music moving in waves across every inch of the stage with the sound of bullets throbbing in it too. (Music and the sound of bullets up. The spectacle onstage is awe-­inspiring) The actor would recite as if what he was saying were an explosion: “Fear is the weeping of a country we don’t even recognize.” (As he speaks, a Chorus, a group of men in dust-­colored clothes walking in unison, gather around the Director) A chorus of men with glassy eyes in dust-­colored clothes that touch the ground would ­repeat CH ORU S. (Solemnly, emotionless, with their eyes opened wide) “Fear is the weeping of a country we don’t even recognize.” DI RECT OR . Then the actor, accompanied by the sound of the chorus, would continue Time would be pregnant with grief and catastrophe Days would give birth to days That overflow with lifeless blood Menses and the offspring of insects Cadavers would putrefy Forests of grief bloom The thirsty land would drink them in CH ORU S. But fear is the weeping of a country we don’t even recognize. DI RECT OR . (Still demonstrating what the actor would do) Invaders appear Hunger emerges Plague arrives Rot and more rot erupts But fear is the weeping of a country we don’t even recognize CH ORU S. But fear is the weeping of a country we don’t even recognize. (Pause) Time would be pregnant with grief and catastrophe

10 Plays

Days would give birth to days That overflow with lifeless blood Menses and the offspring of insects The Director claps, the Chorus stops and exits. The light that was shining on the Director fades. His role as the “actor” ends. DI RECT OR . (Returns to the front of the stage) I just wanted to offer you an example of what I had in mind. However, I’ve recently realized . . . and I hope it’s just temporary . . . that you have come to despise poetry and to reject it. So I gave up on my concept, and I began to develop a project that was theatrical. You shouldn’t assume that it was an easy task. Choosing a text is always one of the most difficult and complex problems that face those who work in the theater in our part of the world. We wanted a text that would respond to the sentiments of the moment. How miserly are our libraries, or rather, I would say, how impoverished they are. Of course, before anything, I glanced at Tawfiq al-­Hakim, but, unfortunately, Hakim despises politics and couldn’t care less about war. I skimmed the pages of other writers and, for one reason or another, found them all wanting. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —You’re disparaging our entire literary tradition. —Tawfiq al-­Hakim is a great writer. —You’re belittling our talent and our heritage. DI RECT OR . No. I didn’t mean to belittle or insult our writers. Like you, I have due respect and appreciation for all of them. I’m talking about a specific situation. I was looking for a text that would respond appropriately to our current condition, but among those I read I couldn’t find one that was suitable. So I thought the best plan would be to cooperate with a writer to compose a text whose content would be inspired by recent events. I’ve done that before. I’ve collaborated several times with ʿAbdalghani al-­Shaʿir, but this time it was a mistake. Betrayal is such an unbearable blow from a friend. No, I

An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June 11

don’t want to go off on a tangent. Let me return to the beginning. The story starts in my office. I invited Mr. ʿAbdalghani to come for a visit one night, and he did. Our city was a gloomy blue and still sobbing. He moves to the left, near a wall. Blue light shines on the stage. Actor #1 enters carrying two chairs. Actor #2 follows him, carrying two framed pictures, one of Molière and the other of Samuel Beckett. Actor #2 hangs the two pictures on the wall behind the Director and exits. Actor #1 places the chairs facing one another, leaving a space between them, representing a desk. The Director sits, and Actor #1, who is here playing the role of the author, ʿAbdalghani, sits. DI RECT OR . (Trying to remember the original encounter) Welcome, it’s been quite a while since we last saw one another. ACTOR #1. (Playing the role here of ʿAbdalghani) Really. It hasn’t been that long. DI RECT OR . I was afraid you’d left town. The “real” ʿAbdalghani rises from among the spectators and walks toward the stage, shouting. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. You don’t need an actor to play me. I’m here in person. ʿAbdalghani is tall with delicate features, distinguished by a sharp, indecipherable smile that seems to cover his entire face. DIRECTOR. (Surprised) You? You’ve come in spite of everything you’ve done. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. As far as I know I’m not barred from the theater. (He goes up onto the stage) DI RECT OR . So tell me, did you get what you wanted? Look at this difficult situation you’ve put me in. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (He smiles his indecipherable smile from ear to ear. Actor #1 rises and stands aside) I thought you wanted to tell the audience about our meeting.

12 Plays

D I RECT O R . (Angrily) Exactly. That’s what I want. Sit down. (Actor #1 exits, to ʿAbdalghani) Let’s be civil to one another and tell them everything that happened. My goal was clear, wasn’t it? ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. I wouldn’t say that . . . DI RECT OR . Then have a seat. Let’s recall for this distinguished audience what took place between us. (ʿAbdalghani sits. The Director begins to play the words and actions he remembers. Smiling) I was afraid you’d left town. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Are we repeating that? DI RECT OR . Yes. From the very first sentence. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Whatever you’d like. DI RECT OR . (He repeats) I say . . . “I was afraid you’d left town.” ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . (Begins to play what he remembers) Leave town, where to? D I RECT O R . (With a suggestive smile) You know, most of our friends are scattered about in far-­flung towns or up north. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. I’ve never considered leaving, and I wasn’t particularly scared. DI RECT OR . You’re like me. My wife nagged me nonstop to go to her parents’ village, but I refused to give up and run away. (Moves his brows and shakes his head) What times we live in. We can’t sleep. We have no idea what’s going on, and things simply happen one after another. What times we live in. I was beginning to think that our whole way of life was falling apart, that the future was incomprehensible. But here we are as always, still on our feet. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —On our feet or flat on our faces. —Our feet are being ripped apart like corn husks. —Or torn to pieces from so much running. —Let’s listen to them.

An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June 13

—These comments are disgraceful. —But they’re true. —No, no one believes that. The commotion in the audience grows louder. D I RECT O R . (To ʿAbdalghani as he angrily points toward the audience) Do you like this? (ʿAbdalghani smiles, the Director rises, appearing upset, and walks toward the audience, attempting to calm its members down with his hands. To audience) You’re making our job this evening more difficult. Haven’t we suffered enough? (The commotion and whispers continue. He raises his voice) At this rate, we’ll never finish. (He claps his hands and looks toward backstage. One of the Workers in the theater enters) Set the scene. W O RKER . Right away. (Goes backstage) DI RECT OR . (Talking to people in the front row of the audience) I’m very sorry, gentlemen, but you’ll see soon enough whether I’m the one to blame. He returns to his seat. The curtain falls. Three knocks are heard, indicating that the performance is about to begin. Lights down in the auditorium. Commotion ends. Curtain rises. The stage is bathed in pale blue light except for the corner in which the Director and the playwright, ʿAbdalghani, sit. The corner is lit white. They are seated as they were before. DI RECT OR . (Returning to the previous conversation) And you? How has the time passed for you during this strange period? ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (With a grave expression) Like a cloud of sweat, commotion, and verbosity. (Smiling) I’m now able to distinguish the voices of all the announcers on the radio. DI RECT OR . In that respect we’re all the same. I still feel as if several stations are running together in my head. I meant something else by my question. I was wondering how these recent events spoke to you.

14 Plays

ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (After a pause, but still smiling) They told me to cry, but I had no tears. They told me to sleep, so I went to sleep. DI RECT OR . Who among us has not felt his heart split apart like a piece of rotten fruit? Who has not seen his tears dry up? S PECTA T ORS. —How easily they find the right words. —And how presumptuous they are. —(Sternly) Shame on you, people. Let them continue. DI RECT OR . I, however, was speaking from an artistic point of view. Events as violent as these don’t happen often. Experiencing them must have enriched your art and writing. That’s the case with every artist. ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . (Sarcastically) You’re giving me a big head. Maybe things happened as they did so my writing would be richer. Which reminds me of the story of the thirteen lines. DI RECT OR . The thirteen lines? ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Haven’t you heard it? DI RECT OR . I don’t believe I have. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Listen then. There was once a revolution that began in one of our brother countries. Many young people here were enthusiastic about it, and some even decided to travel there and take part in it. Among those who went was a young man who dreamed of becoming a writer, a political leader, or a movie star. It didn’t matter which. And eventually one of those dreams came true. When he and his friends arrived in this country’s capital, they checked in to a hotel and he went straight to his room. He removed his clothes, put on his pajamas and sat at his desk for several hours and wrote thirteen lines about the revolution. Then he left his room, amazed by his accomplishment, and read what he had written to his friends, wondering all the while whether the revolution had actually erupted so that he

An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June 15

might write those lines. And many times afterward, he read those lines, and each time he did he’d wonder the same thing. DI RECT OR . (Laughing) Your wit’s so easily accessible. Even if the earth began to tremble, you’d still be ready with a joke. This friend of yours will continue until Judgment Day to ask “What does any of this have to do with us?” The important thing is to not simply fold our arms and waste our time asking pointless questions. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Are you planning a counterattack? D I RECT O R . (Smiling) This is hardly an appropriate moment for jokes. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (Absently) Ah, so you’re planning a new play. D IRECT OR . Of course. The attack that took place provides us with a perfect opportunity to create an extraordinary piece of work. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (Appearing despondent) Do you really believe people at this moment care about seeing a new play? DI RECT OR . Do you believe it’s appropriate to ask this kind of question? Our theater is a public arena that shouldn’t just shut down and disconnect itself from current events. Theater’s vital, or at least it’s supposed to be. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Excuse me, but I think you left a sentence out: “We shouldn’t concern ourselves with what people care about. Theater is always vital, or at least it’s supposed to be.” DI RECT OR . Really? Okay. But memory’s not a tape recorder or a perfect print. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Of course, but you seemed so keen to recall our conversation precisely, that’s all. We can continue now. (Recalling) Theater . . . oh yes, theater, but its space now stretches beyond the little stage in our theater building. DI RECT OR . (Happy) See, you know how much I love working

16 Plays

with you. I admire your imagination, your ability to paint a picture filled with symbolism and passion. The work we created together in 1956 brought us all the success we could have hoped for. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. It was so easy for us to recite poetry and sing patriotic songs. D I RECT O R . Lyrics, characters, and political positions came easily. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. It was simple to let our imaginations soar. DI RECT OR . Your imagination lacks neither wings nor color. You were inspired by less significant events and still you produced quality work. I think whatever we do now . . . (Excited) we’ll need to make history vivid onstage. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Hasn’t history become weak in the knees from being so vivid? DI RECT OR . That’s why I think it’s a good opportunity. There are millions of possibilities. ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . Again, we should be grateful that current events have made our job so easy. DI RECT OR . Look, you have no right to waver. ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . (Sarcastically, bitterly) You’re not telling me what to do, are you? DI RECT OR . As a matter of fact I am. We all need to connect the links of time together, to fill in the gaps that have suddenly emerged in history. Refusing to do so, which is our responsibility, is unacceptable. It’s incumbent upon everyone to do something. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (Very bitterly) I assure you, I read every official newspaper this morning, listened to three news broadcasts and all of the commentaries. I refused to talk to any of my compatriots and proudly refused to spread rumors. I walked along the streets, looking

An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June 17

neither side to side nor straight ahead. My eyes were firmly planted on the ground. I can even describe all the paving stones on which I walked. I behaved like a good citizen, and you’re telling me what I’m supposed to do? Do you think I’m the kind of person who would neglect his duties? S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —What a farce! —Exactly! What’s a good citizen anyway? —We’re all good citizens. —Do I cease to be a citizen if I don’t read newspapers? —This is depraved mockery of us and of everything. —(Loudly getting up from his seat) If you can’t respect this place, at least respect those who are here by invitation. The noise subsides. D I RECT O R . (About the audience, shaking his head) Are you happy now? It doesn’t matter. (He pauses then resumes playing the conversation that he is recalling) We didn’t meet to waste our time telling jokes. We’ll have time for that later. What we need to do now is work as quickly as possible and produce something within a couple of weeks. I want you to roll up your sleeves and get to work because you don’t have much time. Do you understand? A few weeks, that’s it. I have no doubt your imagination won’t fail you. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (Hesitating) But don’t forget that defeat diminishes the imagination. DI RECT OR . Defeat? ʿ ABDALGH ANI. Yes, defeat. Does the word shock you? Or perhaps it has a strange ring to it? D IRECT OR . To hell with defeat. Who’s talking about that? ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. So what do you mean? DI RECT OR . What I have in mind is something about heroism,

18 Plays

not defeat. See, I’m thinking of one thing and you’re thinking of something else. Heroism, as you know, is a perpetual source of inspiration. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Especially when heroism’s a fantasy. DI RECT OR . Don’t exaggerate. I think one can always find heroism. (Pause) Even if you can’t, what difference does it make to an artist? That’s a trivial detail. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Perhaps. I’d forgotten how much you hate anything realistic. D I RECT O R . Where does one find the realistic, ʿAbdalghani? We’ve had this discussion before. We’re not here to make history or to keep regurgitating it over and over. We’re here to create, to keep art alive. ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . (Tired, sarcastically) Art! Oh yes . . . art. Excuse me. It’s only natural that things are a little confused in my head. DIRECTOR. (Smiling and pretending to be friendly) Your malice stings, but I’m used to it. I’m not going to be deterred by your jokes. Let’s put our heads together and get to work. Of course, I have a vision and some general ideas. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. I’m sure you’ve prepared almost everything. DIRECT OR . No, just a general outline. I can envision a few of the scenes, of course. The end, for example, is very clear in my mind. I could put it together right this second. It’s going to be a moving majestic scene. I imagine . . . ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (Interrupting) It’s tragic to begin at the end. DI RECT OR . (Smiling) I find the image stimulating, but you’re right. Let’s put the end aside for now. I’ll explain to you what I have in mind. I think it provides an excellent foundation for a fine piece of work. For example, I imagine the beginning without any introduction. I make the spectator part of the event. (Loudly) They’re in a war.

An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June 19

S PECTA T ORS. (From the audience) —But the war has ended. —The war hasn’t ended. —It’ll be quite a while before you see the next part. —Silence! DI RECT OR . (Ignoring the comments from the audience) Here we can rely on several effects to manifest the ambience. A terrible explosion is heard offstage. (An explosion is heard offstage) Followed by the continuous sound of static on the radio. (Static from a radio is heard) ʿ ABDALGHANI. (No longer enacting the recollection. Appearing upset, with a sarcastic smile) I thought you might do that. DI RECT OR . (Violently) I have the right to suggest scenes I’ve conceived. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. That’s a clever way of going about it. DI RECT OR . (Angrily) I’m not being clever. These are my ideas. It’s only natural that I pre­sent them in my own theatrical way. Unless you propose to deprive us of all possible strategies. If this were your play we were going to stage you could object, but I assure you it’s not. I’m just trying to undo the damage you’ve done as a result of your whim. ʿ ABDALGHANI. Oh, don’t be angry. I simply wanted to acknowledge how smart you are. (He shakes his head) It’s better to continue. This has gone on longer than I expected. D I RECT O R . Don’t worry about that. I want them to know exactly what I had planned for tonight. Then we’ll find out if I’m clever or not. (Pause) Where were we? Yes, I was saying (As he returns to recollecting) I was saying that static is heard from a radio offstage. And then there is a terrible explosion. (An explosion is heard) Air-­raid sirens are heard. (The sound of sirens) We hear the roar of planes overhead. (Airplanes are heard) The radio announcer says

20 Plays

ANNO U N CER . (Offstage) War has broken out as a result of the treacherous attack committed by the enemy in the south of our country. At eight-­forty . . . DI RECT OR . At this point the sound of sirens becomes so loud that it drowns out the voice of the announcer. A number of people enter the stage. They are disturbed and agitated, moving in various directions. (Several people enter. They are different ages and sizes. Some of them steal glances at the newspapers they are carrying. Others listen to their transistor radios. They appear confused. They move about as if they don’t know where to go) I think silence here would be the most revealing. All meaning would be concentrated in these people’s eyes. Nevertheless, some people here and there speak, saying M AN #1. (Frightened) It’s war. M AN #2. God help us. Yes, it’s war. D I RECT O R . (Continues) More people enter who appear lost, occupying all areas of the stage. Their movements become quicker and more agitated. (More people enter and their movements are quicker) Then I picture a small child entering. (A Small Child enters and does precisely what the Director describes) He doesn’t know where to go. He walks among people trying to avoid being trampled by them. When other explosions are heard in the distance and the sound of planes shakes everything around him, he looks up to the sky and bursts into tears. (The Small Child cries) Amid the chaos no one acknowledges him. Each time he hears an explosion, he places his hand on his head and takes off screaming, not knowing where to run. You see, this child could be a symbol. He could have profound significance during a peculiar period such as the one that will be represented when the curtain opens. All the disturbed people who are walking about exit the stage. As the far-­off sirens that sound like weeping rise, the child becomes more and more frightened and confused. The stage becomes completely empty except for the child, who does not understand what is happening. We have no idea how the child be-

An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June 21

came separated from his family. After long moments of confusion, he exits, extremely frightened. The stage is transformed into a profound opening from which confused and rumbling sounds emerge. Rumbling, weeping sirens, explosions. (The sounds he describes briefly occur onstage and then end. He continues) You see, I think this is a reasonable introduction that would immediately place the spectator within the action. After that . . . I’m not claiming that all the other scenes are as clear in my mind. However, we can . . . A loud, sharp voice is heard in the middle of the auditorium. SPECTATOR IN THE MIDD LE OF THE AUDI ENCE . (Sharply) What sort of fairy tales are you telling? You’re preposterous, you and your confused, silent characters. As for your child, he’s nothing more than a doll made of rags. S PECTA T O RS. —That’s no way to talk. —Good God, what kind of evening is this? DI RECT OR . (He looks toward the audience) Watch your mouth, sir, if you please. You’re not in a café. S PECTA T O R IN THE MIDD LE OF THE AU DI E N CE. What I said needs to be said, and a lot more too. What are these stories you’re trying to tell us? Have you ever seen any of these silly, spineless people? The war didn’t take place a hundred years ago. It started a couple of months ago. We all remember that morning very well. Our war, unlike other wars, was the fulfillment of an ancient and righteous desire. We all remember that morning. The streets were full of people, embracing one another, weeping in ecstasy. We didn’t walk around scared, with gloomy expressions on our faces like those sick shadows you described. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —Amen. —In our neighborhood, women ululated so much they were hoarse.

22 Plays

—What you showed us is like the way wars start in American movies. —Wait a second, sir, you’re going too far. D I RECT O R . (Agitated, whereas ʿAbdalghani’s smile widens) Actually I don’t understand why we’re having these outbursts. No one’s saying anything different from what you are. I was one of those people who wept with joy. What I’m trying to do is create a theatrical picture of the start of the war, nothing more. SPECTATOR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AUDIENCE. We lived the real picture. DI RECT OR . We all lived the real picture. I’m not claiming to be presenting a documentary of what happened. What we’re doing here is a theatrical process. You must’ve misunderstood. If you think I meant to portray people as horrified and cowardly, you’re absolutely wrong. Had you waited a minute you would’ve seen that what you were talking about was precisely what I had in mind. This is principally a symbolic picture that sets the stage for a moving ambience. What will happen later will clarify my intentions with no confusion whatsoever. Please follow what we’re doing quietly and stop interrupting us. (He looks at ʿAbdalghani and sees him smiling. He grinds his teeth angrily) What was I saying . . . (He tries to recall ) Yes . . . After that I see four soldiers in combat uniforms. The stage becomes a battlefield . . . The light on the stage turns green and opulent, filled with dust and smoke and flashes of gunfire. The Stagehands enter carrying two boards covered with mud and dirt. They set them up Right and make what looks like a trench. After that, four Soldiers in combat uniforms rush in. They are camouflaged with mud, leaves, and branches. They are carrying their automatic weapons and looking intensely about. They jump into the trench, prepare their weapons, and aim them at the audience. DI RECT OR . What I see when I imagine this scene is the soldiers becoming one with the dirt and stone and everything related to the

An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June 23

earth. They are part of it, an extension of it, its raison d’être. Do you understand what I’m getting at? ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (Sarcastically) I’m trying. D IRECT OR . I have no doubt you’re more capable than anyone else of imagining it, assuming you were following what I was saying. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (Very calmly) I was following you. DIRECT OR. (Sensing ʿAbdalghani’s sarcasm, becomes annoyed) Fine, let’s set that aside. I’m saying . . . (Acts out what he is saying) . . . the soldiers are rooted in the earth, lying in wait. The scene is heavy with silence, their solemn gazes spreading in its veins. The message in their eyes is “the enemy will not pass here.” Their features shout, “We have become death.” When the noise of the battle starts to subside, scattered words are emitted from their dry mouths, resembling the sound of choking. SOL DI ER #1. The bombing has stopped. SOL DI ER #3. I think they’re planning another assault. SOL DI ER #1. Obviously. DI RECT OR . The silence is leaden, absolute. The air of expectation is heavy with destiny, catastrophe. ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . (Disgusted) This is where I’m supposed to interject, right? DI RECT OR . Exactly. ʿ ABDALGH ANI. Ahem, I remember very well that at the beginning I was being sarcastic. I remember very well I was sarcastic. But, who knows how . . . Even now, I don’t know how . . . little by little, I began to be drawn in. DI RECT OR . As I remember it, that day you interjected to say other words. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Yes, other meaningless words.

24 Plays

DI RECT O R . The time has not arrived for you to start defending an indefensible work. (Expressing schadenfreude) We are here to talk about something else. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (Shaking his head) Fine. I admit it, you’re intelligent. Let’s let it go. (Pause. He returns to recollecting) The third soldier looks at his comrades. SOL DI ER #3. Only four of us left. SOL DI ER #2. Our fate will be the same as the others. DI RECT OR . And the fourth soldier says SOL DI ER #4. We have the bad luck of being alive after everyone else is dead. DI RECT OR . Then gunshots are heard in the distance. They become utterly silent. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. The second soldier says S O L D I ER #2. Ahmad was hoping his wife would receive this letter. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. The third soldier answers SOL DI ER #3. What about our own letters? I wonder if there’ll be anyone left to send them to our loved ones. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. And the first one says SO L DI ER #1. Since they say one’s heart knows, the beating of their own will no doubt tell them. In such moments, the lights will flicker, their hearts will add a beat, quaking like the earth, and then voices will erupt in lamentation and the ceaseless waiting will come to an end. DI RECT OR . That’s a touching line, but what I was thinking . . . (Hesitates) Is it a good thing to mix the day-­to-­day with a heroic situation such as this?

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ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. What are you trying to say? I don’t understand what you mean by day-­to-­day. DI RECT OR . I mean . . . (Hesitates) I want to say, a soldier is, as you know, primarily a symbol. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. That means he’s above regular people? DI RECT OR . And above our insignificant affairs. ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . Above sentimental relations and trivial emotions that cross our hearts. Above love, fear, worry, remorse. DI RECT OR . Don’t push this too far. I wonder . . . doesn’t the symbol become diluted if we muddle it with trivial matters? ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. What I know personally is that soldiers marry and they have children, families, and relatives. They enjoy the pleasures of life just as we do and actually have more of them. DI RECT OR . (After considering) I know, but . . . (Pauses) It’s not important. You’ll discover the best way to create the characters and weave their lives together. What I wanted to do was to give you a general idea of what I had in mind, nothing more. The rest is your area of expertise. Let’s continue. (He returns to the game of remembering the scene) The dialogue between them goes off on tangents. It’s choppy, lugubrious. S O L D I ER #1. I heard Sheikh ʿAbdalghaffar once say that one who becomes a martyr is hailed by beautiful voices in heaven. SOL DI ER #2. The white wings of doves will flutter for him. SOL DI ER #1. He will be welcomed by a lovely song. His wounds will be salved by fingers of light like healing balm. S O L D I ER #3. (He looks up, sighing) Our comrades await us. And perhaps they’re smiling. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. I think Soldier #4 will then interject and say SOLDIER #4. A plague upon all of you. If you don’t leave heaven

26 Plays

and its voices out of this, when the enemy confronts us they’ll think they’re facing butterflies instead of soldiers. DI RECT OR . I find what he said harsh in such an ethereal moment. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Are they in a battlefield or in a Sufi circle? DI RECT OR . Even so . . . I think the scene should have a spiritual dimension. Soldier #2 will answer SOL DI ER #2. Don’t blaspheme the heavens. What will we do if we’re deprived of support from above? SOL DI ER #3. In days of old, heaven rained stones of clay upon its enemies. SO L DI ER #1. Thrown by birds. SO L DI ER #4. And today stones and birds fall upon our heads. (Angrily) But I can’t understand why it’s suddenly quiet. I wonder what the bastards are up to now. SOL DI ER #1. Have you seen their tanks? They’re the devils incarnate. SOL DI ER #3. And their other weapons. It’s as if they were created by sorcery. SOL DI ER #1. (After a moment) If you add it up, our side’s laughable. SOL DI ER #2. However, we’re the wall of defense against them and their devils. Each one of us is a steadfast barricade. We’ll make them curse their ancient forebears. D I RECT O R . (Enthusiastically) That’s the way I imagine the scene more or less. A period of silence, then one of them looks cautiously about . . . (Soldier #3 looks about) . . . and sees the expanse of the earth, the stones, the trenches, the bomb craters. This place allows him to understand the meaning of loneliness.

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SO L DI ER #3. It’s as if the land were suddenly barren. SOL DIER #2. The land isn’t barren as long as we’re alive. SOL DIER #4. I wish we had some idea what was happening with the other troops. S O L D I ER #1. We’re cut off, lost. We have no orders and no means of communication. SOL DI ER #2. (Moments later) But we’re in our trenches, in our land, doing exactly what we should be doing. D I RECT O R . Another bubble of apprehensive silence hovers above them. Their eyes turn in their sockets, feverish, as if they were flames on the battlefield. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Then one of them sadly mutters SOL DI ER #3. It’s been almost a whole month since I received a letter from my family. I’d promised to go visit them for a week when I was on leave. Then things happened and all leaves were canceled. My little brother’s expecting me to bring him a toy car. SOL DI ER #1. The last time I was on leave, I got into a fight with my family, which makes me incredibly sad. SOL DI ER #2. Why did you fight with your family? SOL DI ER #1. (Sighing) It’s a long story that has to do with love and marriage. DI RECT OR . (Impatiently) Then the roar of planes is heard in the distance. SOL DI ER #4. The attack’s started again. SOL DI ER #3. The cowards. They wouldn’t dare take a single step if they weren’t protected by their planes. D I RECT O R . (Quickly and enthusiastically) I don’t know how you’ll create the dialogue between them. We’re only discussing gen-

28 Plays

eral themes now. (He performs what he then describes) Planes approach, explosions take place in quick succession, the sound of military vehicles fills the wide horizon. Tanks and armored vehicles crawl toward them like embodiments of horror. And the battle begins again. (All the sounds he describes are heard by the Spectators. The ambience of the battle fills the stage) I imagine the enormity of the attack compared to the tiny number of defenders will make a profound impression upon the audience. (The Soldiers are confused and react in an exaggerated manner. They are frantically consumed by the battle) SOL DI ER #2. (Stunned) To the right. SOL DI ER #1. Those are armored vehicles. SOL DI ER #3. The bastards. SOL DI ER #4. One bullet, one man. Aim well and let death sing its song. The Soldiers aim their weapons toward the audience. The sound of rapid firing is heard. DI RECT OR . A hellish battle begins. SOL DI ER #3. Take that. SO L DI ER #2. And that. The sound of gunfire amid the sounds of battle is almost melodic. SOL DI ER #2. Don’t forget what you swore you’d do if I died. DI RECT OR . Shrapnel rains perilously down on them. Soldier #3 collapses onto his weapon. SOL DI ER #1. (Quickly checking the bleeding body of his comrade) He’s dead. SOL DI ER #2. (To the enemy) This one’s for you. SOL DI ER #4. They’ll advance on a sea of corpses. Nothing but corpses.

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DI RECT O R . And more shrapnel rains perilously down. S O L D I ER #1. (Screaming) A-­h-­h. (He collapses at the edge of the trench) SOL DI ER #2. He’s dead. S OL DI ER #4. Oh, despicable war. Let them get a taste of how we die. Fire! D I RECT O R . Shrapnel again rains perilously down. (The other two Soldiers are killed. The firing stops. The noise subsides) I imagine them at the edge of their trench lying motionless like dried-­up screams issuing forth from an angry land that’s been defiled. You see, with light and music I’ll be able to create various meanings in a scene so vivid it’s as if it were history made manifest. The scene ends. (The Soldiers rise from their trench and exit. After a moment, the Director continues) The way I envision it, the sound of battle continues even during intermission, if there is one. I don’t want the effect on the spectators to be interrupted. I want the atmosphere to remain tense until the more comprehensive scene begins. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (Not immediately clear whether he is being sarcastic or not) So, are you completely done with the soldiers? DI RECT OR . (Surprised) Weren’t they just killed in the trench, or are you not following me? ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Of course I was following and I know they were all killed, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re not coming back. DI RECT OR . I don’t know what you’re talking about. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. I’m trying to say that even though they were killed, why not let them go on being in the play? That enriches their complexity as characters and gives the work a moving, symbolic dimension. D I RECT O R . (Slowly considering) Go on being in the play? (Continues considering)

30 Plays

S PECTA T ORS. (Overlapping, from the audience) —They resurrect the dead and kill the living. —An amusing game. —What about the ones who really were killed? Who’s going to resurrect them? —They’re alive with their Lord. DI RECT OR . (Having finished considering and now looking content, pats ʿAbdalghani on the shoulder with admiration) You see why I like working with you? They go on being in the play. A wonderful insight that no one else would even think of. It’ll be marvelous, it’ll connect the scenes and give the final image an extra punch. More importantly, it’ll provide a rationale for the internal logic and the plot progression of the play. I imagine the soldiers appearing as an astonishing and novel element in the middle of a fierce debate that, in spite of its good intentions, goes nowhere. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (His smile widens) What debate? D I RECT O R . I’ll tell you. It’s another scene. (The Stagehands carry various props onto the stage, and they set up a new scene as the Director speaks) I’m positive now that we’ll create a work that’s worth the effort. I told you at the beginning that what I had in mind is a collection of disconnected images. But with one brilliant stroke you’ve linked them all together. Next I imagine one of the villages right by the border that has awakened to the booming sounds of war and exploding bombs. A normal village, like any village in our countryside. (As the Director describes his village, the Stagehands set up a village similar to the one he is describing) Scattered houses made of mud in no particular pattern, but they are, as in all villages, gathered around a spacious square with a fountain in the middle. To the right of the square is a stone mosque with a minaret shooting up toward the sky. In this village there are peasants like those in any village, tough men whose pride and honor are as unsullied as the white kaffiyehs on their heads. As the curtain rises, the last sounds of the “call to prayer” are

An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June 31

heard, and the scene opens on men running in various directions. In the contours of their faces are the determination and concern one sees in peasants in rural areas. Among the men are little children running around who don’t understand what’s going on, and eventually everyone meets in front of the mosque. (The Stagehands finish putting together a village similar to that which is described. The “call to prayer” is heard in the distance. Silent men with expressions of worry and surprise begin to gather in front of the entrance to the mosque. Running about in their midst are Children) You see, the scene here is more general and comprehensive. Of course I don’t want to constrain you with too many of my own images and details. You know what I’m talking about. A village during a war. This part is where I imagine the plot unfolding. I don’t know how you’ll construct it, but what I care about is the specific tone and attitude. It’s a noble kind of struggle upon which a grueling future will depend. People here are presented with two options. In their small world, based on simplicity and age-­old virtues, this choice is as difficult and brutal as the war itself. I see them gathered in the square, their ears flush with the sound of the call to prayer, the mosque buttressing their backs and embracing their communion. (From the gathering comes commotion, unclear voices) Many of the children have anxious faces and questioning eyes. Their presence, which is the cause of this dilemma, lends the moment its significance, intensifying the choice these people face. As in the previous scene, it’s important that they should be cut off from the wider world. Do you agree? (The clamor in the group increases) This village is separated from the body of the homeland, but although it’s detached, it nonetheless is a symbol of it. These people, and these people alone, by the power of their own free will, must choose their own fate. Do you get what I’m driving at? ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Of course. You don’t want any cowards in your village. D I RECT O R . It’ll become clear. Cowardice has nothing to do

32 Plays

with this awe-­inspiring situation in which they find themselves. What I envision is much more profound than that. There are two options and each is completely justified. And this is the moment where the dilemma achieves its full significance. You have to understand, the war has taken them by surprise. The Villagers become animated. A series of statements by them are now comprehensible. VI LLA GER S. —God is great. —God help us. —It’s war. —It’s as if the earth were quaking. —We’re right beside the border. —We’re in the line of fire. —May God preserve us from his wrath. —May curses rain down upon them until doomsday. —The blasphemous infidels. —I was expecting their treachery would appear on a morning like this. —The roofs of our houses will be destroyed right above our heads. —Our children will be killed. —Have we started weeping like women now? —No one here’s crying. —How would you describe these words of dread? —None of us is afraid. —In our village, nobody’s afraid. —The coward will be cursed until Judgment Day. —Who said anything about cowardice? —Our dignity precedes everything. —Not one contemptible person’s ever been born in our village. —What kind of talk is this, people? —It’s better to decide things than simply give up.

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—Yes, but what should our decision be? —That’s what we’re discussing. Bullets are heard. An explosion can be heard in the distance. —Help us, Almighty God. —God is great. —God is great. (They speak in unison) God is great . . . God is great. The repeated phrase takes on a particular rhythm betraying fear, awe, and confusion. PE ASAN T . (From a distance, offstage, shouting) God in Heaven, fire, fire! (He enters and approaches the Villagers. He appears out of breath and very disturbed) God knows what’s going on. (Still out of breath) Fire, fire! May God Almighty have mercy on us. I saw the fire fill the horizon, blocking the sky with its smoke. VI LLA GER S. —Fire! —Fire! Fire! —Where? —Where did you see it? PE ASAN T . At ʿAli Naʿous’s orchard. It’s that close. ʿ A LI. You’re saying my orchard’s being devoured by flames? (He starts to run, but the other Villagers grab and stop him) Let go of me. My orchard’s on fire, my orchard’s on fire. VI LLA GER S. (Overlapping) —God preserve us. —It’s no use. There’s nothing you can do about it. —Anoint yourself with God’s mercy and calm down. —It’s in the orchard! It’s even closer than we thought! PE ASAN T . (Also overlapping) I went to my land early this morning to till it.

34 Plays

ʿ A LI. (Voice breaking, as if about to cry) Oh, my orchard! What’s left of it? PE ASAN T . (Without taking a breath) I heard an explosion and gunfire. I didn’t realize how serious it was. I thought I should finish my work quickly and then go back home, but the planes . . . oh, God give us strength . . . I looked up at them. It was as if they were angry black birds snatching the sky. My feet trembled and so did the earth under them. God have mercy on us. Who’d dare stay here after something like this? The fire. I saw it devour everything with my own eyes. ʿ A LI. It’s devouring my orchard . . . my orchard! PE A S A N T . And it’s coming this way. God have mercy on us. What are we going to do now? VI LLA GER S. (Overlapping) —Yes, what are we supposed to do? —What are we going to do? —Let’s decide quickly. —Decide what? A powerful explosion is heard nearby. Everyone is shaken by it. The knot tying the group together is broken. VI LLA GER S. —The mountains themselves are shaking. —Glory to God. —What are we waiting for? —The fire’s approaching. —Bombs are going off. —We need to hurry. —What do you suggest? —Suggestion. We need a suggestion. —Let the magistrate speak. —Yes. Let the magistrate speak.

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Several Villagers voice their support for this suggestion. The Magistrate starts to speak, but the Villagers cut him off. —Let the sheikh speak. —Yes. Let the sheikh speak. Several Villagers voice their support for this suggestion. The Sheikh appears out of the group of Villagers. —Or let the village notables speak. —Yes. Let the village notables speak. The Notables appear out of the group of Villagers. Their distinctive dress differentiates them from the other Villagers. Several people speak at the same time, and say —Let whoever has an opinion speak. —What should we do? —What is to be done? ʿAbdallah appears out of the group of Villagers. His features are rough and severe, and he is wearing a white kaffiyeh. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Do we have a thousand options? VI LLA GER S. —What do you have in mind? —The fire is approaching. —We have wives and children. —Whoever has something to say, let him say it quickly. M A G I S TR A TE . (Angrily) People, let’s discuss this quietly. If everyone speaks whenever he wants, we’ll never decide anything. VI LLA GER S. —Yes, let’s discuss this calmly. —Silence. —There’s no time to hesitate. ʿ A LI. But my orchard is on fire.

36 Plays

VI LLAGER . Soon everything will be on fire. Only God knows what’s going to happen. M A G ISTR A TE . Everyone talking at once is not going to resolve anything. We need to go about this calmly. VILLAGER . Silence. M A G I S TR A TE . (To ʿAbdallah) What do you want to say, ʿAbdallah? ʿ ABDA LLA H . It’s clear what I want, magistrate. Aggressors are invading our lands, our homes. What do you want us to do? VI LLA GER S. —We’re going to fight them. —Don’t forget, they’re more powerful than we are. —We’ll slaughter them like sheep. —Our land is dear, but our children dearer still. ʿ A B D A LLA H . (Loudly) I can smell the stench of servility and cowardice. Children run between the legs of their parents, playing games of war. One Child imitates the sound of explosions, another acts like a soldier carrying a rifle. They run after one another, and whenever they hear an explosion they laugh loudly together. VI LLA GER S. —It’s one thing to act courageously, it’s another to be annihilated. —These are all meaningless words. —Now I’m really beginning to smell the stench of cowardice. —You have no right to make accusations like that. —What’s the decision? —Valuable time’s slipping away. M A G I S TR A TE . If everyone speaks whenever he wants, we’ll never get anywhere.

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N O TA B LE #1. God help us. Can everyone please control his temper and his tongue? M A G I S TR A TE . So your opinion, ʿAbdallah, is that we should stay? ʿ ABDA LLA H . Of course, is there any other choice? VI LLA GER S. —God preserve you, ʿAbdallah. —Yes, we should stay. —We’ll make them taste death before we allow them to enter the square of our village. NO TAB LE #1. Let’s not make a hasty decision. N OTAB LE #2. What are you going to use to make them taste death? VI LLA GER . Anything I can fight with, an axe, a stick, my hand. We’ll show them how to fight like men. NO TAB LE #3. Courage is one thing, foolhardiness another. Do you want to fight a cannon with a stick? ʿ ABDA LLAH . And do you want me to give away the land I inherited from my ancestors to the first son of a bitch who attacks it? V ILLA GER S. —It would be better to die. —The only way they’ll take our land is if it’s sewn with corpses. —What are we supposed to do with our children? —And our wives? —It’s shameful for us to even think about running away. —They’re a huge army and how many are we? V I LLA GER . (In a loud voice that drowns out the commotion) “How often by the grace of God has a small group vanquished one that is mighty.”

38 Plays

VI LLAGER S. (With dread) —This is the truth God has spoken. —But why doesn’t the sheikh speak? —Yes, let the sheikh speak. S HEI KH. God, may he be exalted, tests the heart and wisdom of believers on a day like this. I cannot abandon the house of God. I will make my stand in it and await whatever he decrees for me. As for you, the magistrate and the notables of the village will lead you onto the right path. VI LLAGER S. —Why shouldn’t we stand with the sheikh? —We can’t let them desecrate the House of God. The sound of planes is heard in the distance. Deafening explosions are heard, Children scream. VI LLAGER S. —Did you hear that? —Most gracious God, have mercy on us. —What do you think we should do, magistrate? NO TABLE #1. Tell us what to do, magistrate. VI LLAGER . Yes, tell us what to do. ʿ A B D A LLA H . Be careful what you say, magistrate. Your words will become a guide for people to follow. The scene comes to a halt. Everyone in the scene becomes silent. DI RECT OR . It’s a difficult dilemma. Do you see the way I imagine things? The magistrate is not a coward. Neither are those who believe that leaving is better than staying. This situation is difficult, which means people don’t have the luxury of carefully considering the precise meaning of their words, so they quickly become divided. ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . (Smiling) A conflict between wisdom and courage.

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D I RECT O R . (Ignoring the sarcasm) If that’s how you want to describe it. Each of the positions is extreme. But they’re in a violent situation, so they don’t have time to consider things. I can imagine the magistrate hesitating and the village becoming divided into two groups, with the children running among them, shouting. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. What about the dead soldiers? DI RECT OR . What about them? Their time will come. The scene becomes animated. The Children are still playing. One Child acts as if he’s shooting a rifle. A Second Child attacks him as if he has a knife in his hand. He strikes the First Child on the shoulder. The Two Children fight. M A G IS TR ATE . (To Peasant) Did you see anything besides fire? A Man pulls the Two Children apart and scolds them. PE ASAN T . With God as my witness, I saw nothing but planes shooting through the sky like arrows. ʿ A B D A LLA H . Why the hesitation, magistrate? Our decision is as obvious as a minaret on a mosque. The enemy wants to desecrate our land and homes. Should we turn our backs on them and take off running? The division between the two groups of Villagers starts to become more apparent. VI LLA GER . May God strike us dead if we do. M A G IS TR ATE . How long can we resist? We have no weapons and there are only a few of us, as you can see. ʿ ABDA LLA H . We’ll resist until we die. That’s long enough. The Villagers divide into two groups. Some gather around ʿAbdallah. Others gather around the Magistrate. VI LLA GER S. (Group with ʿAbdallah) —We’re with you.

40 Plays

—This is how men are supposed to act. —May God preserve you. VI LLA GER S. (Group with Magistrate) —What you people are doing’s the definition of foolhardy. —We’re not going to commit suicide. —We have our future to think about. M A G IS TR ATE . We were all taken by surprise by this. We weren’t prepared for it. N O TA B LE #1. Before any of us decides, we need to carefully consider the situation we’re in. M A G IS TR ATE . In my opinion, we have to . . . ʿ A B D A LLA H . (To Magistrate, angrily interrupting) Your decision then is to run away. M A G IS TR ATE . (Angrily) I’m not running away. And you know I’m not the kind of person who pisses in his pants when there’s danger. If I were the only one involved, I’d be just as prepared as you are to stay. But I have a responsibility. I have to think about other people’s lives and protecting the women and children. VI LLA GER S. (Group with Magistrate) —Well said. —It’s better to be wise than foolhardy. —What life can we hope to have after we’ve lost our children? ʿ ABDA LLA H . (His voice rising in anger) And the land? Should we just give it as a gift to the children of people who are depraved? M A G IS TR ATE . People’s lives are more important than land. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Why should people go on living if they’re going to live the rest of their lives in disgrace and humiliation? What will we tell our ancestors in the afterlife when they ask us about the land they left us? M A G IS TR ATE . The land can be recaptured, ʿAbdallah.

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ʿ ABDA LLAH. Anyone who gives his land to an aggressor doesn’t deserve it in the first place. M A G ISTR A TE . We’re going to leave so we can come back when we’re organized and have the means to fight. ʿ ABDA LLAH. That’s how whole countries are lost. M A G ISTR A TE . We need to think about the future. We have no right to commit suicide for no reason. When our wives and children are safe, we’ll return to the battlefield better armed and with fewer burdens. ʿ A B D A LLA H . There’s only one name for cowardice. This is shameful. MAGISTRATE. Don’t be so quick to judge. You might find you’re mistaken. VI LLA GER S. (From both Groups) —It’s shameful to suggest the magistrate’s a coward. —This isn’t the moment to start fighting. —The fire’s approaching, and we’re wasting our time talking. —Well, what else would you call the magistrate’s position? —Cowardice and humiliation. NO TAB LE #2. Shame on you all. Is this how we’re going to receive the enemy, quarreling among ourselves? YOUNG MAN #1. (He is distinct from other members of the group. He stands directly facing ʿAbdallah) We know that your position is noble and manly. Were the circumstances different, it would be impossible for us to disagree with you, but look at how things are. (An explosion is heard) A devious, powerful enemy has taken us by surprise and we have nothing to fight them with. If we stay here we’ll lose all hope. We’ll be dead. If we retreat now we’ll save our children and preserve the wombs of our women. We’ll still have a ray of hope, we’ll still exist, and it won’t be the end of everything.

42 Plays

ʿ ABDALLAH. We’re supposed to hide in our wives’ laps and show the enemy our backs? Is that what you want? If I were to accept that kind of humiliation I wouldn’t even be a man. There’s nothing more to talk about. I’m staying. This is disgraceful. They attack our land and homes, and we just let them have them? If you want to go, magistrate, leave. Join the women and get going. Anybody who wants to stay should come stand next to me. We’ll teach them that the only way to destroy a man’s dignity is to kill him. VI LLA GER S. (Group with ʿAbdallah) —I’m staying with you. —Clothes alone don’t distinguish a man from a woman. —We’ll stay as long as one of us is still standing. —We’re with you to the end. PE ASAN T . I’ll teach them to set people’s orchards on fire. There is commotion during which a number of Villagers walk toward ʿAbdallah. A large explosion is heard, shaking everyone. The Children are also divided between the two groups, and their parents, the Villagers, shout at them. One of the Children tries to join ʿAbdallah’s group. His father slaps him. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. And this is where the dead soldiers will appear, I suppose. D I RECT O R . Exactly. It’s like you’re reading my mind. As the two groups become distinct, the four soldiers appear. Their faces are pale and arid, like the soil, and their eyes are wide and unblinking. They approach with heavy steps as if they were manacled shadows. ʿAbdallah shouts orders to those who have joined him. ʿ A B D A LLA H . Men, let’s arm ourselves against disgrace. Let’s find something to fight with. VI LLA GER S. —Soldiers! (Everyone looks toward them)

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—Look at the soldiers. —They look exhausted. —(To Soldiers) What is it you want? —(To Soldiers) What have you come to tell us? —Their faces are so pale. ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Furiously) What are you doing? Have you come looking for a rodent’s nest to hide in? DI RECT OR . And here . . . should we have the soldiers tell their stories? ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Of course not. They’ll smile without answering and ʿAbdallah will explode with anger. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Speak! What are you doing here? We don’t welcome deserters in our houses. ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . One of them answers in a calm emotionless voice. SOL DI ER #1. We were killed. VI LLA GER . Killed? ʿ A B D A LLA H . You’re dead? Then find yourself a hole and lie down in it. (Looking at Villagers in his group) Men, we don’t have much time. (An explosion is heard) Whoever’s decided to stay, arm yourselves against disgrace with whatever weapon you can find. VI LLA GER . What do you mean? ʿ ABDA LLA H . What’s handcuffing us is our women’s honor. We have to liberate ourselves from them and the disgrace their violation would bring. Follow me. He walks in front of his group of Villagers, leading them. VI LLA GERs . (Group with the Magistrate) —What are they going to do? —I don’t understand.

44 Plays

—His eyes are red with rage. —Could what I’m thinking actually be true? —God forgive us. S HEI KH . Most merciful God have pity upon us. I take refuge in your house and await my death singing your praises. He goes into his mosque. DI RECT OR . What an awe-­inspiring moment. ʿAbdallah and his men leave, their eyes filled with a resolve that makes one shiver. Those who stayed behind in the square look into each other’s eyes hoping what they fear will not be realized. They looked as if they were possessed. I imagine this scene to be the climax of the play. The lights fade and the sound of explosions combine with violent percussion. (What he describes takes place onstage) The space is filled with the terrifying scream of a woman, followed by another scream. Then there are screams and wailing, and the music becomes more violent. Blackbirds hover, darkest fear floats in the air. The men are awakened from their daze and they utter words of horror. VI LLA GER S. (Group with Magistrate) —(Suffocating in horror) How horrifying. —They’re killing their women. The sound of approaching planes. —What’s that? —God save us. —We should do something. —It’s unbelievable. —Horrific. —Horrific. ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Shouting furiously from behind the square) We’re no longer prisoners of the fear of disgrace. The planes begin to drop bombs. People are filled with fear.

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VI LLAGER S. —They’re dropping bombs. —Oh, God. —It’s like they’re dropping fire from hell. —Take cover. —Our own houses will fall on our heads. —Everybody take cover. —God Almighty. They disperse in horror in all directions. The bombing of the planes becomes more violent. ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . The four soldiers remain standing like tombstones in the center of the square, their faces arid and serene. Bombs fall, fires spread as the soldiers talk to one another. That’s the way the soldiers will speak. SOL DI ER #4. These bombs are napalm. SOL DI ER #1. They can melt iron. Long silence. The bombing raid continues. SOL DI ER #3. Houses are collapsing. Long silence. SOL DI ER #4. They’re really napalm. SOL DI ER #2. They make metal run like water. Long silence. The bombing becomes more intense. Pause. The sound of the planes recedes. SOL DI ER #1. The planes are leaving. SOL DI ER #2. It looks like the raid has ended. S OL DI ER #4. Their soldiers will be here soon. SOL DI ER #1. They’re advancing toward us like locusts. The planes continue to recede. Screams and shouts of lamentation. The

46 Plays

Villagers begin to come out of their hiding places. They run around in various directions, screaming, speaking indecipherably. Their gestures are chaotic and confused. VI LLA GER S. —Woe is me. —My son, my son. —The house of ʿAbdalrahman al-­Douri was destroyed. —Oh, God. —My back . . . I’m on fire . . . help! —What a horrible misfortune. —Fire! —God help us. —My family’s under the rubble. —Help me, please! —My son! —Everything’s burning down. —Hurry! ʿAbdallah appears carrying a hunting rifle. His face is blue with fury. He approaches the Soldiers. ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Choked with anger) I’ll teach them, those sons-­ of-­bitches. I’ll show them. SOL DI ER #4. They’ll be here soon. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Let them come. I can’t wait for them to arrive and then we’ll see. A Father, one of the Villagers, enters carrying his small son in his arms. The Boy is moaning, his face disfigured by the napalm. The Father walks around as if stunned and then approaches ʿAbdallah. FA THER . Look, ʿAbdallah. Look what they’ve done to my son. Should we stay here and watch our children burn? Look at his face. He was the picture of beauty. You know what he looked like before. He was the picture of beauty.

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He cries uncontrollably. ʿAbdallah’s face is flushed with rage. M A G IS TR ATE . (Offstage) Take what you can carry, people, and let’s leave. SOL DI ER #4. They’ll really be here soon. SOL DI ER #1. They’re advancing toward us like locusts. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Let them arrive then before my heart explodes. V I LLA GER . (Passing through the village square) No, we can’t waste time searching through the rubble. M A G IS TR ATE . (Still Off ) Everybody, come over here, people. Let’s all come together. Three Men from ʿAbdallah’s group approach with somber faces. Their hands and clothes are stained with blood. One of them carries an axe. The other two carry hunting rifles. They stand near ʿAbdallah. They speak calmly and sadly with a tone of choked rage. M A N F R O M ʿ A B D A LLA H ’ S GR O UP #1. I killed my wife, ʿAbdallah. M AN F R OM ʿ ABDALLA H’S GROUP #2. I killed my two young daughters, ʿAbdallah. M AN F R O M ʿ ABDA LLAH’S GR OUP #3. I killed the women in my family. ʿ ABDA LLA H . (In a breaking, trembling voice) I know . . . I know . . . I killed the ones in my family even more quickly. Don’t smell their blood. We need to fuel our fury instead of squelching it with grief. Our backs are to the wall. Let our anger boil up like raging seas. We hid the honor of our women within the folds of death. Our despair will drive us to charge the enemy like wounded bulls. When are they going to arrive? SOL DI ER #4. They’ll arrive soon enough. SOL DI ER #3. They really will arrive soon.

48 Plays

ʿ ABDA LLAH. (Furiously) I’m waiting for them. The impatience is killing me. V I LLA GER S . (They gather on one side of the square carrying nothing more than fear and cries of lamentation) —What about the corpses? —Woe is me. —God have mercy on us. —Let’s think about the living. —My mother is dead. —God rest her soul. —What good will crying do? —Oh, merciful God, your wrath is horrible. —We’re all in this catastrophe together. —The fire is raging in al-­Dargham’s house. —It’s spreading to the other houses. —Let’s save ourselves! A Young Man, #2, enters with a Young Woman over his shoulder. She is screaming in pain. YO U N G M AN #2. Her body was like a tree in full blossom. Look what it’s turned into now. FA THER . And my son, look at his face. He was the picture of beauty. YO U N G W OM A N. (Moaning in pain) I’m dying. YO U N G M AN #2. (Frightened) I’ll carry you until the end of the world. I’ll save you. I won’t let you die. I’ll save you. VI LLAGER S. (Overlapping) —Woe is me. —Look down upon your servants and be merciful. —Things are spinning around. I’m going to collapse. —Lord in Heaven, be merciful. ʿAbdallah looks at them with eyes flushed with pain and fury.

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M A G IS TR A TE . It’s impossible for us to stay, as you can see. We’ll ask for God’s guidance and move on. SOL DIER #3. Yes, move on. VI LLAGER S. (Their statements are mixed with sobbing, moaning, and the crying of Children) —What about my family? Should I leave them under the rubble? —And what about the fire? —And the wounded? What about the wounded? —What’s going to happen to us? —What horrible sin have we committed? M A G IS TR ATE . (In a loud voice) Stop hesitating. Let’s salvage what’s left and leave. SOL DI ER #1. It’s true. Don’t hesitate. SOL DI ER #4. It’s true. Don’t hesitate. SOL DI ER S #2 and #3. It’s true. Don’t hesitate. VI LLA GER S. (Overlapping, mindlessly) —Our land. —Our families, our homes. —Our beloved land. SOL DI ER #4. We will stay where we are. SOL DI ER #2. We’re not leaving the land. SOL DI ER #4. We’re not leaving any of the land. SOL DI ER #1. We’ll not allow the houses to remain empty. SOL DI ER #3. We’ll stay here until you return. S OL DI ER S. (In unison) Until you return . . . we will dwell in all the land, in all the houses. M A G IS TR ATE . (Surprised, enthusiastically) You’ll stay here and guard the land and our houses until we return. SOL DI ER S. (In unison) We will.

50 Plays

M A G IS TR A TE . You’ll prevent them from settling here and destroy their peace of mind. SO L DI ER S. (In unison) We will. M A G IS TR ATE . You’ll fill their sleep with terror and their nights with nightmares. SOL DI ER S. (In unison) We will. M A G IS TR ATE . (Enthusiastically) Excellent. (To the Villagers) Did you hear that? They’ll stay here and wait for us to return. The houses won’t be empty, and the land won’t be deserted. We’ll place our trust in God and depart with peace of mind. (To ʿAbdallah) And you, ʿAbdallah, you and your men should come with us. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Us, leave? M A G IS TR ATE . Don’t be so stubborn. ʿ ABDA LLA H . We have no one left worth preserving. M A G IS TR ATE . You have something more precious than what you’ve lost. ʿ ABDA LLA H . The futility is too heavy a burden for us to carry. We’ll stay with the soldiers. Don’t waste any more time, magistrate. You should leave. M A G IS TR ATE . That’s your final word? ʿ ABDA LLA H AND HIS GROUP OF ME N. (In unison) We have nothing more to say, magistrate. M AG IS TR ATE. Then may the grace of God be with you. Let’s embrace. The Magistrate embraces ʿAbdallah and his group of Men one by one. He moves toward the Soldiers and hesitates. SOL DI ER #4. I wish we could embrace. Crying is heard.

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M A G IS TR A TE . May God rest your souls. S OL DIER S. When you return . . . M A G ISTR A TE . Farewell. (To the Villagers) Let’s leave with the blessing of God the Merciful. (Women and Children cry) D I RECT O R . (Movement is slow, emotionally moving. Everything he says is acted out in scene and sound. As he acts, his voice trembles) And they begin their journey. Flocks of defeated people on the march, carrying their grief and anguish with them. Their walk, accompanied by the sound of sad funeral music, is excruciating. These are the people of napalm. They have become napalm itself. Little by little their chaotic movement becomes synchronized and its rhythm rises out of the somber music. While napalm disfigures bodies, it purifies the mind and will. (Pause) They leave carrying their grief and anguish with them. Their voices, in barely audible whispers, resemble the chanting of camel drivers. The rhythm of the somber music intensifies. As the people of napalm walk along, dragging their wounds with them, they clear a direct path toward a future free of defeat. Music becomes louder and harmonizes with the chanting of the marching group. Curtain comes slowly down. (He rises abruptly from his chair and walks downstage and faces the audience. A light shines on him as he moves. ʿAbdalghani remains in shadow. To the audience) That was my idea for this evening. ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . (Looking down, in a low voice) And I shook my head. There is no dialogue between the Director and ʿAbdalghani. As each of them speaks he addresses the audience and ignores the other. Their speech overlaps at times and is discontinuous at others. Whenever ʿAbdalghani speaks, the Director appears annoyed. DI RECT OR . He promised he’d think about it. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. I made fun of the idea at first.

52 Plays

DI RECT O R . He hesitated for a while and then he accepted my concept. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. I remember quite well, at the beginning I made fun of it. DIRECTOR. He wrote The Whistling of Spirits based on my idea, which is the play you’ve come to see. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (Rises quietly and walks downstage and faces the audience. He stands in shadow, with a somber expression, speaking in a sorrowful tone) That’s what happened. I accepted the idea and created The Whistling of Spirits based upon it. DI RECT OR . I admit it. The play he wrote based on my idea is good, though it has less focus on heroism than I was hoping for. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. But who knows how . . . I don’t know even now . . . (Pause) When cataclysmic events occur in our lives, we assume everything will change as a result. The Earth will lurch uncontrollably in space, people’s lives will be altered, their psyches turned upside down. DI RECT OR . He took his time writing it, days, and then weeks, but he finally wrote it. ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . (Continues to speak in a calm, somber tone) After one of the bombing raids I went out and walked in my neighborhood. I felt a shiver as I saw everything where I lived still standing in place as it always had. People talked to each other about the same topics and went about their lives, doing what they’d done before. Streets continued to wind lazily between the houses. S PECTA T O R. (From the audience) We were following the orders we received from higher up. D I RECT O R . (Raises his voice to suppress any other noise) He handed in the play, and we immediately started working on it.

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ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . I hesitated about writing the play for a long time but then I thought, “Maybe I’m wrong.” The newspapers didn’t change their columns, the writers used the same words. As for people’s thoughts, they continued as before, unaltered by the bombing. D I RECT O R . We worked night and day for three weeks. We wanted our evening to be as momentous as the events we were living. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Maybe I was wrong. I grabbed my usual lexicon and started putting words together. D I RECT O R . You have no idea how much effort we expended preparing to put on this play. He’d come every day with more corrections. We never complained, even when one of the actors almost had a nervous breakdown. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. My words! (He shakes his head and raises his voice) I smelled them as they lay on the lines of the pages. They had a smell that reminded me of the vaginas of prostitutes. I may be wrong. Other people can’t perceive the smell of these words and use them now just as they did before, without suspicion or unease. DIRECTOR. The treacherous blow came today. I’m covered with sweat every time I remember what happened. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. The smell was foul and unrelenting. It was as if I were throwing garbage in people’s faces. That’s how I felt when I put my words together. DI RECT OR . You may not believe it, but that’s what happened. Even in these extraordinary circumstances, in a country like ours where theater is still a novel art form, Mr. ʿAbdalghani al-­Shaʿir came to the theater just a few hours before the evening started and said he absolutely refused to allow the play to be presented. Imagine the audacity, him coming here and threatening us with every conceivable kind of nonsense.

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S PECTA T ORS. (From the audience) —Good for him! —So that’s what happened. —It’s an old story. Whistles are heard coming from the back rows. —There’s no doubt about it, they’re toying with us. DI RECT OR . Gentlemen . . . Ladies and gentlemen (He tries to calm the commotion with his hands) ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Yes, that’s what happened. Suddenly I awoke as if from an extended daze and said to myself, “One shouldn’t speak when his breath stinks.” DI RECT OR . We tried so hard and beseeched him but it was no use. Oh, what a day that was! It was a rotten thing to do. A total disregard for art, for the audience, and the cause for which we struggle. Our theater knows how to avenge itself. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (Shaking his head, ready to return to his seat in the audience) I have no doubt it does. DIRECTOR. I just wanted you to know the whole truth, to understand what kind of predicament I found myself in today. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (While returning to his seat) There’s no way of knowing whether one’s breath stinks or not until you stop speaking. DI RECT OR . We were like people on a sinking ship trying to save whatever we could. We worked frantically for the few hours we still had left and prepared the scenes you just saw. Certainly there were missteps, and we didn’t achieve the artistic level we’d hoped for, but now you know the disturbing circumstances surrounding this evening. What you saw, which we also hope will serve as our humble apology, was a mere glimpse of what we intended. Now you understand what our circumstances and plans were. (A few Stagehands enter carrying chairs and music stands. They place them upstage

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left) Try not to be harsh with us. What you saw wasn’t everything, of course. You deserve something additional as compensation. I’m referring to some joy and entertainment. The set of the village is still here onstage. The empty square calls to mind our ancient festivities. In this very same village square, our folk group will now perform peasant songs and dances. In the place of heroism, we will now have happiness and nostalgia. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (From the audience) All’s well that ends well. S PECTA T O RS. —That’s a predictable solution. —Finally, something entertaining. —It’s all an old story. DI RECT OR . Gentlemen . . . Ladies and gentlemen . . . (He waits until the commotion subsides) I won’t keep going on and give you more of a headache. Once again, I beg your pardon and wish you an enchanting evening with our peasant songs and dances. Lights change on the stage. Upstage to the Left where the chairs and music stands have been placed, Musicians take their seats and begin to tune their instruments. ʿAbdalrahman rises from a seat in the rear of the auditorium. He is a man from a rural area wearing khaki-­colored baggy culottes and a dark blue jacket. He is wearing a white kaffiyeh with a black headband. His features, though humble, reveal a coarse determination. Toughness rises in his eyes like the black rocks that make up a mountain. His voice is unassuming and clear. Although he hesitates, he seems to know what he wants to say. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . (From audience) Glory be to God. What’s the name of this village, honored sir? Heads turn toward him. Beside him is his son, a young man named ʿIzzat, who pulls ʿAbdalrahman by the sleeve to try to force him to sit back down.

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S PECTA T ORS. (Laughing as they comment) —The same old story. —Who knows how this evening’s going to end. —We were doing history. Now we’ve moved to geography. DI RECT OR . (Having begun to exit the stage. To ʿAbdalrahman) What was it you asked about, sir? ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. (Leaves the row he is in. His son, ʿIzzat, still trying to stop him) I was asking, honorable sir, what the name of that strange village was. S PECTA T ORS. (Simultaneously) —He wants to know the name of the village. —Its name and location. —He’s walking toward the stage. DI RECT OR . Its name? What kind of question is that? ʿ IZZA T . (Embarrassed, still pulling at his father) What are you doing, father? You can’t do that. ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. Why not, son? There’s no shame in asking a question. ʿ IZZA T . (As they approach the stage) They’ve honored us with an invitation to this evening of entertainment. There are people of stature here. It’s not appropriate to . . . ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. Of course they’ve honored us with their invitation. I just want to know the name of the village we just saw. Who said asking a question is shameful? By asking I’ll learn more, and learning leads to enlightenment, ʿIzzat. DI RECT OR . This is not one specific village, uncle. It is one of our villages. It’s all our villages. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. Excuse me. Perhaps you can disprove what I’m saying. My education doesn’t come from school. When I was a child there were no schools. As you know, it’s different nowadays,

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honorable sir, but one would think you’d know this village just as well as the people who actually live there. And perhaps you were even there when these momentous events took place. DI RECT OR . Was I there? (Sharply) Uncle, this is just a story. S PECTA T O R. (From the audience) A fictitious story. ʿ ABDALR AHMAN . Honorable sir . . . D I RECT OR . (Interrupting him angrily) Don’t call me that. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . (Still using a humble tone) Forgive me. I am an ignorant peasant, and I don’t know the proper way to speak. How should I address you? D I RECT O R . Say, “mister,” or whatever you want, uncle, but we’re pressed for time. Can’t you hear the music? We’re trying to proceed with the program. What you saw was just a story, and stories, as you know, are different from reality. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . So you don’t even know this village or the people who inhabit it? D IRECT OR . Of course I don’t know. It’s not a real village. (Pretending to be polite) Uncle, let’s be done with this discussion. It’s inappropriate to keep our guests waiting. We need to proceed with the program. Musical instruments begin to play in harmony. The soft sound of the music begins to take the form of a mijana, a traditional folk song. Several variations of the song are played as it continues in the background. ʿ IZZAT . Let’s go back to our seat. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . (Not moving) A story that is different from reality? That’s quite confusing. ʿ IZZAT . (Pulling his father) This is inappropriate, father . . . ʿ ABDA LR A HMAN . (Looking at his son, he speaks sharply) You

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think I’m senile or something? It’s gotten to the point where you’re now telling me what’s appropriate? Gentlemen, if what I’m suggesting is clearly illogical, just say so directly to my face. My God, when I saw what we just saw, tears came to my eyes and I thought I was looking at our village. (Looks behind him at the audience) Abou Faraj, doesn’t this remind you of our village? A B O U F A R A J . (From a rear seat) Let’s not go into all that, ʿAbdalrahman. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . Come and look closely. You’d swear it’s our square even though our fountain’s closer to the entrance to the mosque. A B O U F A R A J . (Sighing) Yes, by God, it reminds me of our square. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . It must be empty now. We’ve lived a long time and seen many things, Abou Faraj. On nights like these when the moonlight is as bright as day, an evening in our square is something unforgettable, honorable sir. Fatigue ceases to exist, worries disappear. We . . . (He goes up to the stage, confidently, as if he knows precisely what to do) D I RECT O R . (Protesting) Where are you going? What do you want? ʿ IZZA T . What are you doing? ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . (Continues walking, ignoring them) We would gather every evening during the summer and sit around the fountain and amuse ourselves with conversation. Had you visited us even once, honorable sir, you’d want to visit us all the time. True, it’s just a village, but it’s actually more like a summer resort. (To Abou Faraj) I wonder when we’ll be able to return and spend an evening in our square, Abou Faraj. ABO U FAR AJ. Don’t add to our pain. God is all merciful.

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ʿ IZZA T . (Follows his father onto the stage) Father. ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. Excuse me, honorable sir. Excuse me, audience members, if what I’m doing is inappropriate. We are among those who left their village and, I swear to God, it looks just like this village. Ours was called Kafr ʿAzouz. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it. Come up here, Abou Faraj, come. I don’t understand everything, but if I’m not mistaken . . . ʿ IZZA T . (Embarrassed) Let’s get down, father. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . (Angrily) You’ve gone too far, ʿIzzat. You’re my son, and you’re ordering me around? Did I raise you to disrespect me like this? See, Abou Faraj, our children now interrupt us when we speak. If we were still in our square such a thing would never happen. A B O U F A R A J . (Rises and approaches the stage) What hasn’t changed since we left our square? ʿAbdalrahman, Abou Faraj, and Other Men take the stage as if by force. Their interruption of the evening of entertainment, though apparently reluctant, is determined. The tone of their speech is self-­ assured in spite of the objections of the Director. D IRECT OR . Uncle, this is unreasonable. You’re disrupting the program. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . Honorable sir . . . D I RECT OR . (Interrupting) Are we back to honorable sir? ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . Pardon me, mister. Anger’s the work of the devil. I’m an old man who doesn’t know how to speak, so don’t be so hard on me. We are some of the people who left their houses and all their belongings behind. We are just like those we saw here leaving their village. (Sighing) But the difference is profound. (To Abou Faraj) Did you see how orderly they were as they fled, Abou Faraj? ABO U FAR AJ. (As he approaches the stage) Yes, with God as my witness, I saw . . .

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ʿ ABDALRAHMAN. I’ve always said people from our region aren’t organized and never will be. We lost our voices trying to coax them to be even a tiny bit disciplined. ABO U FAR A J. Praise God for protecting us and our honor on the journey. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. Praise God every minute and every second. But on that day I never believed we would reach our destination until we actually arrived. ABO U FAR AJ. Each of us had his own opinions. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. Each of us had his own needs. The dialogue between ʿAbdalrahman and Abou Faraj is like the narration of a story divided between their two voices. It is more like a monologue than a dialogue. ABO U FAR AJ. And the women! ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . Deficient in intellect and the ability to understand. This one wants to go back because she forgot her son’s shirt. That one didn’t remember whether she closed her window or not. After we walked for three hours, Zaynab Amina wanted to return to see if the window was closed. After that it was impossible to convince her to shut up and keep walking. ABO U FAR A J. (Onstage now. The Director walks angrily toward him, but he continues speaking without hesitation) Umm Muhammad Ghazala, an old hag, kept grumbling and wailing about a brooding hen she’d left behind, and if I hadn’t slapped her and forced her to go on she’d have certainly returned to the village. D I RECT O R . No . . . You’ve gone too far. You’re abusing our patience. What do we have to do with these silly stories you’re telling, with any of this? ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (From the audience, to Abou Faraj and ʿAbdal­ rahman) It’s wonderful. Go on.

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S PECTA T ORS. (From the audience) —We want to hear their stories. —What kind of theater is this? —These are peasants, not dancers. —Go on. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . (To Abou Faraj) This gentleman here is screaming at us. ABO U FAR AJ. No one wants to listen to us. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . We’re strangers, Abou Faraj. ABO U FAR AJ. And we don’t own anything. ʿ A B D A LR AHM A N . People don’t trust strangers who don’t own anything. DI RECT OR . (Trying to control himself ) Please, uncle, can we all go back to our seats? ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . Glory be to God, are we saying something shameful? (Pause) True, at present we’re strangers and we own nothing, but we used to have a village just like this one. (Points to the set) And then, on a steaming hot day, God ordained that we should abandon it. They continue their monologue at a rapid pace and in a determined manner, drowning out the Director, who tries in vain to intervene. The melody of the music changes and then subsides. Gradually ʿAbdalrahman and Abou Faraj become the focus of everyone’s attention. ABO U FAR AJ . (To ʿAbdalrahman) Do you still remember? My God, the earth was scorching hot. The sun was so strong it bored holes in our heads. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . You couldn’t restrain anyone. It was completely chaotic.

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ABO U FA R A J . Each person wanted to do things his own way. One woman wanted to stop and tend to her son. Another man stayed behind, sitting under a shade tree. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . Women were wailing and men making wagers on how long our journey would take. A B O U F A R A J . Children around us were screaming, fighting with their fists. And then their parents started fighting too. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. It’s true. They almost slaughtered each other over a couple of boys fighting. ABO U FAR A J. And Muhammad ʿAli Dabba, he and his donkey were a story in themselves. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. Goddamn misers and greed. A B O U F A R A J . He placed every scrap of food on his donkey: flour, oil, cracked wheat, his clay pot full of salt, even a bottle of cooking gas. He didn’t leave a thing behind. ʿ ABDALRAHMAN. We could see the donkey was carrying a heavy load and wouldn’t be able to walk for very long before it collapsed. ABO U FAR A J . And a few meters later it fell. Muhammad ʿAli Dabba was furious and began cursing. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. We told him it was wrong to carry everything he had in his house, the load was too heavy. ABO U FAR AJ. He screamed in our faces and said, “What business is it of yours? I didn’t break my back to buy food for the soldiers.” ʿ ABDALRAHMAN. He and his wife tried to divide part of the load the donkey had been carrying, but their exertion and the scorching heat soon exhausted them too. ABO U FAR A J . Then he put all the food back on the donkey, but it collapsed again. He went through such agony until he was finally able to accept that it was wrong to try to take everything he had in his house with him.

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ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. He began throwing away his food. It would have been easier for him to pull out his own teeth or rip his hands off than to throw his food onto the ground. ABO U FA R A J . At the end, all he had was the clay pot full of salt. He was so furious we were afraid he’d rub the salt in his eyes. ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. But suddenly he started kicking his wife and the donkey. ABO U FAR AJ. If it hadn’t been for our intervention and his exhausted legs, he would’ve killed his wife and the donkey. In the end he burst into tears and didn’t say another word for the rest of the journey. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . It was a black day, and we’re still living it. A BOU FAR AJ. We were sure Abou ʿAli al-­ʿIzzati would go mad. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . He was wailing like a woman, but he was lamenting his own destruction. He reminded everyone of the money he’d loaned them. ABO U FAR A J. He took the Qurʾan of Sheikh Jaʿfar and asked those who’d borrowed money from him to swear they’d pay him back, even if it took years. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . Some of them swore and others refused. White foam started coming out of his mouth, and his eyes looked like pools of blood. At several points people fought so much that we almost ignited a brawl among ourselves as we tried to escape another kind of fire. ABO U FAR AJ. How easy it is for men to fight one another, and how difficult it is to reconcile afterward. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . (Sighing) There was no way we could control people and maintain order. ABO U FAR AJ. As we went on, other groups joined us, with the adults and children among them screaming too. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . The village of al-­Takharim, the village of al-­

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Kafr, the village of al-­Ruwaysa, the village of Bani ʿIzz, they were all abandoned by their people. There were traffic jams of terrified people moving along narrow roads in rugged terrain. ABO U FAR AJ . Each group told the same stories and transported with it the wailing of its women. ʿ A B D A LR AHM A N . They described what had happened, but there was no way of knowing which parts of it were true. They recounted prophetic dreams of terrifying things. ABO U FA R AJ . The dream of the sheikh of al-­Takharim was the most accurate and arresting. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. May God save us, it was as if the dream were real. God’s blessing rest upon the Prophet, the sheikh saw the wide majestic world as if it were a beautifully colored plate crafted of straw. As he stretched out his hand to touch the plate, it was scorched by a sizzling fire, and he saw innumerable knots of worms wriggling about on the plate. He was astounded and said, “We only see these kinds of worms on cadavers.” Then there was a scream as loud as thunder, and, terrified, he heard a voice telling him, “Look at the world, sheikh, and see what it’s turning into.” He said, God forgive us, “I saw the plate unravel, but it was neither a plate nor was it made of straw. It was a speckled snake the length of a rope, coiled around itself.” God shelter us with your mercy. The worms began to fall into deep pits, screaming like human beings, “Mercy . . . mercy!” ABO U FARA J . By God, I heard him with my own ears say, “The worms began to scream like human beings, ‘Mercy . . . mercy.’” ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. We too were screaming, “Mercy . . . mercy,” and we still are. DI RECT OR . (As if waking from a daze, screaming) Can we be done with this already? I don’t want to be rude, but enough of this. Go back to your seats. The music becomes louder, a long rendition of a traditional folk song.

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A B O U F A R A J . Everywhere we went, we were met with sharp tongues. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . And frowning faces. ABO U FAR AJ. We didn’t know where to go or what was happening around us. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . We had left our houses and fields at harvest time, right when the shafts of wheat had ripened and our scythes yearned to slice them. ABO U FAR A J. Oh, when I recall that scene my heart feels as if it will burst open like a fig. The Director, finding no way to intervene, is annoyed. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . We worked hard for a full year. (To ʿIzzat) We did toil and sweat in our field, didn’t we, ʿIzzat? ʿ IZZA T . (Shyly) Yes, we did, father. ABOU FARAJ. We tilled the land, we sowed the seeds and tended it as if it were our own child. When spring arrived, the fields awoke wearing green, as if dressed for a feast. It would have been a bounteous harvest. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . It’s been years since the land was so generous with us. Did you see how the shafts swayed under the weight of the spikes, ʿIzzat? ʿ IZZAT. Yes, I saw them. But what good does it do us now, father? We’re far from our fields now. ʿ ABDA LR A HMAN . Very far, and we don’t know why. ABO U FAR AJ . What happened? What’s happening? It’s so puzzling. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . Praise God, the world takes harsh turns, Abou Faraj, but there’s no way to fathom its fluctuations. We sharpen our scythes to harvest our wheat and suddenly war breaks out.

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ABO U FA R AJ . War breaks out in our part of the world, but no one thinks about us, or tells us what to do. ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. Had the war been the same as it was in the past, things would have been a little easier, but the nature of war has changed. It’s become confusing, and one doesn’t know where one stands in it. ABO U FAR AJ . Yes, by God, what we knew of war was very different from this one. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . No sooner had one of our wars with al-­ Takharim ended than another war broke out. Even though we finally reconciled, some of those wars are still talked about to this day. Isn’t that correct, Abou Faraj? ABO U FAR AJ . Yes, by God, how different that was. Men would gather behind their leader, descend into the valley carrying clubs to face the enemy approaching them from the other side. ʿ ABDALRAHMAN. One would challenge the enemy with a shout and the war would begin. Men would face men, clubs would crisscross, striking one another. How clear things were then! ABO U FAR AJ. But now . . . DI RECT OR . (Interrupts angrily) This is the height of stupidity. You’re turning the theater into a farce. It was a silly idea for me to have invited you. They look at him calmly and sadly, appearing unaffected by what he has said. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —That’s shameful! —They have the right to speak. —It’s the same old story. —That’s a harsh tone you’re using.

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ABOU FARAJ. (Continues from where he left off ) But now there’s nothing but machines, ones that fly and ones that don’t. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . Praise God. There’s a thunderous roar, fire, and then you’re completely disoriented. A B O U F A R A J . The sky bursts open and the earth begins to tremble. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . When a war like this erupts, you have no idea what’s going on, and the only thing you can do is lock up your house and flee with your family. ABO U FAR AJ. We left without a clue where we were going. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . When we arrived in other towns we’d find their people had already fled. DI RECT OR . Wow, what a day! We didn’t invite government officials here so you could annoy them with your stupid stories. A B O U F A R A J . On the burning roads, we encountered many s­ oldiers. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . They looked confused, exhausted, their uniforms drenched in sweat. ABO U FAR AJ. Like us, they had no idea what was going on. D I RECT O R . No . . . we’re not spending the night listening to your insanity. At this moment a Man in Suit sitting in the front row of the auditorium turns his head and looks at the rows behind him. He makes gestures with his hands, and a number of Men, whom we later discover are armed, rise from their seats in the dark and approach him. He whispers a few words to them and immediately some of the Men walk to the theater exits while others take positions in the corridors of the auditorium.

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ʿ IZZA T . (Maintaining the same tone as before the Director’s outburst) Right, even the soldiers didn’t know what was happening. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . Some of them told stories so absurd they seemed like lies. God in heaven, one of them swore that enemy soldiers had wings and could fly like hoopoes or skylarks. A B O U F A R A J . Another one said that enemy soldiers weren’t human. They were machines made of metal that walked and talked and fired bullets without missing a shot. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . When we asked other soldiers about these stories, they laughed and said they were on their way back from the front without even seeing the enemy. ʿ IZZA T . We saw other soldiers weeping with the grief of defeat. ABO U FAR AJ. Yes, by God, they were weeping like women. ʿ I Z Z A T . They’d been defeated and, like us, they had no idea what was happening. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . And we saw others without a care in the world. They were laughing, having a good time, firing bullets aimlessly. ABO U FAR AJ. They were taking bets on hitting stones and tree trunks. DI RECT OR . (Shouting) This farce has to stop. S PECTA T O R. (To his Companion) Did you hear that, they left the front to fight stones and tree trunks. C OMP ANION. They were carving their victories on them. DIRECTOR. (As if he’s found the right moment to explode. Threatening) You’re talking about the soldiers too? Don’t you know that our soldiers are more courageous than any soldiers in the world? One of our soldiers is worth a hundred of any other nationality. What’s more, he’s worth a thousand scum like you.

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S PECTA T OR. It’s not appropriate for you to abuse them. ANO THER SPECTA TOR. Do you want us to applaud? D I RECT O R . (Looking angrily at the audience) Gentlemen, you’re just adding to the chaos instead of helping me restore order. (Talking to the people in the front row, using a gentler tone) I don’t know how to find the appropriate words of apology. I’d rather that the theater had collapsed than to have come to a farcical moment like this, but you can see that I’m not amused by what’s happening. (He looks at the Peasants onstage) Shut your foul mouths and return to your seats. (Looking at the musicians, he claps his hands) Let’s begin. Music rises. A folk dancing group, an entire Troupe, enters and its members take their places onstage. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . (Continuing with the same humble and persistent tone) Praise God, are we lying, Abou Faraj? A B O U F A R A J . May God cut out our tongues before they’re touched by a lie. But don’t forget, we’re strangers who own nothing. ʿ I Z Z A T . (Sadly) Let’s go back, father. There’s no place for us here. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . They want to sing and dance, ʿIzzat. ʿ IZZA T . Yes, to sing and dance. DI RECT OR . Can’t you understand what I’m telling you, or do you prefer we use force? What a charade. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (From the audience) Go on, this is something my feeble imagination couldn’t even have dreamed of. DI RECT OR . (Grinding his teeth) I can see the pleasure you feel at my misfortune. S PECTA T O RS. —Let them speak. —What a good time to sing and dance.

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—The enemy’s just a stone’s throw from here, and he’s putting on a show with dancing and singing for us. ABO U FAR A J. That’s all that’s missing, ʿAbdalrahman, for us to join in the dancing and singing. Two Spectators rise and attempt to leave the theater. They return, saying the following lines to one another in a low voice. S PECTA T O RS. —He says we can’t. —Why not? We want to leave. —I never heard of anything like it. —In this part of the world you have to be prepared for any sort of bizarre thing to happen. —I knew this evening was not going to end well. The word “Prohibited” can be heard whispered among several Spectators. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. At least they treat apes worse than this. ʿ IZZAT . We are apes, who have neither land nor dignity. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. Did you have any idea we were coming to an evening of dancing and singing, son? ʿ IZZA T . I had no idea, father. I think we should just go back to our tents. D I RECT O R . Exactly. That would be the best thing for you to do. Go ahead. ABO U FAR A J. To our tents, which shelter us neither from the cold of night nor the heat of the day. ʿ IZZA T . We have no right to complain. As they keep telling us, it’s not as if we were living in palaces before. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. But at least we had houses with foundations and roofs. And in the corners of the houses the scent of our ancestors.

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ʿ IZZA T . Our houses are far from here, and our fields are even further. ABO U FAR AJ . The wheat . . . DI RECT OR . The two of you are demonic. Is this broken record ever going to end? ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. Will it simply wither on its stalks? ABO U FAR AJ . God knows. ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. Or will it be harvested by men who neither tended it nor sowed the seeds from which it sprouted? ABOU FAR AJ . God knows. ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. If we dare to ask someone higher up what’s going to happen to our wheat, they’ll either respond with fury or laugh in our faces for being feeble-­minded. ABOU FARAJ. They tell us, “Do you think your harvest is the only thing we have to worry about?” ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . And they tell us, “You and your wheat can go to hell.” ABO U FAR A J. What do you expect, they neither tended it nor sowed the seeds. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . (Pause, sighing) Praise God, if only we knew what was going to happen to our harvest. ABOU FARAJ. How could we? No one answers our questions. No one tells us a thing. Our questions pile upon our tongues like thistles from so much repetition. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . It’s as if we’d been walking about blindfolded since that day. We can’t see a thing and we know nothing. ABO U FAR AJ. Wherever we go we’re met with contemptuous tongues and scowling faces.

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ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. Every morsel of bread we eat is kneaded with scorn. ʿ IZZA T . Being a beggar would be better. A B O U F A R A J . Yes, by God, being a beggar would be better, ʿIzzat. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. It’s true, at times we did go hungry in the village, when no rain fell, and the land was barren, but no one trampled on our dignity. ABO U FA R A J. But what dignity do we have now? We told them, “Hell would be better than living like this, but they spat in our faces.” ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. (Choked up as he cries) I wish I’d never been born. How wretched my life is. My God, being laid in my grave after having had my face spat upon. ʿ IZZA T . (Tenderly, sadly, holds his father’s arm) Let’s go back, father. D I RECT O R . (Walking toward ʿIzzat) You’re a sensible young man. Please lead them off the stage and let’s be done with this. ʿIzzat looks at him with a blank expression. A B O U F A R A J . Yes. That’s how things go with people who flee their village on a scorching day. Diseases diminish our numbers and insults are our daily bread. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. Because we are strangers and we own nothing, they think we have no feelings. ABO U FAR AJ. That’s how things go. Both returning and remaining here are impossible. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . Questions that have no answers pile up in tents that provide no shelter from the heat and cold. ABO U FAR AJ. What’s going on? What’s going to happen?

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The Director is impatient. He gestures to the Musicians. Folk music begins. The Dancers start to dance. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . And people around us sing and dance. ABO U FARA J . That’s how things go with people who flee their village on a scorching day. S PECTA T O R #1. (Rising in the middle of the audience. He is stocky, wearing eyeglasses. Angrily) Why did you leave? (Changing his tone) We understand what you’ve been through. To suffer as you have is not easy, but why did you leave before the war even began? ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . Why did we leave? ABO U FAR AJ. They’re asking why we left. ʿ IZZAT. (As if to himself ) The meaning of the question’s obvious. And it’s not the first time we’ve been asked. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . (As the Spectator who just spoke approaches the stage) Praise God, if they’d been in our place they’d have left too. What else were we supposed to do? DI RECT OR . (Seeing the Spectator, he speaks to him, trying to stop his approach. Angrily) No, sir, please. This is chaos. It’s intolerable. The theater has limits that must be respected. S PECTA T O R #1. (Calmly) Allow me. There are questions that must be raised. D I RECT O R . No. No. Raise them somewhere else. We’ve had enough interruptions for one evening. S PECTA T O R #1. I understand what you’re saying, and I know that spectators generally hide their tongues behind sealed lips, but as you can see, despite your attempt to keep things in place, the pus has burst from the boil and we can no longer ignore it. D I RECT O R . (Angrily) What bursting? What boil? It’s already chaotic enough without this uncivilized behavior. Please go back to

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your seat. (To the Peasants onstage) You go back to your seats too. You’ve blathered on more than an entire city. We have a schedule to follow. S PECTA T O R #1. Don’t try to cover up what’s already been exposed. Some essential questions have been raised. It’s beneficial and important that we follow up on them. DI RECT OR . These questions aren’t essential. They’re trivial and insolent. Enough, sir. The troupe is ready. I’m embarrassed already by my guests’ imminent rebuke. S PECTA T O R #1. Is everything that’s happened to us nothing but insolence and trivialities? D I RECT O R . Don’t try to drag me into the discussion. You’re wasting time just like these other people. Could you return to your seat before the audience loses its patience, and that way you’ll have a better view of our marvelous folk dance. The Troupe is still attempting to perform. S PECTA T O R #1. (Raising his voice) You and your folk troupe. The shame of it! You think there’s nothing on our minds except when the dancing and singing will begin? You and your whole group should move to a country that has no problems and entertain people there. As for us, we’re in a country that has refugees living in tents and people who’ve fled their villages without knowing why. Do you hear me . . . The boil burst and your folk song won’t stop the pus from oozing. (He walks upstage toward the group of Peasants) Yes . . . I’m asking you, why did you leave your village? DI RECT OR . (Surprised) What is this? What is this? Where are your manners? So now we don’t even have control of our own stage? The music plays out of tune and stops, and then the dance Troupe stops dancing. S PECTA T O R #1. (Looks at the Director, unconcerned) Why

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don’t you try being a spectator just once, and that’ll teach you where you’re living. DI RECT OR . Great . . . after this evening I’ll have no choice. S PECTA T O R #1. Leave us alone and listen. (To the group of Peasants) Ignore him. I’m asking you again, why did you leave your village? Director is speechless, as if stunned by the Spectator #1’s commanding tone. He glowers with confused eyes, looking about blankly. ʿ IZZA T . (As if lost in thought) It’s the same question that’s traveling from tongue to tongue. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . Praise God. What were we supposed to do? Stay after the war started? S PECTA T O R #1. Why weren’t you able to stay? ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . (Confused) Because . . . Because the war started. ʿ IZZA T . How would you know you’re supposed to stay when a war starts? DI RECT OR . (Again he attempts to intervene. With a softer tone) Brothers . . . (The Peasants and the Spectator pay no attention) A B O U F A R A J . No one offered any guidance. We didn’t know what to do. ʿ ABDALRAHMAN. We listened to the radio, and we didn’t understand what it was saying. S PECTA T O RS. (From audience) —That’s assuming what’s on the radio made any sense. —(To those onstage) We’re all like you. S PECTA T O R #1. (Onstage with Peasants) And yet you knew people from outside were attacking your country. That, at the very least, was obvious.

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ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. A war started. That’s all we knew. ABO U FAR AJ . And it was a different kind of war. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . Things didn’t use to be so confusing. They weren’t like mysteries that swirled around us. Before, when we reconciled with the village of al-­Takharim, the situation was different. One of the leaders of our village would rise and speak to us. He’d explain to us what the people of al-­Takharim had done in simple language and we’d understand what he said. “Listen, people of Kafr ʿAzouz. . .” that’s how he would address us . . . “The people of al-­Takharim attacked our women who were gathering wood. They took their sickles and forbade them to cut wood. That’s an insult no honorable man can tolerate. It’s completely unacceptable. What do you think, in the end the decision is up to you.” ABO U FAR AJ . God knows, we’d be women if we accepted that. ʿ ABDALR AHMA N. He’d then shout, “Let each of us grab a stick and go down into the valley and see if the men of al-­Takharim think our women have no men.” We’d shake our sticks and roar angrily. Then we’d descend to confront the people of al-­Takharim. We were not cowards, and didn’t tremble in the face of war. (To Abou Faraj) Were we frightened by war, Abou Faraj? A B O U F A R A J . God forbid. We never fled and our hands that held the sticks never trembled. How different things were. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . Now no one gathers us together, no one comes to us and explains what has happened. Did anyone come to see us? DI RECT OR . Brothers . . . No one onstage listens to him. The others’ conversation continues. ABO U FAR AJ. No one visits poor people like us.

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S PECTA T ORS. (From the audience) —Don’t forget about internal security. —And the tax collector. ʿ IZZA T . (As if daydreaming) One evening a real man came to visit us. He greeted us and said he was hungry. ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. You always bring up that visit. ʿ IZZA T . Is it a visit one can forget? (His eyes sparkle, as he tenderly and simply re-­creates the man’s visit) He was a very simple man and didn’t say much, but when he did what he said would astonish you. He knocked on the door and came in. He became one of us almost immediately, as if he were a relative or a neighbor who’d come for a visit. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . He ate our food and water and blessed it. ʿ IZZA T . He came carrying a rifle. He came from far away. Even though exertion had left wrinkles on his face, it was clear what he wanted. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . He carried a gun, but he wasn’t wearing a uniform, and he didn’t look like a soldier. ʿ IZZA T . Soon he became one of us. He said he was a peasant too and liked the smell of sheep and grass and mud-­covered paths. He told us how his home had been stolen by invaders filled with hate who’d come from overseas. He said for years he’d been prevented by political leaders from taking revenge. “They impoverish us so we’ll feel impotent,” he said. “They inflict humiliation upon us, so we’ll remain powerless.” What he said was clear, and he knew what he needed to do. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . “Whoever’s had his house stolen should go look for his house.” ʿ IZZA T . “Whoever prevents me from searching for my house is in league with the thief.”

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ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . “We have to keep our eyes open wide because the thieves are many.” ʿ IZZA T . “And the number of those who protect them is greater than the thieves themselves.” ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. “Those who make us poor and hungry, who turn us into animals, who can’t tell east from west, who govern us by inflicting humiliation, all of these are among the many who protect the thieves.” ʿ IZZA T . “How rare are righteous judges.” ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. “The most righteous judge is someone whose rights have been stolen and struggles resolutely to regain them.” ʿ IZZA T . And he touched his gun as if it were his only child, and we understood everything he had said. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. Like a soldier, he carried a gun, but he wasn’t a soldier and he wasn’t wearing a uniform. ABO U FAR AJ. Exactly, I remember you told me the story of this marvelous visitor. ʿ I Z Z A T . (As if still daydreaming, passionately) He was a real man. Though his look was severe, his eyes were as clear as a spring. With him one had the feeling life could change from one day to the next. One evening he passed like a cloud. I felt drawn to him and wished I could be his comrade and his shadow. He said he’d come back again if the hate-­filled thieves did not kill him on one of his missions. And he never came back to visit us. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. And no one else visited us either. ABO U FA R AJ. And no one told us what we were supposed to do. S PECTA T O R #1. (Harshly) That man told you what to do. ʿ IZZA T . It was just one man, who only visited us once, and he never came back. He passed among us like a cloud.

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ABO U FA R A J . Even so, we’re the ones to blame, ʿAbdalrahman. ʿ ABDALRAHMAN. My God, it was a war. And war’s no longer the way it used to be. What is it they thought we should do? S PECTA T O R #1. Stay on your land and defend it. S PECTA T O R. (From the audience) Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh? DI RECT OR . (Sharply) Brothers . . . A BOU FA R AJ . Would it have been possible to stay once the war started? S PECTA T O R #1. Why wouldn’t it be possible? I know peasants and poor people in faraway lands who are being attacked by powers far superior to those who attacked us. What do you think they’re doing? S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —He’s talking about the Vietnamese. —The Vietnamese are a world away. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . What do we know about faraway lands? S PECTA T O R #1. Then listen now and hear what the peasants and the poor do in that faraway land. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN and A BO U F ARA J. (In unison) What do the peasants and the poor do in that faraway land? S PECTA T O R #1. They stitch themselves to the earth. They extend their roots into the ground. They turn stones into devilish weapons and the earth itself into serpents. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N and A B O U F A R A J . (In unison) Stones into devilish weapons and the earth into serpents! S PECTA T O R #1. They die by the hundreds, by the thousands, but their land remains their own. They make the most powerful country in the world quiver with fear.

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S PECTA T ORS. (From the audience) —He’s talking about the Vietnamese! —(A group, in unison) The Vietnamese are a world away! ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . They do all of that without anyone telling them what to do? A B O U F A R A J . And without knowing what’s going on around them? ʿ IZZA T . (Still as if in a daydream) If only other men had visited us. If only that man had come back. S PECTA T O R #1. Everything you said is not a justification for having left your villages before the war even started. S PECTA T O R #2. (From the audience) That’s just pretentious talk. Spectator #2 leaves his seat and walks toward the stage. DIRECTOR. And you’ve all exceeded the limits of basic decency. S PECTA T OR #1. Who’s the one who called what I said pretentious talk? DI RECT OR . (Sees Spectator #2 walking toward the stage) And where do you think you’re going? S PECTA T O R #2. I did. SPECTATOR #1. What did you find pretentious about it? They’re as responsible as anyone for what happened to them. DI RECT OR . (Explodes as Spectator #2 goes up onto the stage) Where do you think you’re going? Where are you going? Has the theater turned into a public square? Have you all forgotten where you are? You’re piling insolence on top of insolence. All of you are vomiting up what’s in your minds for us. This isn’t an exhibition to display your physique or to show how intelligent you are. (To the Troupe Members) Begin. (The Troupe Members hesitate and look at one an-

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other in confusion) I said, “Begin.” They’ll go on kneading words like dough all night if we let them. (He claps) Let the music begin, loudly. (The Musicians, like the Troupe Members, are hesitant. Arbitrary, dissonant notes are played) Music . . . Give me the best music you’ve got. After a short period the instruments begin to play in unison a loud folk tune for a dabke, which is a folk dance. The Troupe begins to dance. Of course, the presence of others onstage limits their movements. DI RECT OR . Gentlemen, enough is enough. Leave the stage to the troupe. Go back to your seats. The folk tune has a warm, clear rhythm. The Troupe now comes together, focusing on the dance. ʿAbdalrahman, Abou Faraj, and ʿIzzat look at the group with blank stares. All we see in these stares are shadowy hints of deep sadness. For a brief time, Spectators #1 and #2 focus on the dancers. Then suddenly anger appears on the face of Spectator #1. The Troupe moves toward him. He screams at them. S PECTA T O R #1. Stop . . . (When he speaks, the rhythm of the dancing of the Troupe becomes discordant) DI RECT OR . No. S PECTA T O R #1. This is shameful. (The Troupe Members, confused, stop. The music also becomes arrhythmic and stops) This is disgraceful. How can you dance? How can you agree to dance? MEM BER OF TROUPE #1. (In a measured tone) This is what we’re paid to do. MEM BER OF TROUPE #2. (In a measured tone) We’re doing our job. DI RECT OR . (Agitated, speaking over Member of Troupe #2) No, continue. (To Spectator #1) I’m the one who gives orders here, not you. S PECTA T O R #1. (Ignoring the Director, walking toward the

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Troupe, responding to what they’ve just said) That may be, but what we’re talking about concerns you too. MEM BER OF TR O UPE #1. Don’t forget, we’re employees here. And this job is how we earn our living. MEM BER OF TRO UPE #2. (To fellow Troupe Members) Dance. S E V ERA L MEMBER S OF TR OUPE. Dance. MEM BER OF TROUPE #2. Don’t dance. S E V ERA L MEMBER S OF TR OUPE. Don’t dance. They resume the positions they were in when they were dancing rhythmically. S PECTA T O R #1. This is disgraceful. D I RECT O R . Exactly. Disgraceful. All that’s left is for you to throw us out of the theater. S PECTA T O R #2. Be reasonable. We have the right to speak too. DI RECT OR . I’m being unreasonable? (Violently) No, you have no right to speak. This stage is ours. And the seats in the audience are yours. That is basic logic. S PECTA T O R #1. As I told you before, try just once to be a member of the audience. That will teach you quite a bit about the things you don’t understand. A Man and a Woman walk toward the exit of the theater. M AN F R OM A UDIE NCE. (Whispering) This wasn’t even worth leaving the house for. DI RECT OR . You’re giving me orders too? You’re about to make me lose my temper. I’m the master of this place. Do you understand? I’m the one who gives the orders here. S PECTA T O R #1. (Angrily) What about us? Do you think we’re puppets in your hands? You squeeze us into a tiny hall, close the

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doors, shut the windows, turn off the lights, and then force us to watch the idiotic and delusional follies of your imagination. DI RECT OR . (Approaches, as if preparing to attack) Enough is enough. S PECTA T O R #1. Exactly. Enough is enough. Stop interrupting us. S PECTA T O R #2. At least these men have the courage to show us their wounds. The Man and Woman from the audience go back to their seats, exchanging the following remarks, in low voices. This takes place as the dialogue onstage continues. W O M A N F R O M THE A U D I E N CE . Oh, good, so we have to stay here too. M AN F R OM THE A UDI EN CE. Lower your voice. W O MAN F R OM THE AU DI ENCE. Why, are we in the theater or in prison? M AN F R OM THE A UDI EN CE. Who knows, let’s sit down. The word “prison” is heard whispered by a number of audience ­members. S PECTA T O R #1. Now that something real has finally emerged and we’re beginning to discuss our actual situation, you offer up a presentation of singing and dancing. S PECTA T O R #2. Is singing and dancing going to hide people’s bitterness and suffering? SPECTAT OR S. (From the audience) —He wants to celebrate victory. —He already celebrated it backstage. —It’s the same old story. SPECTAT OR #1. We told you we don’t want singing or dancing.

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S PECTA T ORS. (From the audience) —We don’t want them. —It’s quite enough that the enemy is singing and dancing. Director is confused. He appears frustrated, looking back and forth between stage and audience. —Why shouldn’t we enjoy ourselves a little? —Go have fun with the enemy. —We should continue the discussion. DI RECT OR . But . . . S PECTA T O R #1. We’ll continue our discussion. We have the right to spend the evening the way we want. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —It’s our right. —Exactly. —And why not? Is the end going to be imposed on us just like the beginning was? DI RECT OR . (Confused) But . . . S PECTA T O R #1. (Quickly, to the Director) If you want, you can join the discussion. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —He doesn’t discuss. —He gives orders. Whistling is heard from the rear seats. DI RECT OR . (At wit’s end, as if he’s about to explode) Discussion and palaver are not part of our program. S PECTA T O R #1. Then put them in the program and listen. S PECTA T O R. (From the audience) He’s in charge of this place. DIRECT OR . Yes, I am . . .

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S PECTA T O R . (From the audience, interrupting the Director) Calm down and let them talk. DI RECT OR . Unbelievable, incredible. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —Calm down. —You’ve annoyed us enough. DI RECT OR . (Extremely irritated, not knowing what to do. Walks toward the Troupe) In our entire artistic careers, have we ever encountered something like this? Troupe Members look at him with blank stares and do not respond. S PECTA T O R #1. (To Spectator #2) It’s useless. Forget about him. Let’s go back to the question. S PECTAT OR #2. (Focusing on Spectator #1) What question? S PECTAT OR #1. What was it you found pretentious in what I said? S PECTAT O R #2. Uh . . . my train of thought was interrupted. (Pause) Right . . . (Looking toward Peasants onstage) I don’t understand why you were so harsh with them, unless you were expressing your own bitterness that you’re trying to bury. S PECTA T O R #1. Bitterness, rage, slow suffocation. I have all of it myself. However, I’m talking about something beyond that. If we’re going to continue this game of justification, it would be easy to find the justification for any kind of act. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . (In a low neutral voice) They’re talking about us, Abou Faraj. ABO U FAR AJ. Yes, they’re talking about us. S PECTA T O R #2. If justification is a game, then condemnation is a game as well. The question itself is a game. Didn’t you hear what they said? Their situation and circumstances are clear. With simple

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words they have excavated the truth on which our lame existence stands trembling. They dug it up and threw it in our faces. It is a complete truth beyond interrogation and beyond games of accusation. S PECTA T O R #1. The truth does not preclude responsibility. If the people of one village had stood their ground many things would’ve changed, but before the war even started they fled from their homes and left unpopulated land, houses and cities with no people, to the enemy. This fact is also a significant truth. It reeks like dirty armpits. S PECTA T O R #2. It would be naive to expect anything else from them. You heard what they said. Their words were as clear as the shadowless light of day. The wars they had experienced were clubs striking one another and petty parochial antagonisms. They are secluded in their faraway villages. No one visits them, and they have no idea what’s going on in the world around them. They live with poverty, ignorance, and a long tradition of suffering and humiliation. How can you expect anything else from them? ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. (In a low, neutral tone) They’re talking about us, Abou Faraj. ABO U FAR AJ. Yes, they’re talking about us. S PECTA T O R #1. Those other peasants were poor as well. Those other people also went hungry as the bombs burned their rice. S PECTA T O R. (From the audience) The Vietnamese! SPECTA T O RS. (From the audience, in unison) What do we have to do with the Vietnamese? S PECTA T O R #2. But the Vietnamese are not strangers in their own land and they’re not living on isolated islands. They’re not dispersed and identified by numbers in worn-­out registries. S PECTA T O R #3. (From the audience) They’re also not insects slithering along the ground like worms or scurrying about like ants.

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Spectator #3 moves out of his row and goes up the aisle and stands right in front of the stage. S PECTA T O R #4. (From the audience) And they’re not beasts who feed on grass and desperate hopes. Spectator #4 moves out of his row and goes up the aisle and stands right in front of the stage. DI RECT OR . (Stunned. To the Members of the Troupe) Do you see this? They’ve gone way over the line. We’re not putting up with this. The Spectators explode in conversation. They are drawn into the discussion and the unfolding action. They quickly abandon all reservations and begin discussing issues in an uncontrolled manner. Everyone onstage and in the theater appears surprised by the actions of Spectator #3, Spectator #4 and a number of other Spectators, who leave their seats and walk up the aisle and stand in front of the stage. A mood of concern and anxiety pervades the theater. S PECTA T O R #3. (Continuing in a sharp, violent tone) In Vietnam, people believe peasants and the poor have value. S PECTA T O R #4. There, peasants and poor people own their land. S PECTA T O R #3. They extend their roots into the ground because the land’s their own. S PECTA T O R #4. They fuse with the soil because they have an identity. S PECTA T O R #5. And because they know they have an identity. D I RECT OR . (Aghast) It’s getting worse by the second. SPECTATOR #3. Their leaders don’t travel about in armored cars. S PECTA T O R #4. And they don’t have palaces with cannons sticking out the windows and balconies converted into guard towers.

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S PECTA T ORS. (From the audience) Oh, some dangerous things are being said. SPECTA T OR #5. They know how to operate and how the world operates around them. S PECTA T OR #3. They learn under fire. S PECTA T OR #5. They learn in the fissures of the land. S PECTA T OR #4. Their teachers are not con artists who deceive them with sham information. S PECTA T OR #6. And they don’t have trivial, stupid newspapers and radio broadcasters who spread lies. SPECTATOR #5. They’re not ignorant and they’re not merchants devoid of morals. S PECTA T O R #2. (Pointing toward the Spectators who were just speaking, he speaks to Spectator #1) See, the difference between here and Vietnam is even greater than the distance. You, like everyone else, heard them describe the circumstances of these peasants. They’ve had to endure a miserable exile caused by events much larger than they are, which took them completely by surprise and which their naive minds couldn’t fathom. They’re discarded, ignored, no one gives them or teaches them a thing. No one remembers these people even exist until someone decides to take advantage of them. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. (In a low, neutral tone) They’re talking about us, Abou Faraj. ABO U FAR AJ. Yes, they’re talking about us. ʿ IZZA T . Teachers did come to the school in our village. A different one came every year. There was Mr. Abdalhafiz and Mr. Muhammad and Mr. Ibrahim. But none of them wanted to stay and live with us. ABO U FA RA J. We gave them the best place to live in the village. We were generous with them. We shared everything we owned.

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ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . We invited them to our houses and welcomed them into our gatherings. We showed them the same respect we showed the security forces. ʿ I Z Z A T . (Absentmindedly, sadly) But none of them liked our houses or enjoyed our company. They hardly spoke to us and cursed whoever had sent them to us. They’d ask those with influence to help arrange a transfer and they’d always leave. ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . (Trying to continue) Once . . . S PECTA T O R #1. (Interrupting sharply) These are trivial details and aren’t worthy of mention in a discussion about the calamity in which we’re living. S PECTA T O R #2. If ignorance is a mere detail. S PECTA T O R #3. And poverty is a detail. S PECTA T O R #5. Exile is a detail. S PECTA T O R #4. Daily humiliation is a detail. S PECTA T O R #2. Then what is essential? S PECTA T O R #1. (Eagerly) The essential thing is that a ravaging army declared war on us, transgressed our borders, and discovered our country was lying in front of it with legs spread wide. The peasants ripped themselves from the land as easily as they’d take a piss and took off running. How about a little pride, a little instinctive pride? No . . . if we want . . . It’s always easy to find a way to deny responsibility. They’re responsible. Every single person is responsible. S PECTA T O R #2. It’s also easy to assign blame. It’s much easier than trying to understand. S PECTA T O R #4. (Sharply, to Spectator #1) What about you? What in God’s name did you do? Where were you then? I suppose you only eat twice a day, nothing but bread and onions. And after lunch you read theoretical books about revolution and the people,

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and then take a relaxing nap, and drift into a reverie about them. Am I wrong? The Spectators in front of the stage go up onto the stage. The auditorium and audience members in it now resemble a conference hall with people milling about. A Man in Suit in a front seat signals to one of the guards at the door and mouths a few words to him. Other Men spread out in the auditorium. Once again, one of the Spectators attempts to exit the theater but returns, saying several times, “How strange, how strange.” In the meantime, the dialogue continues onstage without interruption. D I RECT O R . We have to do something. We have to do something. S PECTA T O R #1. (Harshly, as if releasing suppressed anger) Yes, that’s me. One who reads theoretical books about revolutions and the people, and chews on rosy dreams. I’m like these peasants. That’s the way I look at things. I see myself in the fact that they fled their village. I see you. I see us all. We are the act of running away. That’s what I think about. I see my reflection in them. It’s myself I’m attacking in the mirror. I’m touching my own shame in the mirror. I’m responsible. You’re responsible. We’re all responsible. No one can hide from responsibility. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —We’re responsible? —What he said is true. —This is a fruitless discussion. —It’s as if he’s appointed himself the judge of history. —A variety show of sketches with singing and dancing would be better than a never-­ending discussion. —Why are we responsible? S PECTA T O R #3. We are all responsible. S PECTA T O R #2. (Distracted, mechanically) Are we actually responsible?

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S PECTA T OR #5. (Like an echo) Are we actually responsible? S PECTA T OR #1. (With the same harsh tone he used before) It’s a question for which the answer is beyond dispute. S PECTA T OR #4. We’re all responsible? That’s one of those extravagant pronouncements one utters that’s nothing more than hot air. S PECTA T O R . (From the audience) Others commit the errors, and we suffer the consequences. DI RECT OR . (At a loss) What about the fact that the evening’s been ruined? Who else is responsible besides you? S PECTA T O R #2. (Still distracted) So we’re being accused? Are we actually responsible? S PECTA T O R #5. (Like an echo) Are we actually responsible? S PECTA T O R #2. (He starts abruptly, as if he has suddenly had an idea. He is thoroughly agile as he acts out what he says. To Spectator #1) You say it’s a mirror . . . Fine, let’s have a mirror right here in front of us. (Outlines the rectangle of a mirror in the air with his finger) We’ll place it here in front of us. A huge mirror that’s large enough to reflect our image no matter how high up we are. We’ll have a good look into its entrails. (He looks about at everyone) In order for us to acknowledge responsibility, don’t we have to actually be here in the first place? To have an image in the mirror? Fine, are we here? S PECTA T O R #3. That’s a vital question. Are we actually here? S PECTA T O R #1. The vital question is not whether we’re here. It’s the way in which we’re here. S PECTAT OR #2. Don’t be so quick to answer and don’t avoid what is the most important question. S PECTA T O R #1. (Violently) Let’s admit it, we’re running away. We’re avoiding the smell of something foul that’s spreading among us.

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SPECTATOR #2. Before we start judging ourselves it’s important that we understand who we are. Here’s the mirror. (Again outlines the rectangle of a mirror with his finger) Come, let’s come ask it who we are. (Spectators #3, #4, #5, and #6 participate in the pretense, acting as if they are actually looking into a mirror) Let’s take a good look into its entrails. Let’s look in the corners and ask ourselves who we are. S PECTA T O RS #3, #4, and #5. (In unison) Who are we . . . really? S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) We are a defeated people. S PECTA T O R #2. The question existed before we were defeated. Defeat did nothing more than blow the dust off it. (He returns to the pretense of looking into a mirror) We stare into the mirror and insistently ask its polished surface, “Who are we?” We look into the entrails, the corners, at the very bottom. That is where we need to stare intently. (After a few moments, he suddenly starts and gestures to everyone that the game of pretense is over) Don’t weary your eyes. You’re not going to see anything. There’s nothing in the mirror. No face, no form. S PECTA T O R S #3, #4, and #5. (Like an echo) There’s nothing in the mirror. S PECTA T O R #2. Nothing at all. But do you know why? S PECTA T O R S #3, #5 and S PECTA T O R S I N A U D I E N CE . (In unison) Why? S PECTA T O R #2. Because our forms have disappeared. They have been erased. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —Forms that have been erased. —Forms that have been erased. S PECTA T O R #2. Forms that were erased by national interests before they could come into being. I’ll tell you how that happened. S PECTA T O RS #4, #5, and #6. How did it happen?

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S PECTA T ORS. (From the audience) —What are you talking about? Be careful. —It will cost a lot more to speak than to stay silent. S PECTA T O R #2. (Continues, unconcerned) It happened year after year. That’s the way it happened. (He engages in a new game of pretense. He speaks as if giving orders) “Don’t speak! Your tongue will seduce you. Words are traps. For the sake of the national interest, cut off your tongue.” SPECTATOR. (From the audience) Cutting off your tongue leads to the safest result. S PECTA T O R #6. So we cut off our tongues. S PECTA T O R #1. Why did we cut off our tongues? S PECTA T O R #2. If we hadn’t cut off our tongues . . . Don’t forget the national interest includes jails into which sunlight never enters. S PECTAT OR #4. So . . . We are millions of cutoff tongues piled one on top of another in closed mouths behind latrine doors that are sealed shut. D I RECT O R . (Out of his mind) See . . . See what point we’ve gotten to. The scenes that follow become more communal, with rhythmic overlaps. S PECTA T O R #2. “Your ears may be seduced by voices trying to lure you into traps, but for the sake of the national interest, listen only to what we tell you.” THE GRO UP . (Which from now on includes Spectators #3, #4, #5, #6 and others in the audience. In unison) And we covered our ears to everything except what they told us. S PECTA T O R #1. (Very angry) And why did we cover our ears? THE GR O UP. If we hadn’t covered our ears . . . Don’t forget the national interest includes jails into which sunlight never enters.

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S PECTA T O R #4. So . . . We are millions of covered ears into which the same words and shrill phrases are screeched. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —You can say the same lies. —The same absurdities. —The same idiocies. DI RECT OR . Terrible . . . What’s happening here’s terrible. Dialogue is rapid and continuous. Spectators’ interruptions are sharp and abrupt. S PECTA T O R #2. Ideas seduce you. The mind is a trap. For the sake of the national interest throw out your mind. THE GR OUP . And we threw out our minds. S PECTA T O R #1. Why . . . Why did we throw out our minds too? THE GR OUP . If we hadn’t thrown out our minds . . . Don’t forget the national interest includes jails into which sunlight never enters. S PECTA T O R #4. So we are millions of minds tossed into the corners of rooms, onto lifeless sidewalks, into barren hinterlands. S PECTA T O R #2. And the same can be said about curiosity and noses and eyes. S PECTA T O R #4. Don’t ask questions. Let them die in your mouth. S PECTA T O R #5. Don’t look around you. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. DI RECT OR . This is the scandal to end all scandals. S PECTA T O R #2. A question is a trap. A glance is a trap. A sniff is a trap. What remains of an image in which the tongue, nose, eyes, the very medium of thought have all been erased? S PECTAT OR #4. All that remains is a pale silhouette in which you can’t discern detail or form.

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S PECTA T OR #2. This is how we exist. Let the mirror go up. Let’s stare into its corners, into its very bottom. Nothing there but the pale silhouette of the backside of the national interest. DIRECTOR. In my theater, these horrific words are uttered? This is the scandal to end all scandals. S PECTA T O R #1. It’s not right for a people to be reduced to faded shadows. S PECTA T O R #2. And yet that’s the only right they still have. S PECTA T O R #4. Of course, there’s also going to cafés, praying, black tea, tobacco, backgammon, cards. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —And hashish. —And wailing songs. —And reproducing. S PECTA T O R #3. These are just some of the means they use to ensure the only right we have is to be nothing but faded shadows. DI RECT OR . Do you hear what’s being said? Do you see what our theater’s turning into? S PECTA T O R #2. Faded shadows on the ground. As if we were scattered clouds in an infinite sky. We’re ripped apart, shifted about arbitrarily in the same way the wind pushes clouds. Our existence is like gelatin. We live a lie that has no roots and neither sprouts from the ground nor blooms above. Hours pass, the world around us moves, but it feels like an obscure chaotic nightmare. Our history is a burden. The earth shifts and shakes beneath our feet. What is it that connects us to a land on whose soil we are erased every second? The motherland and geography are transformed into baseless fables. Days pass, but we remain drugged, shifted about arbitrarily by events. S PECTA T O R . (From the audience) Geography . . . yes, geography. By God, it’s wonderful that you’re talking about geography.

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DI RECT O R . The consequences will be severe if we allow them to continue. I smell something suspicious. They’re threatening security and public safety. We’re starting again, come what may. (He claps) Music. As the Director speaks, an Old Man walks up to the stage. He has a gloomy face, and his appearance is not well composed, giving the sense that he has lived a difficult life. His walk is slow and trembling. DI RECT OR . (Losing his temper) I said . . . music . . . Didn’t you hear? Low, hesitant solo tune on the lute. S PECTA T O R . (From the audience) Back to singing and dancing again. DI RECT OR . (To the Troupe) You, get ready too. We’re not backing down. The sound of the lute is followed by the sound of the goblet-­shaped darabukka drum. The music is low and out of tune. OL D M AN. (Hesitant, as if about to return to his seat) I thought it might be useful for me to tell you a little story I know, but it seems I’m intruding at an inappropriate moment. It’s not important . . . it doesn’t matter. S PECTA T O R #3. Tell your story, uncle. The lute player stops. DI RECT OR . What’s wrong? SPECTA T O R #4. For once, each person must tell his story. ʿ A B D A LGH A N I . (From the audience) Tell your stories. Go ahead, tell them. They’re certainly more fertile than our barren imaginations. DI RECT OR . (To the Troupe) See, the whole audience will come

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up onstage if we just stand here with our arms crossed. Keep playing, and don’t pay any attention to them. Spectators on the stage look at the Director with contempt. S PECTA T O R #5. Did you notice, as soon as a new tongue grows in our mouth and starts to speak, even if it’s just for a few seconds, they immediately cut it off. DI RECT OR . (To the Troupe) We’ll be a party to this mutiny if we don’t put an end to it. What are you waiting for? MU S I C I A N #1. (Calmly) Can’t you see, they don’t want our music? DAN CER S. And they don’t want our dancing either. DI RECT OR . You take orders from me, not them. They’re rabble-­ rousers, nothing else. MU SI C IAN #2. (Calmly) Don’t get so worked up. What good’s music if there’s nobody there to listen to it? D I RECT O R . What are you talking about? Are you going to mutiny too? S PECTA T O R #4. The musicians are beginning to understand, the dancers are beginning to understand, but the director doesn’t want to. S PECTA T O R #3. It’s not in his best interest to understand. D IRECT OR . Answer me, are you rebelling? (Pause) Remember you’re employees here, and I’m the one who gives the orders. MU SI C IAN #3. He’s threatening us. DI RECT OR . I’ve made myself clear. The Musicians say, “He’s threatening us” to one another coldly and calmly in a manner that infuriates the Director. S PECTA T O R #6. It’s an old trick.

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S PECTA T OR #1. This is disgraceful. The Musicians pick up their instruments and begin to exit the stage one after another, calmly and ritualistically. D I RECT O R . (Furious) Where are you going? Are you defying me? You and your instruments are going to be unemployed. You’ll be sorry, you’ll regret this for a very long time. DAN CER S. —The musicians are leaving. —So, there can’t be any dancing either. —Let’s leave too. —Let’s stay instead and see what happens. —This problem has nothing to do with us. Let’s steer clear of it and sing it to sleep. Members of Dance Troupe begin to leave. DI RECT OR . You too? Where are you going? DAN CER . There’s nothing for us to do now that the musicians are leaving. DI RECT OR . They’ve left? What’s going on? I’m losing my mind. SPECTA T O R. (From the audience) You haven’t lost it already? SPECTA T O R #3. Let me give you some advice. The best thing for you to do is to follow your troupe and disappear. DI RECT OR . They’re kicking me out of my own theater? How am I supposed to keep from losing it completely? OL D M AN. Is this all because of me? This isn’t necessary. I can just go back to my seat. S PECTA T O R #2. No, tell your story instead. OL D M AN. Actually it’s not that important. It has to do with a geography teacher. I was reminded of it when you mentioned geog-

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raphy, but I don’t want to intrude where I don’t belong. It’s nothing more than a story about a geography teacher. S PECTA T O R #2. What about him? OL D M AN. Do you think it’s important for me to tell his story? S PECTA T O R #3. Why not? For once in our lives, everyone should have the opportunity to tell their story. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (From audience) All stories are important. It’s great what you’re saying. What people here are doing is wonderful. D I RECT O R . What’s going on? Undoubtedly something suspicious is lurking behind this upheaval. OL D M AN. To be honest, the story makes me tremble with emotion. It’s rare to find someone who cares about geography. History has its practitioners and theorists. As for geography, it’s nothing but an afterthought in the curriculum. Everybody shies away from it. They consider it a trivial field of science. This geography teacher has been standing in front of apathetic students for twenty years. He can go on until he’s dead telling them about his troubles for all they care. (He sighs, his voice begins to tremble) Ah . . . For twenty years, he’s been spreading out his map up on the wall. (He pulls a large folded piece of paper from his pocket, which he unfolds in front of the audience) That’s what he does. He spreads out his map and says, “Do you see how wide it is, how bountiful.” For this geography teacher the paper he is touching is more than just paper, the lines are more than simply lines. In paper he smells the scent of the earth, in the lines his fingers feel frontiers and human communities. For twenty years he’s been trying to make others feel its breadth, to absorb how wide it is so its width will constitute their memory, as it does his. But . . . ah . . . in countries that do not respect geography, it is difficult for a piece of paper on a wall to have any significance. How difficult it is for this piece of paper to resist the forces of obliteration. That’s a sad

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state of affairs, as sad as defeat. The geography teacher can prove what he says even if no one listens since pieces of paper, like undefended territory, can simply be torn off. (Sounding depressed) And right in front of his students, who are laughing and sleeping, pieces began to be ripped from the map. A piece from the top. (He tears off the northwest corner of the map) S PECTA T O R #1. (In low voice) Al-­Iskandaroun, which the Turks took. O L D M A N . Pieces of the eastern edges. (He tears the eastern edges of the map off ) S PECTA T O RS #3 and #4. (In unison) Coasts of what they call the Persian Gulf. O L D M A N . (Voice trembling) A piece is removed from the middle, from the doorway, from the very heart. (Rips out a hole in the western part of the middle) THE GR OUP . (In unison) Palestine. OLD MAN. The students mock him and fall asleep. He doesn’t try to disguise his most profound hopes. He’s told them he’s preserving the torn pieces of the map in his desk drawer. (He puts the torn pieces of paper in his pocket) He says that one day he and they must work together to try to put it back together, but they don’t listen. They laugh and say, “What worth does that have?” To them, it’s nothing more than a piece of paper, and they don’t want to know any more than that, so the torn pieces just increase. Look at the map, it’s been torn to shreds, it’s disintegrating. But today . . . ah . . . you know, each year, students become less serious. They’re more callous and less interested. Instead of putting the map back together, more and more pieces are torn out. The southern part of the middle. (He rips the map) THE GR OUP . The Sinai. OL D M AN. The western part of the middle. (He rips the map)

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THE GR O UP . The West Bank. OL D M AN. The northern part of the middle. (He rips the map) THE GR OUP . The Golan Heights. OL D M AN. It’s turning into a sieve, all of it. It’s become a dismembered body. Ah . . . As he picks up the pieces, his hands tremble as if he’s declining with age or suffering from palsy. Weeping, he will say to the students (Voice trembles, as if he were crying), “The pieces of paper that have been torn out are refugees. They’re homes, pieces of land.” Ah . . . he will tell them even if no one listens, “Be careful, someday the little dot on which you eat, sleep, and have your little affairs may be torn out too.” (Overtaken by weeping, his voice begins to fade. There is a period of profound silence, indicative of how much those present have been moved) S PECTA T O R #3. (A moment later. Surprised, he whispers) The geography teacher, he’s you. OL D M AN. (Choked up, his voice trembling) It doesn’t matter. It’s not important. He’s a geography teacher, and in countries where geography is not respected you can imagine how difficult that must be. (He puts the map in his pocket. He leaves the stage and with slow, heavy steps walks toward his seat) ʿ ABDALRAHMAN. Do you understand anything of what was just said? ABO U FAR AJ. God, no. It’s just a piece of paper that was torn. As for us, we live in tents, we go hungry, we get sick, and on top of that, we’re blamed for being refugees. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . My God, we’ve lived so long and seen so much, Abou Faraj. D I RECT O R . (To himself ) There’s no doubt about it. The curtain has risen.

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S PECTA T O R #2. (To Spectator #1) That is the geography of a people that has no shadow, a people with no more substance than fog or a dream. S PECTA T O R #1. Or the geography of a people who don’t wish to be awakened from their stupor, who don’t feel threatened, who have no sense of danger whatsoever. The earth is being ripped from beneath our feet, and we do nothing but wail and say, “We didn’t know, we didn’t understand.” S PECTA T O R #7. (From the audience) No. Excuse me, that’s not true. We knew the map was being torn to pieces and the land was being ripped from beneath our feet. S PECTA T O R #1. We knew! OL D M AN. (From the audience) We knew! DI RECT OR . (Slaps the palm of his hand against his forehead) How did I not see this before? It’s an intricate scheme, planned down to the tiniest detail. S PECTA T O R #7. (Approaches the stage) Yes, just as we now know that the little dot on which we eat and sleep is itself in danger of being ripped completely off. DI RECT OR . (Looking surprised) I see it. I see the whole thing clearly. A deliberate well-­knit conspiracy. First, ʿAbdalghani’s surprise, then the appearance of these troublemakers. S PECTA T O R #7. (As he comes up onto the stage) When the earth shakes, when danger approaches, wild animals can detect the scent. Maybe we can’t see our reflection in the mirror, but at least we have our instincts and we should have been able to smell danger. S PECTA T O R #5. They didn’t want us to smell it. S PECTA T O R #7. We should have been able to see it. S PECTA T O RS #5 and #6. They didn’t want us to see it.

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DI RECT O R . The words were scripted right down to the punctuation marks. S PECTA T O R #7. We should have been able to sense it. S PECTA T O RS #5 and #6. But they didn’t want us to sense it. DIRECT OR . The dialogue flows and the action unfolds sequentially. There’s no doubt about it. S PECTA T O R #7. Danger was right there in front of us, as clear to see as our mountains, our sea, and the sky on a cloudless day. DI RECT OR . My God, great job ʿAbdalghani al-­Shaʿir. S PECTA T O R #1. How did we allow this to happen then? This question should be asked loudly even if it deafens us. It’s the only one that matters. The geography teacher’s scraps of paper are pieces of land inhabited by people. They’re soil in which we can extend our roots and ensure our continued existence. How did we allow this to happen then? S PECTA T O R #2. So we’re back to placing blame and assigning responsibility. S PECTA T O R #1. Exactly. This catastrophe is large enough so that none of us is excluded from responsibility. S PECTA T O R #7. We didn’t want to let it happen, to allow our land to be ripped from beneath our feet, to allow our roots to be torn out and our existence to be threatened. S PECTA T O R #1. Of course not . . . (He points to ʿAbdalrahman, ʿIzzat, and Abou Faraj) These people are proof we didn’t want to. The camps are proof we didn’t want to. The alterations in the map are proof too. DI RECT OR . See, gentlemen . . . I’m as sure of it as I am of my own existence. What we thought was just provincial naivete is something else. What appears to be muddled happenstance is much more than that. It’s something that’s been planned down to the last detail.

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S PECTA T OR. (From the audience, to Director) Why don’t you shout like Archimedes, “Eureka, I’ve discovered it!” S PECTA T OR #7. (Maintaining a calm tone) The refugees, the tents, and the alterations in the map of the country. That’s all true. We’d have wished to go blind instead of seeing it, but all those things don’t negate the fact that we didn’t want it to happen, we didn’t want our map to disintegrate in this miserable way. S PECTA T OR #2. What does it matter what we want when we’re nothing more than blurred shadows? S PECTA T O R #7. (Continuing without interruption) Have you forgotten that day in June? We filled the streets on that day. The houses coughed up their inhabitants, the shutters flew open, radios roared, our faces overflowed with emotion. We were shaking. The streets were flooded with fervor and vehement rage. S PECTA T O R . (From the audience) We embraced and shed ardent tears. (To Spectator #7) Yes, by God, as you just said to this gentleman (Indicating the Director), we embraced and shed fervent tears and imagined that a long period of humiliation was about to end, that sovereignty would soon be established, that justice would soon prevail, and misery would wither away forever. SPECTATOR #7. On that day in June, we flooded into the streets, we filled the squares, we came together spontaneously. We were answering a call that grew out of our fear, that came from deep in the earth, from our desire to satisfy our hunger and obtain our dignity. Our blood was burning with zeal, and our faces were scorched by ardor. As we flooded the streets, we counted among us bakers, blacksmiths, porters, workers from every profession. S PECTA T O R #3. There were peddlers among us. Comments bleed into one another. The Spectators’ participation continues, spontaneously increasing until it turns into a demonstration.

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S PECTA T OR. (From the audience) I saw beggars, men who sell lottery tickets, men who shine shoes. S PECTA T OR #7. I saw servants and café patrons. S PECTA T O R #5. Among us were poor people who couldn’t scrounge up enough food each day to fill their bellies. S PECTA T O R #4. Peasants from nearby villages joined us in the streets. S PECTA T O R #6. There were students and teachers among us. F EM A LE S PECTA T O R #1. (From the audience) And women went down into the streets. On that day in June, they opened their bolted doors and went down to the streets. S PECTA T O R #7. Everyone. . . . Old people, young people, even children came together in the groups that formed that day in June. We flooded the streets. Our blood was burning with zeal, and our faces were scorched by ardor. All we could hear was the reverberation of that profound call. DI RECT OR . Gentlemen, no proof is necessary. The actions that are taking place are planned. It’s as obvious as the sun shining in the sky. S PECTA T O R #7. None of us wanted it to happen. We tried to act responsibly. DI RECT OR . This is a total conspiracy. I’m not ruling out the possibility that there’s a foreign hand in this. SPECTATOR #2. (As if speaking to himself, as he has been) What good is what we want when we’re nothing but blurred shadows? S PECTA T O R #7. (Continues, knowing precisely what he wishes to say) The famished forgot about their hunger. S PECTA T O R #3. The destitute forgot about their rags.

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S PECTA T O R #4. Those who were wronged forgot the wrongs done to them. S PECTA T O R #7. On that day in June, the afflicted forgot about their afflictions. We flooded the streets. None of us wanted it to happen. We tried to act responsibly. DI RECT OR . Nothing like what ʿAbdalghani al-­Shaʿir has done has ever been done before. On top of that, stirring up trouble and undermining security and the loftiest concerns of the state. Is there a shred of doubt left? S PECTA T O R #7. We all became this clear, concise chant, “What do we want?” A number of Spectators onstage and in the audience are driven spontaneously and almost instinctively to speak in unison. S P ONTANE OUS GR OUP. Weapons! DIRECT OR . (He shakes his head, as if awakening) This is taking place in my theater. I would sooner have had it collapse on my head, gentlemen, than to see what I’ve just seen. SPECTATOR #7. (Voice turning into a chant) What do you want? S P ON TANE OUS GR OUP. Weapons! The Director is overcome by fear. He appears stupefied. The demonstration begins to take shape as events escalate spontaneously. DI RECT OR . (He walks around the stage area, his eyes bulging. He flies into a furious rage) My theater is not going to become a breeding ground for conspiracy. This has got to stop now. (Claps) Where are the lighting technicians? (Claps) The lighting technicians, where are they? Turn off the lights on the stage and turn up the lights on the audience. This has got to stop this very second. Hurry . . . hurry . . . Our evening is uncovering a dangerous, grotesque conspiracy. Lights are turned off on the stage. There is a commotion. Lights are

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turned up on the audience. Spectators onstage resemble shadows. Their movements are confused. S PECTA T O R #2. When we start to exist, when our images are about to take shape, they call it a conspiracy. S PECTAT OR #4. They begin to terrorize us. DI RECT O R . Get off the stage. Leave the theater. SPECTAT OR . (From the audience) Keep going. SPECTAT OR #5. The lights go off above our heads. S PECTAT OR S. (From the audience) —Keep going. —Be careful, there’ll be consequences. —Let’s continue the conversation. —Don’t forget they’re among us. SPECTAT OR #3. For once, at least, everything needs to be said. Some of the Spectators who are on the stage leave it, and they spread out into the audience. ʿAbdalrahman, Abou Faraj, and ʿIzzat appear surprised and confused. They take a few steps forward, then stand together at the edge of the stage, bewildered by what has taken place. DI RECT OR . This rabble-­rousing has got to stop. Enough of this chaos. Get out. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (Stretching in his seat, looking forward) This is wonderful. You can’t let your words stay trapped behind lock and key. S PECTA T O RS. (From the audience) —Go on. —Let’s keep going. —We all said what we want is weapons. —Weapons. Only weapons. SPECTATOR #7. (His voice taking over the space) What we asked for wasn’t to have our severed tongues returned.

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S PECTA T OR #5. Or to have our covered ears uncovered. S PECTA T OR #4. Or our discarded brains back. S PECTA T OR #6. It wasn’t to have our bare subsistence, which we never had to begin with. S PECTA T OR #7. All we asked for was to act responsibly, to not accept what happened. On that day in June, we flooded into the streets. We all became this clear, concise chant, “What do we want?” S P ONTANE OUS GR OUP. Weapons! DIRECT OR . Stop. You’re going to pay dearly for this. Stop. S PECTA T O R #7. What do you want? S P ONTANE OUS GR OUP. Weapons! DIRECT OR . Not in this place. Find another theater. Any other theater. Spectators continue their conversation, unconcerned by the Director’s screams. S PECTA T O R #7. Bakers wanted to stuff their bread with bombs and feed it to the invaders. S PECTA T O R #3. Blacksmiths wanted to melt their metal, mold it into nails, and plant them underneath the enemy’s feet. FEMALE SPECTATOR #1. (From the audience) Women wanted to turn their jewelry into bullets and bombs. S PECTA T O R . (From the audience) We wanted to irrigate the land with the invaders’ blood. FEMALE SPECTATOR #1. (From the audience) Women wanted to put helmets on instead of makeup. FEM ALE SPECTA TO R #2. (From the audience) To carry arms and ammunition instead of splendid purses.

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S PECTA T OR #7. On that day in June, the famished forgot about their hunger. S PECTA T OR #3. The destitute forgot about their rags. S PECTA T O R #4. Those who were wronged forgot the wrongs done to them. S PECTA T O R #7. The afflicted forgot about their afflictions. We flooded into the streets, thousands of people with no pretensions, who refused to be violated, who refused to be more impoverished and humiliated. Their chant was simple and concise, “What do you want?” S P ONTANE OU S GR OUP. Weapons. DIRECTOR. God help me. How did I let them drag me into this? S PECTA T OR #7. And men sang, “Boys of terrified mothers.” S P ONTANE OU S GROUP . (Singing in unison with Spectator #7) —Leave your mother and find a rifle —A rifle’s more precious than your mother —Dozens of rifles can defend your land SPECTA T OR #4. That was our war. S PECTA T OR #3. Against invaders and thieves. S PECTA T OR #4. That was our war. S PECTA T OR #5. Against those who protect the thieves. S PECTA T OR #4. That was our war. S PECTA T OR #6. Against hunger, misery, and daily death. S PECTA T OR #4. That was our war. S PECTA T OR #5. Each one of us wished he were that man who was different from the soldiers, who wore no uniform but carried a gun.

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ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN and ʿ IZ Z AT. (In unison) Ah, that man. S PECTA T OR. (From the audience) We all wished we were him. S PECTA T OR #7. And we flooded into the streets on that day in June. Our chant remained the same, “What do you want?” SP ONTANE OUS GR OUP. Weapons. S PECTA T OR #7. Then the streets led us to them, and they met us with frowning faces. S PECTA T O R #5. I’ll never forget the ominous expressions on their faces. S PECTA T O R #7. From up on their balconies, from behind loudspeakers, they said, “We understand how you feel, but what you’re doing is making the job of the people’s enemies and those conspiring against the regime easier.” S PECTA T O R #1. And they said, “War is not your business.” SPECTA T O R #5. And they said, “Be careful not to listen to saboteurs and rabble-­rousers.” S PECTA T O R #7. From up on their balconies, from behind loudspeakers, they said, with frowning faces . . . S PECTA T O R #5. . . . and ominous expressions. SPECTA T O R #7. “Go back home and listen to the tales of heroism of our fearless army from in front of your radio.” And the groups that had gathered unplanned, clogging the streets, dispersed within seconds. S PECTA T O R #3. And what we wanted melted away. S PECTA T O R #2. (Sadly, mechanically) What does it matter what we want when we’re nothing more than blurred shadows? S PECTA T O R #7. We returned to our neighborhoods, to our homes, to cafés, to sipping tea and following the roar of radios.

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S PECTA T OR #4. And we listened to tales of heroism. S PECTA T OR. (From the audience) All tales of heroism, to a one. Like an echo, Abou Faraj, ʿAbdalrahman, and ʿIzzat repeat the section in which they spoke about the soldier, as if recollecting their lines involuntarily. A B O U F A R A J . On the burning roads, we encountered many s­ oldiers. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . (In a low voice) They looked confused, exhausted, their uniforms drenched in sweat. YO U N G M AN. But we must not forget the martyrs who actually resisted. S PECTA T O R #7. We wanted to resist alongside them and become martyrs too. A B O U F A R A J . Like us they didn’t understand what was happening. ʿ IZZA T . That’s right, like us the soldiers didn’t understand what was happening. DI RECT OR . (Walking toward ʿAbdalrahman, Abou Faraj, and ʿIzzat. He starts to shove them off the stage) You’re the instruments of the conspiracy. You’re its fingers. Go, get off the stage. YO U N G M AN. (In a loud voice) Some of the soldiers knew what was going on. They attached their weapons to them and attached themselves to their land. Dozens, hundreds of them fought on as their dismembered limbs fell into the sand. S PECTA T O R #7. They were alone. They resisted and died alone. YO U N G MAN. But they left the door open to hope. I know the darkness of defeat is thick, but we must not be blind to the glimmers of light and hope. What happened in al-­Jisr al-­Qantara and Jourat

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al-­Zaytoun were wonderful examples of heroism that cannot be forgotten. S PECTA T O R #7. Scattered light that sparkled here and there, but faded because they were alone. They resisted and died alone. We wanted to join them, but we were told by those with frowning faces . . . S PECTA T OR #5. . . . and ominous expressions, S PECTA T OR #7. “War is not your business.” DI RECT OR . (Walking toward Spectators onstage who are talking) That’s it . . . enough, all of you. Get out of my theater. S PECTA T O R #3. And what we wanted melted away. feat.

ʿ IZZA T . And we saw soldiers weeping from frustration, from deABO U FAR AJ. Yes, by God, they wept like women. DI RECT OR . You, all of you, I mean it, I’ll smash your heads in.

Spectators onstage—Abou Faraj, ʿAbdalrahman, and ʿIzzat—look at the Director with blank stares. ʿ IZZA T . They’d been defeated, and they had no idea what was happening. DI RECT OR . Gather up your schemes and shove off. ʿ IZZA T . Like us, they had no idea what was happening. Director begins to kick and punch all those onstage. DI RECT OR . Get the hell out of here. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. They’re beating us up, Abou Faraj. ABO U FAR AJ. Yes, they’re beating us up. S PECTA T O R #2. (Followed by a number of other Spectators) Leave them alone. S PECTA T O R #5. They’re beating them up!

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The action onstage becomes chaotic. Suddenly the Man in Suit and tie in the front row stands up. He has an expression of anger. His face is puffed up with self-­importance. He signals to the men guarding the doors and to the Armed Men scattered about in the audience, watching. These latter men immediately assume military posture and surround the audience. They draw their weapons and aim them at the audience, particularly at those members of the audience who participated in the conversation. The dialogue that follows is confused, and people speak over one another. M AN IN S U IT . (Walking toward the stage) Enough, everyone, stop. All of this needs to stop. (He goes up onto the stage. The Director becomes servile in the Man’s presence and struggles to express his subservience) Do you think the regime has ceased to exist and the country has descended into chaos? S PECTA T O RS. (Whispering) —It’s his highness . . . —His excellency, the president. —Mr. President himself. —Pistols. —We’re prohibited from leaving. We’re surrounded. —I told you this night would not end well. M A N I N S U I T . Geography and malicious rumors and people laying rotten eggs. DI RECT OR . Lights . . . lights . . . Lights focus on the Man in Suit. Lights on the audience fade. M AN IN S U IT . We were thinking, let them continue this wherever it leads, and then we found ourselves face to face with a conspiracy of unknown proportions. DI RECT OR . Yes, Mr. President. There’s no doubt about it. It’s a well-­knit conspiracy in every respect.

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S PECTA T ORS. (Whispering) —We warned them about the consequences. —Have they forgotten what country we’re in? —Cursed be the temptation of tongues. M AN IN S U I T . Where’s the writer, that charlatan? Two of the Armed Men with pistols in the audience rush to the row where ʿAbdalghani al-­Shaʿir is sitting. DI RECT OR . Yeah, he’s the origin of all our woes. He’s trouble incarnate. A RME D MEN. Here he is, sir. M AN IN S U IT . Arrest him. Arrest everyone who participated in this despicable conspiracy. DIRECT OR . Ah . . . finally. He claps enthusiastically. The arrest of ʿAbdalghani and the Spectators causes commotion and provokes comments from the members of the audience. ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. Don’t push me. I can walk by myself. S PECTA T O R #2. This ending was predictable from the beginning. M AN IN S U IT . I’ve never seen troublemakers who were this insolent. S PECTA T O R . I didn’t participate in any of it. I swear by the name of all the Prophets, I didn’t participate in anything. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. They’re arresting us, Abou Faraj. ABO U FAR AJ. That’s the only thing that was missing. ʿ IZZA T . They’re arresting us? Where do you think we were before this? We’re going from one prison to another one. S PECTA T O R . I just said one sentence. May God cut off my tongue if I said more than one sentence.

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ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. (Shaking his head, to ʿIzzat) By God, what we’ve lived through and what we’ve seen, my son. S PECTA T OR #6. Words drew us toward them like a mirage. S PECTA T O R #3. Eventually the words had to burst out from inside us. SPECTATOR. You’re mistaken. You’ve definitely mistaken me for someone else. I swear, this is a mistake. ʿAbdalghani stands beside the Man in Suit. All of those who were arrested are placed in a corner on the stage. M A N I N S U I T . (Looks at ʿAbdalghani condescendingly) The genius writer. Couldn’t you find any means of expression for your talent besides sedition? (ʿAbdalghani looks at him with contempt) Don’t you know what difficult circumstances our great country is going through? How dare you convince yourself this was a decent way to act? ʿ ABDA LGH ANI. (To the audience) How dare I? I admit . . . an hour ago, it was unclear. I was vaguely disgusted by my own words, by the genius of my director, by a lie that was spreading like a drop of oil does on the surface of water. But I know now . . . I know . . . in the same way I know the shape of my own nose in the mirror . . . what has happened here is the reason I acted the way I did. M A N I N S U I T . What has happened here? We will see what’s behind what happened here. We have all the time in the world to interrogate you and this rotten gang of yours. We’ll find out what your base conspiracy is hiding. S PECTA T O R. (Among those arrested) I said one sentence, that’s all. A RME D M A N . (Points his pistol at the Spectator) Shut your mouth. Shut up.

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M AN IN S U IT . (Walks toward the audience. Assumes the posture of someone giving a speech) Citizens, people of our glorious nation . . . S PECTA T OR #2. (To Spectator #1) Do you think we’re responsible for this? S PECTA T O R #1. We’re just as responsible for this as we are for the defeat. ARME D MEN. (Waving their pistols) —Shut up. —Shut your rotten trap. —Stop babbling and listen. M AN IN S UI T . This evening is very important, extremely significant. It is sure proof that the conspirators among us are relentless, and the enemies of the people are becoming more violent and insolent by the day. You saw them come out of their burrows in broad daylight and boldly thrust their tongues out and spit their poison like uninhibited serpents. (Director applauds, and a number of Spectators join him) Imperialism and its infidel angels from hell, the enemies of the people and of God, now imagine that it is possible for them to destroy your magnificent regime, which has come into being after thousands of years of striving and generations of people who struggled and sacrificed. Director applauds, and a number of Spectators join him. During the unenthusiastic applause one hears someone whistling. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. (Whispering) Praise God, he sounds like the radio. ABO U FAR AJ. Yes, by God, like the radio. ARME D MAN. Your tongues should be cut out. ARME D MAN #2. Don’t say another word. M A N I N S U I T . Imperialism and its angels from hell imagine

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that our ability to endure has been undermined by recent events and the winds have changed so they can destroy the sturdy foundations of our nation and sow dissension among the ranks of our faithful and steadfast citizenry. Their aim is to spread anarchy. They desire to make those who hold the reins of power lose their grip, but they don’t understand that the people, through their devoted and trustworthy leadership, are able to thwart their schemes, to make a mockery of their delusions, and step on these conspirators with their boot heels as if they were the most valueless vermin on the face of the Earth. (The Director applauds, and a number of Spectators join him. Several people whistle among the unenthusiastic applause) The great victories that the struggling masses have achieved through the leadership of their pioneering regime . . . people who believe in God and his Prophet and the aims of the revolution . . . will arouse furious wrath in the hearts of the imperialists and the enemies of the people. It is for that reason that the enemy becomes more vicious in their attacks upon our fortress. No sooner do they abandon one failed conspiracy than their perverse minds begin to weave another. Imperialism will never give up, no matter how many times it fails. But our regime, which is steadfast because of its godliness and the greatness of its accomplishments, will also never surrender. It will inflict defeat after defeat upon imperialism. Our regime will continue to expose imperialism’s schemes, to strike its conspirators and destroy its strongholds wherever they exist. (The Director applauds. A number of Spectators join him. There is whistling) Resolute citizens, this is but one fleeting evening that has confirmed again that there are enemies slinking among us who mask themselves in different guises. That is why we must be vigilant, why we must never let down our guard. Every citizen is a sentinel who must remain on the lookout for traitors and conspirators and expose those who spread malicious rumors. Don’t fall asleep. Keep your eyes open wide. Our sacred journey will never come to a halt no matter how many bloodsuckers scheming in the night and other challenges we encounter. And say, “act because God

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and his Prophet and his believers will acknowledge your deed.” Forward. Forward, people, forward! Applause and whistling from all directions. ARME D MEN. (Pointing their pistols) —You can leave now. —Leave in an orderly fashion. —Leave quietly. M AN IN S U IT . (To Armed Men, referring to the Spectators they have rounded up) Take them. Let’s see what they’re hiding. S PECTA T O R #3. (In a loud voice, to the audience) Tonight we improvised, but tomorrow, hopefully, you’ll go beyond improvisation. A RME D M A N #1. (Beating Spectator #3) Stop spreading this poison. A RME D M A N #2. We’ll find out soon enough whether what happened was improvised. S PECTA T O R. (Among those who have been rounded up) I just said one sentence. I swear on my children, nothing more than a sentence. ARME D MAN #1. Move. ARME D MAN #2. Keep going. They take those they have rounded up backstage. The audience members are stunned and frightened. They slowly begin to depart. ARME D MAN #1. Leave quickly. A RME D MAN #2. Why are you lingering here? Let’s get going. S PECTA T O RS. (In the aisles and on the stairs, exiting the auditorium) —What an evening. —Let’s admit it, they were brave.

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—But look where they’ve ended up. —But let’s admit it, they were brave and we did nothing to protect them. —What does this have to do with us? The walls have ears. —Even so, what they said was true. —I was certain it was not going to end well. —We’ve never seen an evening like this. —To hell with the theater and its problems. —(To an exiting Female Spectator) I told you, I didn’t want to come. Do you see what happened? F EM A LE S PECTA T O R . You’re such a coward. Besides, you weren’t among those who were arrested. —You wish I had been. FEM ALE SPECTA TO R. You never will be.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE HEAD OF MAMLOUK JABIR

Characters

C us to m er s (#1, 2, 3, 4, 5) Wai ter M u ʾ nis /Ha kawati (Storyteller) M e n (#1, 2, 3, 4) W o m e n (#1, 2) Ma m l ouk Jabir Manso ur B a ker S ol diers (#1, 2) Yasi r Vizi er G ua r d P rince ʿ Abda l lat if Ba rb er T hree B oys Ca li ph a l- ­M un tasi r Bil la h ʿ A bda lla h W if e

First published in Arabic as “Mughamarat Ra’s al-­Mamlouk Jabir,” Saʿdallah Wannous, in the journal Majallat al-­Maʿrifa al-­Suriyya, no. 105 (1970), Damascus. First performed in Arabic in Iraq in 1972 and in Syria in 1984.

120

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H usband Zum urru d Kin g M un k a ti m ibn D awou d Halawo un La hab /E xecution e r

Notes on Performance and Direction

In this play I attempt yet another experiment in “theater of politicization,” which I began previously. I should note that “theater of politicization” differs substantially from “political theater.” How they vary is not a matter I will discuss here, but I will define the concept of “theater of politicization” as a dialogue between two spaces. The first space is comprised of the performance, which is presented by a group that wishes to communicate, to engage in a dialogue with the audience. The second space is comprised of the audience, onto whom problems and other elements are reflected. Such a dialogue has continued up to now to be difficult to achieve. On the one hand, there are theatrical traditions that have been established so as to eliminate this kind of dialogue or to engage in it internally and indirectly. On the other hand, there is, more importantly, the nature of the members of the audience, whose inhibitions impede them from expressing their feelings and engaging in dialogue. Hence, [in “theater of politicization”] we contrive means to pre­sent a mock dialogue in order to demonstrate to the audience that such a dialogue is possible. For example, we may plant people in the audience who will speak on behalf of the real audience. They may engage in discussion, offering the audience examples of actions of which they are capable, or rather how the audience should act. Of course we are not so naive as to think that the real audience will not discover that those sitting among them and engaging in discussion and dialogue are actors trained to play their parts, as one writer wrote in response to An Evening’s Entertainment [i.e., An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June]. However, as I said before, by utilizing artificial means we are attempting to break the wall of silence and offering a model which, by being repeated, may accomplish our true aim, which is to create an improvised, intense, and genuine dialogue between both spaces of the theater: performance and audience. Of course, such means are insufficient by themselves and may turn into mere superficial theatrical techniques 122

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unless a most important and essential component is offered so as to provoke and encourage dialogue. By this I mean that the first space, i.e., performance, should have the necessary conditions to provoke dialogue, such as the requisite form and subject matter that relates to the lives and problems of the audience. Mere talent will not suffice to accomplish this aim. Rather, extensive research is required into the structure and the state of affairs of society. Unfortunately, we have so far not seriously embarked upon this research. I dream of a theater in which both spaces are fully realized, a performance with an audience participating in dialogue that is both improvised and rich, leading in the end to a profound feeling of our communal existence and common fate. This is merely a blueprint for a play that will not be complete unless it is taken up by a cohesive group with a distinctive vision. The group will build it and develop its potentialities through persistent research and will go beyond aesthetic concerns so as to address actual socio-­political problems. Every attempt to put on this play must at the same time be an attempt to explore the current environment and must create the conditions for reaching out to the audience and engaging with it. Any effort less than this would render null any justification or value the play may possess. When I say this play is nothing but a blueprint, I mean there are lacunae, empty spaces, that I have intentionally left so that they can be filled by the “theatrical performance” in a manner that suits current circumstances and the place where it is performed. The play has no precise beginning point, and its course should not follow a strictly engineered course. We are in a café. The café is not the set for theatrical action; it is, rather, the theater itself, stage and audience. The ambience the café creates plays a vital role in the play. Through it we will attempt to break the rigid circular and ritualistic boundaries of theatrical performance and engender instead a kind of intimacy among spectators that allows us to portray a spontaneous representation that includes within it a significant story. As such, the begin-

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ning of the performance is not bound by specific timing nor does it have a strict form. We begin when there is an overwhelming feeling of intimacy and after the initial feeling of estrangement that one experiences when one is placed in a group that is encountering a story, characters, and a set seen for the first time. In short, I suggest for performance the form of an “evening of entertainment,” for which the café undoubtedly provides the perfect ambience. This form should not be restricted to this play only. Rather, its potential uses could be extended to many other works because what is important, after all, is that we should go beyond a strict form of theater. Up to now the spectator has found himself estranged from performance, [although] he makes an extra effort—cultural, of course—to find this [strict] form agreeable or familiar. Given the above, all conversations of the patrons of the café, their interventions during the course of events, and their comments should be seen as mere suggestions, or what I call artificial means to encourage the spectator to speak, improvise, and engage in dialogue. It is possible for any new staging to rethink these conversations or to change them into vernacular Arabic. This play can be performed anywhere and in any type of space. I place it in a café here, but that does not mean it cannot be performed elsewhere. In a word, what I seek is a live performance of a story that is of interest to all of us, and I envision the utilization of all possible means to achieve it. I wish it to be an entertaining and beneficial “spectacle” that drives the spectator to ponder his own existence. ■

We are sitting in a café. There are a number of customers scattered about in the café. Most of them are smoking argilehs, water pipes, and drinking tea. A waiter carrying a tray with cups of tea and coffee moves among the customers. During the course of the evening, he

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continually walks back and forth. The customers appear lethargic; the atmosphere is chaotic. The clamorous voices of the customers mingle with the sound of songs from an old radio. This music plays an important role in establishing the atmosphere at the beginning of the play. Members of the audience should feel relaxed, perhaps even blissful, like the customers in the café. As I said in previous remarks, there is not a set hour for the play to begin. The duration of songs played on the radio can be increased or decreased at the discretion of those staging the play. The songs to be played can be selected in accordance with the circumstances and conditions under which the play is staged. CU S T O MER #1. (Clapping) Hey, Abou Muhammad. W AI TER . Yes? CU S T O MER #1. A cup of strong tea and more coals. W AI TER . Coming right up. A song ends and another song begins. The noise in the café increases. Conversations blend with the sounds of dry coughs and bubbling argilehs. From time to time we hear these ambient conversations above the sound of the song. CU S T O MER #2. So, today I saw Abou Ibrahim and he sent his greetings. CU S T O MER #3. God bless him and you too. How’s he doing? CU S T O MER #2. Poor guy. He’s in dire straits and he just can’t seem to get his act together. CU S T O MER #3. Heaven help him and us, but then who among us has no worries? CU S T O MER #2. In times like these, by God, nobody does. CU S T O MER #4. Hey, Abou Muhammad, bring us two teas. W AITER . (Approaches Customer #1 carrying a tray with cups of tea) Coming up.

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CU S T O MER #1. The tea’s weak. W AITER . Weak? It’s as thick as molasses. Do you want me to bring you another one? CU S T O MER #1. No, it’s fine. The languorous song overshadows the hubbub. The Customers are silent as if enjoying the song they’re listening to. They lean toward one another, engaged in private conversation. CU S T O MER #4. What’s the story with Muʾnis, the Hakawati? He’s late. W AI TER . Don’t worry, Uncle Muʾnis functions like clockwork. He arrives neither early nor late. He’ll be here any moment carrying his book along with him. CU S T O MER #3. Good Lord, we’re all half dead. CU S T O MER #2. What can we do? Our fate’s in God’s hands. What’s important is security in the afterlife. CU S T O MER #1. Coals. W AI TER . Coming right up. The song on the radio ends and another begins. CU S T O MER #5. Uncle Muʾnis isn’t coming tonight? CU S T O MER #1. He’s never missed a night for as long as we’ve known him. W A I TER . (Putting coals into a customer’s argileh) He’ll definitely come, as he always does. The songs on the radio continue playing behind the customers’ chatter. The Waiter continues moving about among the Customers, carrying a tray with cups of tea or the stove with hot coals for the argilehs. CU S T O MER #4. Uncle Muʾnis is starting a new story tonight. CU S T O MER #2. Last night’s story had a bleak ending.

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CU S T O MER #3. It’s been a while since we’ve heard a tale from Uncle Muʾnis that cheered up his listeners. W AI TER . (From the other side of the café) It’s Uncle Muʾnis. (To Hakawati) The patrons are all anxiously awaiting your arrival. CU S T O MER S . (Snatches of conversation intermingle with the clamor) —A warm welcome. —Uncle Muʾnis has arrived. —Better yet, the moon has risen. —How tedious our evenings would be here without your tales. H AK AW A T I. (Raising his hand to the group) Peace be with you all. (Carrying a thick, ancient volume, he walks slowly) CUSTOMERS. (In unison, at varying volumes) Peace be with you too. And God’s blessings and mercy upon you. CU S T O MER #2. I swear to God, without Uncle Muʾnis’s stories, we’d have no idea how to spend our evenings. Uncle Muʾnis, the Hakawati or Storyteller, who is past fifty, moves slowly. His face resembles a page from the ancient book he holds under his arm. His face is so indistinct it is as if it were composed of wax. His red eyes gaze coldly. His principal facial characteristic is one of cold indifference, an expression he maintains throughout the course of the evening. CU S T O MER #5. Since Uncle Muʾnis is here, turn the radio off. W AITER . All right, but we should let Uncle Muʾnis drink a cup of tea and relax before he begins. CU S T O MER S . You’re right. Tea for Uncle Muʾnis. And bring us tea too. The song on the radio fades to silence. Uncle Muʾnis sits on a chair and places his book in his lap, facing the customers, who have shifted

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positions to face the Hakawati and listen to his story. All of this is done spontaneously. The Waiter brings Uncle Muʾnis a cup of tea. CU S T O MER #4. Abou Muhammad, coals. CU S T O MER #2. (To the Waiter, as he takes a wrapper out of his pocket) Take this tobacco and prepare it the way you like it. The Waiter comes and goes, saying in response to each new order, “It’s coming.” CU S T O MER #3. Hey, what does Uncle Muʾnis have in store for us tonight? CU S T O MER #2. Its turn has come. CU S T O MER #3. You mean The Epic? CU S T O MER #2. Exactly. The Epic Biography of Zahir. We’ve been waiting for it, and we’ve run out of patience. CU S T O MER #1. By God, it’s time we heard The Epic of Zahir Baybars. CU S T O MER #3. Bless my soul, the days of Zahir. CU S T O MER #1. Heroic, victorious days. CU S T O MER #3. The good old days when people were secure and prospered. CU S T O MER #2. We’ve been waiting for The Epic of Zahir for a long time. CU S T O MER #1. Hey, Uncle Muʾnis, do you have The Epic with you? H AK AW A T I. (Calmly drinking tea) It’s not time for Zahir yet. CU S T O MERS. (Their voices intermingle) —Not yet time for Zahir? —We’ve been waiting to hear it since the end of last summer. —Every time we ask, you say it’s not Zahir’s turn.

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—Good God, tell us when the right time will be. H AK AW A T I. Many stories remain before we arrive at The Epic of Zahir. CU S T O MER #1. Rearrange them and open your book to The Epic. CU S T O MER #2. Our hearts have withered away waiting. We want to hear about heroes. CU S T O MER #3. And tales of victories. CU S T O MER #1. We want to hear about truth triumphing over deception. CU S T O MER #5. And justice overcoming injustice. CU S T O MER #3. Ah, me, the days of Zahir. CU S T O MER #1. Rearrange the pages of your book, Uncle Muʾnis, and open it to Zahir. H A K AW A T I . (Quietly) The stories are connected chronologically. You can’t tell them out of order. We’ll get to The Epic as soon as we’ve finished the stories from the age which we’re doing. CU S T O MER #2. Which age is that? H AK AW A T I. The age of unrest and anarchy. CU S T O MER #2. That’s the age in which we’re living. CU S T O MER #1. We taste its bitterness every moment. CU S T O MER #3. Don’t we deserve to forget our worries by listening to a joyous tale? CU S T O MER #2. Last night’s story was so depressing it darkened our souls. H AK AW A T I. These stories are necessary. CU S T O MERS. Necessary?

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H AK AW A T I. I have to tell them. CU S T O MER S. Why do you have to tell them? H AK AW A T I. Because the stories in my book have a sequence to them that leads to the age of joyous tales. Everything has its time, and The Epic comes after the tales from this age. Don’t worry. You’ll hear stories from the biography night after night . . . (He finishes his cup of tea) And now, we open the book and begin by blessing the Prophet. CUSTOMERS. (In various tones) God’s prayer upon the Prophet. Peace and a thousand prayers upon the Prophet. CU S T O MER #1. So again we’re to be disappointed. We won’t be hearing the story of Zahir. CU S T O MER #3. My dear sir, if Uncle Muʾnis is here we’ll hear it eventually. CU S T O MER #2. Abou Muhammad, where’s my argileh? W AITER . Coming right up. CU S T O MER #1. But, please, make it a good story. H AK AW A T I. Listen and judge for yourselves. CU S T O MERS. —Let’s begin, kind sir. —We’re listening. H AK AW A T I. (In a barely audible voice) In the name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful. (As he begins reading from his book, his voice and facial expressions take on a tone of neutrality) Generous gentlemen, the narrator al-­Dinari, God bless him, said . . . CU S T O MERS. —Amen! —God have mercy on his soul. —The stories of al-­Dinari are like an endless rope. H AK AW A T I. The narrator said, There was once a caliph in Bagh-

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dad named Shaʿban al-­Muntasir Billah. And he had a vizier named Muhammad al-­ʿAbdali. It was an era in which the political landscape was like a turbulent sea. People behaved as if they were lost in the wilderness. They’d go to bed facing one situation and wake up facing another. They tired of all the ups and downs and felt punished by political events. Things would suddenly change abruptly without their even knowing why. Then the situation would calm down, and they wouldn’t know the cause. They would watch without intervening. As time passed, they came to believe they’d discovered the secret to survival amidst the upheaval of the period. They settled for having learned how to adapt to such an environment since that was the best way to ensure their safety. Five Actors enter: Three Men and Two Women. They represent the people of Baghdad long ago, i.e., during the time of the story related by Muʾnis. They approach the customers in the café. M AN #1. When the caliph’s name is mentioned, no one asks the people of Baghdad for their opinion. M A N #2. And when the caliph appoints the grand vizier, he orders us to obey the man he has appointed. GR OUP . And we obey him. M AN #3. And if the grand vizier angers the caliph, who then removes him. . . . GR OUP . . . . We support the caliph and oppose the vizier. M AN #2. The same is true of the justice of the supreme tribunal. M AN #3. And of military officers and governors. GR OUP . They never ask the people of Baghdad their opinion. M AN #1. They only demand that we pledge our loyalty. GR OUP . And we pledge. M AN #2. And they order us to obey.

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GR O UP . And we obey. W OMAN #1. That is the secret of staying safe and secure these days. M AN #3. Which we’ve learned from the executioners with their spiked whips. M AN #1. And from the bayonets of guards with glazed eyes. W O M A N #2. And from the prisons whose doors open only to drag people inside. W O MAN #1. How can we feed our children when our husbands’ skins are stinging from bayonets and rotting under the whip? W O MAN #2. And what should we do if our loved ones are locked behind prison gates? M AN #3. We’ve grown accustomed to changes. M AN #2. The quick succession of caliphs and viziers. W O MAN #2. Men murdered on a whim. W OMAN #1. People indifferent to slander and lies. M AN #3. We have nothing to do with the affairs of noblemen. M AN #1. They demand nothing from us but allegiance. GR OUP . We pledge allegiance. M AN #2. They tell us to obey. GR OUP . We obey. M AN #3. Who can be certain of anything in this turbulent era? GR OUP . And we the people of Baghdad have chosen peace and security. We bleed day and night trying to make ends meet. Lucky is he who can sustain himself in Baghdad. The actors slowly depart from the café and exit. CU S T O MER #2. My God, things are just the same . . .

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CU S T O MER #3. . . . as they were then. The path to security has always been the same. CU S T O MER #4. Bring me another cup of tea. W AI TER . Coming right up. H AK AW A T I. Such was the condition of the commoners of Baghdad when Caliph Shaʿban al-­Muntasir Billah and his vizier, Muhammad al-­ʿAbdali, were still in accord, and their condition remained the same when divisions appeared between the two men. At first the rivalry between the caliph and the vizier remained private, but it eventually emerged, first as gossip among the nobles in the palace lounges, and then it spread throughout the city, which is how the commoners came to hear about it. The vizier had a slave, a Mamlouk, a bright young lad named Jabir. Wherever he went, bawdiness and fun went with him. Like all the commoners of Baghdad, he had no interest in the rivalry between the caliph and the vizier. Two Actors, carrying a stage set that resembles a palace lounge in Baghdad, enter the café. As in all scenes in the play, a painting of a palace lounge can be used in lieu of a stage set. The Actors erect the set and face one another before the customers in the café. The first actor plays the role of the Mamlouk Jabir, a young man of about twenty-­five. He is of medium build and full of energy. J ABI R . (Leisurely approaches his companion singing) When I become caliph of the Muslims, I will appoint you the state’s vizier. M ANSO UR . If your master hears you in the state he’s in, he’ll have you flogged until your skin begins to shred. J ABI R . (Rubbing his buttocks with the palm of his hand as if he’s being whipped) God keep evil at bay, why would he do that to me? M ANSO UR . Haven’t you noticed that our master, the vizier, is in a very bad mood? J ABI R . I know he’s in a bad mood, and when he is, fortune smiles on his concubine Shams al-­Nahar.

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M ANSO UR . And why does fortune smile on his slave girl Shams al-­Nahar? J A B I R . (A malicious smile on his face, he whispers in his ear) Because whenever our master the vizier is in a bad mood his sexual desire for her is insatiable. If things continue like this, Shams al-­Nahar will soon be the favorite in the palace. M ANSO UR . (Shaking his head) Stop joking, Jabir. JABIR. I swear, her servant, Zumurrud, tells me everything about them. She’s told me all kinds of stories. (His eyes brighten) That girl has a way of relating news that’s like no one else, Mansour. (He mimics gestures as he speaks) She winks and laughs and shakes her entire body until the blood of whoever’s listening to her starts boiling with lust. Every time I see her she makes me bellow like a bull. She’s as shrewd as her mistress. She leads me on but then leaves me hanging. M A N S O UR . (Grumbling and looking annoyed) Look at what he’s worried about! J ABI R . And what should I worry about? M ANSO UR . Can’t you see things are not going well? J ABI R . When did they ever go well? M ANSO UR . Things are different this time. The situation’s more complex and turbulent. J ABI R . Things can be utterly complex and as turbulent as the Tigris River as long as I’m not involved. M ANSO UR . As long as you’re not involved? Everything around us is volatile. The hostility between the caliph and the vizier has never been worse. J ABI R . What’s it to us? Do you want us to stick our noses in it? M ANSO UR . Who are we to get involved in a fight between the caliph and vizier!

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J ABI R . Then leave them be. They can gouge each other’s eyes out for all I care. I’m not going to rip my clothes and pummel myself just because they disagree. M A N S O UR . Sh-­h-­h. (He looks around, worried someone might hear them) Wash your mouth out or they’ll cut your throat and throw your head away. It wouldn’t surprise me to see you have your tongue cut out someday. J ABI R . And I wouldn’t be surprised to see you hanged for political crimes. Have you forgotten that’s the reason there are gallows in Baghdad? What’s the caliph and vizier’s dispute to you, why are you so worked up about it? (Pauses. Invigorated) Look, I’ve changed my mind. M ANSO UR . Changed your mind? J ABI R . Why are you so interested? If I made you my vizier, you’d be quite adept at scheming against me. (Mansour begins to growl and tries to interrupt Jabir, who maintains his jovial manner) When I become caliph I’ll find myself a loyal and dim-­witted vizier. It’ll be safer that way. M ANSO UR . Come on, for God’s sake, stop joking. J ABI R . I don’t understand why you’re so terrified. You look like a chick who’s soaking wet, and all because the caliph and the vizier are fighting. M ANSO UR . Their feud has turned nasty. J ABI R . Of course it’s nasty. Otherwise it wouldn’t be worthy of a caliph and his vizier. MANSOUR. You have no idea how dangerous this could be for us. It could easily turn violent. When I saw our master, the vizier, coming out of his office yesterday it was like all hell was breaking loose. His cheeks were pale, his eyes were full of fury, and he was chewing on his moustache.

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J A B I R . When he starts chewing on his moustache you know something serious is going on. M ANSO UR . As soon as he left, he contacted his friends. No one knows what’s going on, but it has the air of a serious situation. J ABI R . If one of them murders the other one there will be a job opening in Baghdad. M A N S O UR . What about us? Have you thought about what’s going to happen to us? J ABI R . What’s going to happen to us is we’re going to stand aside and watch. M ANSO UR . You’re more likely to be watching from hell. Seriously, how are we supposed to stand and watch a fight between our master, the vizier, and the caliph? J ABI R . We’ll do what everyone’s doing: keep our eyes open and enjoy watching things unravel. M ANSO UR . You also plan on enjoying yourself ? You’re out of your mind. Imagine what will happen to us when the fight starts. J ABI R . What does that have to do with us? The two of them will be so furious that our master, the vizier, will probably rupture his gall bladder and his highness, the caliph, will have a heart attack. As for us, our hearts and gall bladders will be just fine. MANSOUR. That’s easy for you to say, but if things catch fire we’ll be the wood that keeps it burning. J ABI R . Whoever starts the fire’s the one who’ll keep it burning. Listen, you can warm yourself with the fire instead of burning your fingers with it. M ANSO UR . We can’t do that. They’ll drag us into the middle of the flames. We’ll be the ones who get burned in the end. Is that what you want?

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J ABI R . So what? Every coin has two sides. The important thing is to choose the right moment to jump to the side that’s winning. CU S T O MER #1. Isn’t he a cunning one . . . CU S T O MER #2. Clever devil, this slave. J A B I R . (While Customers are talking, Jabir considers what he will say. His eyes suddenly brighten as an idea occurs to him) So . . . let’s bet! M ANSO UR . On what? J A B I R . On which side wins. Wait . . . (His eyes brighten even more) Damn it, I forgot. I gave all my money to Zumurrud. Women! They make themselves beautiful with our money so they can take even more. Do you have a piaster? Check in your pocket. M ANSO UR . (Surprised) What are you going to do? J ABI R . (Smiling, he holds his hand out insistently) Give me a coin and you’ll see. M ANSO UR . No way. I’m not giving you money. J A B I R . Don’t worry. No one will take your money. (Mansour grudgingly takes a coin out of his pocket. Jabir snatches it and rubs it. His movements and words accelerate as he begins to play a game of chance) Look . . . The entire government is in this coin. The Waiter, who is carrying a tray, stops suddenly and follows the game with interest. CU S T O MER . Move, Abou Muhammad. You’re blocking our view. The Waiter moves out of the way as Jabir continues talking and playing the game. J A B I R . The caliphate and ministry are both here in this coin. Heads is the caliph, tails the vizier. Let’s place a bet on who wins. (He tosses it in the air, catches it and hides it in his hands) Which do

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you choose, heads or tails? Caliph or vizier? Come on, choose one. The entire government’s in this coin. Caliph or vizier? (Pause) I think you choose the caliph. M ANSO UR . (He unconsciously goes along with Jabir and then is startled) What makes you say that? J ABI R . I know how you think. You believe the caliph’s always more powerful simply because he’s the caliph. Don’t be taken in by appearances. How many caliphs are there who have no power at all, who have nothing more than the title of caliph and a harem. God forbid that I should insinuate anything about his highness, the caliph. I’m simply warning you not to take things at face value. What do you say now? Are you beginning to prefer the vizier? M ANSO UR . (Irritated, still stupefied by the game) Me? Choose our master, the vizier? J ABI R . Maybe . . . but remember that’s risky too. If the caliph’s buttocks fit in the throne, you’ll have bet on the losing side. M ANSO UR . (Now alert and angry) I didn’t bet on anyone. I said nothing. J ABI R . So what are you waiting for? Hesitation has a cost too. Caliph or vizier? M ANSO UR . (Looking about) God save us. I hope no one’s seen or heard us. J ABI R . Calm down. Don’t spoil the game. If you win you’ll gain a coin and if you lose you’ll have one coin less, but the caliph and the vizier’s fates rest on the outcome. Come on. Let’s be done with it. M ANSO UR . Damn you. You’re the craziest person I’ve ever seen. Give me my money back. J ABI R . I might just win it from you. If you choose wrong, it will belong to me.

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M ANSO UR . I don’t want to choose. Give it back. J ABI R . Lighten up, Mansour. Let’s have a little fun. Okay, I’ll play alone then. I’ll say (hesitating) Who shall I say? What’s the difference! Let’s say . . . (pause) caliph. (He lifts his hand, looks at the coin and speaks with a tone of sadness) How unfortunate! It’s the vizier. Muslims must be crying over their caliph. I can see them slitting his throat, his blood spilling out like a fountain. M ANSO UR . (Confused and extremely disturbed) God forgive us. J ABI R . That means we go one step up the ladder. If our master, the vizier, rises in status, so will his Mamlouks. A single round’s not enough, though. A fair competition needs three rounds. Round two. Let’s toss the coin a second time. (He tosses the coin gracefully. Mansour tries to catch it, but Jabir beats him to it and hides it in his hands) Help me, Mansour. Say something. M ANSO UR . I’m not playing this idiotic game of yours. The air around us is thick with danger and you want to play games. Give me my money back. J ABI R . Wait. We have to find out how the game turns out. What should I say now? If it’s the vizier again the game’s over. (Talking to the coin in his hands) What side will you settle on, coin? You’re deciding the fate of an entire government. I know how unpredictable you are, but perhaps our fates are joined. You preferred the vizier the first time. Let’s bet on the vizier then. (To Mansour) Come have a look. (He lifts his hand gradually) What side are you on . . . what side . . . It’s the caliph. That makes it one to one. One final round will decide many outcomes. Jabir rubs the coin and tosses it again, but Mansour quickly catches it and angrily puts it in his pocket. M ANSO UR . (Exiting) Goddamn you. Your stupidity knows no limits.

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JABIR. There’s one more round. Why are you spoiling our game? (Mansour walks away and does not answer. Jabir looks toward the customers as he gets ready to exit) I wonder what the feud between the caliph and vizier is to him. (He shrugs his shoulders and exits) CU S T O MER #1. (To the Man sitting next to him) What do you think? He’s a clever fellow! CU S T O MER #2. Nothing fazes him. CU S T O MER #1. Not a caliph, not a vizier. W AI TER . (Walking among Customers carrying a charcoal container) Coals. CU S T O MER #2. A heartache and headache, all for nothing. CU S T O MER #3. (To the Waiter) Here! (Waiter approaches him) H A K AW A T I . That’s how the Mamlouk Jabir reacted when he heard about the dispute. The situation developed quickly. Rumors started to spread like the plague. The caliph spent the night meeting with his intelligence chiefs, and in the morning strict security procedures were put into effect in Baghdad. The vizier, who was at his office with several friends, princes, and influential merchants, fumed with anger. As for the people of Baghdad, as soon as they heard the news, they flocked to bakeries, as they always did, to buy enough bread to last them for several days. The Five Actors we saw earlier playing the roles of the people of Baghdad enter carrying a bakery window and several other props that give the impression we’re in a street. They set up the props in front of the customers. As in all other scenes, posters can be used instead. Acting begins as soon as the scene is set up. They wait impatiently, looking worried in front of the bakery window. They look inside and ask the baker to hurry up. They look tired and insecure. WOMAN #1. My children have been at home by themselves since

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this morning. If I’d known it would take this long I would’ve brought them with me. M AN #3. It’s noon and we’re still waiting. MAN #1. (Looks over people’s heads, trying to see through the window of the bakery) What are they doing, for God’s sake? Have they fallen asleep in there? M AN #2. (He is the closest to the window. To the baker) Come on, Abou ʿUmar! BAKER. (From inside) Do you see us yawning? We’ve been working nonstop since midnight. M AN #1. We’ve been waiting a long time. BAKER. (From inside) What are we supposed to do? Today everybody’s asking for more bread than they need. M AN #1. It makes sense on a day like this. W O MAN #1. When trouble begins who knows when it will end. B AKER . (From inside) Then pray to all-­merciful God and wait. W O MAN #2. (Sitting) Our feet are numb from waiting. M AN #2. What are we going to do? We’ll wait. We have to have bread. M AN #3. (Sitting) In times like these, bread’s more important than anything. If you have bread you’re halfway home. W O MAN #1. Our children will start crying out in hunger if they don’t have bread. M AN #2. We’re not leaving without three or four days’ worth of bread. W O MAN #2. Four days! (Sighing) Ah, that I were lucky enough to buy bread for four days.

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M AN #2. Don’t assume I’m well-­to-­do, sister. I swear to God, I’ll end up paying every penny I have to the baker. M AN #1. We’d all be better off spending what little we have now. Whatever money we still have in our purses will soon be worthless. W O MAN #1. What are you talking about? M AN #1. (Whispering as if he’s telling them a secret) So far, the price of bread’s only gone up a little, but in a couple of hours . . . W O MAN #2. (She interrupts him, looking surprised and worried) Have they raised the price of bread? M AN #1. Haven’t you heard? M AN #3. It’s gone up just since this morning. M AN #1. It’s up a piaster, but a few hours more and prices will start rising like a fever and our money won’t be worth a thing. W O MAN #2. God protect us. (To Man #1) Don’t wish this on us. M AN #1. I’m not wishing it on you. You know the merchants of Baghdad. They’re singing with joy today. M AN #2. Singing and chirping. W OM AN #1. May God punish them. They’d eat our flesh raw if they could. M AN #3. This is their lucky day. If this crisis gets any worse everything we buy will be more expensive than gold. M AN #1. If it gets worse? What do you think’s happening now? The situation’s deteriorating fast. M A N #2. He’s right! Haven’t you noticed the soldiers leaving their barracks? W O MAN #1. (Groaning) For the love of God, don’t start talking about that. W O MAN #2. God save us. I was stunned when I saw them just

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around the corner. I went weak in the knees and almost fell to the ground. W O MAN #1. It would be better to look death straight in the eye. M AN #2. They took over the markets like a storm. People were trembling, hiding behind walls. I’d wager some of them were peeing in their pants. As the dialogue continues, a Fourth Man enters, carrying an empty bag. The same actor who played Mansour should play this role. He should look older here. He joins the group and sits with his bag in his lap. The group looks at him but pays little attention to him. M AN #3. I’ve lived a long life, and I can’t remember a day when the people of Baghdad didn’t wet their pants at the sight of soldiers in the streets. M AN #2. But today was much worse. The soldiers swept through the city like a storm, with their weapons drawn. Didn’t you see the frowns on their faces? They must’ve been carrying out important orders. M AN #1. They filled the streets and squares. You couldn’t go anywhere without running into them. W O MAN #2. God help us. My heart skips a beat just remembering their expressions. M AN #2. It looks as if a conflict will erupt at any moment. W OMAN #1. No one knows what tomorrow will bring. M A N #2. Praise God. Only he knows. We have no idea what tomorrow will bring. M AN #1. That’s why the smartest thing to do is to buy our bread and disappear into our houses. M AN #3. That’s a good idea. Buy bread and head home.

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W O M AN #2. But when will the baker finish so we can get out of here? WOMAN #1. If I’d had any idea we’d be waiting so long I would’ve brought my children with me. M AN #1. (Looks at Man #4) The longer it takes, the more people will gather in front of the bakery. We’ll be lucky if there’s any bread left at all. MAN #2. (To the baker inside) Are we supposed to just stand here, Abou ʿUmar, with our backs breaking? BA KER . (Offstage) You have to be patient, unless you’d prefer to eat dough. M AN #2. Listen to that. After all this waiting, he’s trying to sell us dough. W O MAN #1. Good lord, what a day. M A N #3. We have no choice but to wait. In times like these, bread’s what matters. W O MAN #2. Even if it’s raw dough and sticks in our throats. M AN #2. We’re still going to wait. Grumbling. Pause. M AN #4. Excuse me, does somebody know exactly what’s going on here? Everyone turns to look at him. They stare as if they have just realized he is among them. M AN #1. (Cynically) Exactly? M A N #2. How is it we’re supposed to know exactly what’s going on? M AN #1. You are from Baghdad, aren’t you?

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M A N #4. Of course I’m from Baghdad, and so was my father and his father. M AN #2. Then you know as much as we do. It’s hardly a secret there’s turmoil in the city. W O MAN #2. It’s like there’s a fire burning, and you can’t hide the smoke. M AN #3 We know what we see, which is dark clouds, black as soot, hovering over Baghdad. W OM AN #1. God have mercy on us. M A N #3. When the storm hits, all we can do is retreat to our houses and shut our windows tight. M AN #1. Didn’t you see the soldiers take over the streets? M AN #4. Yes, and I appealed to God for protection when I did. M AN #1. Don’t you know how tense the situation is, how bad the dispute’s become between the caliph and vizier? M AN #2. They’re both intransigent. They’ve left themselves no room for compromise or retreat. M AN #4. Yes, I know that too. M e n #1 and 2. (Together, angrily) Then what is it you don’t know? M AN #4. A great deal. I asked if any of you knows what the rea‑ son is behind the unrest and dispute. M AN #1. He’s asking about the reason behind the dispute! W O MAN #1. How are we supposed to know why our leaders disagree? M AN #3. What business do people like us have with that? W OMAN #2. They’re having a dispute, that’s it. What’s important for us is that the baker finish baking so we can all go home.

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M AN #4. I think we should consider why they’ve disagreed. We should have an opinion about it. M AN #3. Listen, fellow. You’re raising dangerous questions that have serious consequences. W O MAN #1. Are you trying to dig people’s graves? W O MAN #2. For heaven’s sake, amuse yourself with these terrifying questions elsewhere. Who are we to ask why a caliph and vizier disagree? M AN #3. What matters to us are bread and security, not the reason they’re fighting. W O MAN #2. Yes, by God, bread and security. W O MAN #1. Our children’s safety is more important than anything in the world. M AN #2. What business is it of ours? Hear no evil, see no evil. M A N #4. (Maintaining a calm and self-­confident demeanor) I agree with all of you, but, unfortunately, the road to bread and security passes right through my question. W O MAN #2. (Whispering to Woman #1. Everyone looks annoyed and shocked) He insists on stirring up trouble. W O MAN #1. I’m telling you, he’ll take us all down with him. M AN #1. Why does it have to pass through your question? Maybe they disagreed about tax reduction. M AN #2. Or raising our standard of living. M AN #3. I’ve lived a long time, and I’ve seen leaders rise and fall, but the people of Baghdad stay the same. For them, the goal is security. M AN #1. It’s a well-­known fact that the leaders of Baghdad don’t disagree over the welfare of its people. (Pause. Whispering) Perhaps the treasury is leaking.

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M AN #2. Or maybe it’s a struggle over who commands the army. M AN #1. Or who chooses the governors. W O M A N #2. (Looking worried. Interrupting) For God’s sake, stop talking about this. MAN #1. In a nutshell, the leaders of Baghdad don’t quarrel about the people of Baghdad. Two heavily armed Soldiers appear in the street. Woman #2 sees them, is afraid, and begins to tremble. She worriedly pulls on Man #1’s jacket to draw his attention to them. M AN #4. (Looking down) My God, what you’re saying . . . W OMAN #2. (Terrified as the Soldiers approach) Quiet! MAN #4. (Realizing the Soldiers are approaching, he changes the subject and continues to speak as if nothing’s going on. The others, who appear startled and afraid, listen) When the porter put down his bag on the doorstep to rest, a cool breeze blew softly upon him from the direction of the door. (As the Soldiers come closer, he raises his voice) He smelled a pleasant odor, and taking it in sat down beside the door. He heard the music of a lute and voices pleasantly singing. (The Soldiers stop beside the group) He became curious and walked toward the sound. He pushed the door open and went inside, where he saw a large garden with servants wandering about. The smell of all kinds of delicious food and drink filled his nostrils, so he lifted his head up to the sky and said . . . What did he say? (He pauses for a moment as if to keep his listeners in suspense) SOL DI ER #1. They amuse themselves by telling stories. SOL DI ER #2. I’m hungry. S OL DI ER #1. Our shift hasn’t ended. All right, let’s go. M AN #4. (Continues to speak as the soldiers walk away) He said Praise be the Lord. Then he saw a very beautiful young woman . . .

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Soldiers exit. Man #4 stops talking. They all give sighs of relief. Some of them wipe the sweat from their faces. W O MAN #1. (Her legs begin to shake, she sits) My legs can no longer hold me up. W O MAN #2. I’ve never seen soldiers as terrifying as those. W O M A N #1. They’re always terrifying, even if they don’t look at you. M AN #1. (To Man #4, annoyed) Did you see how important it was to ask about the cause of the conflict? M AN #2. (To Man #4) Why didn’t you ask them what the dispute was about? M AN #3. (To Man #4) You handled the situation perfectly. M AN #4. I swear to God, I’m as terrified of them as you are. I thought my heart was going to stop. But are we supposed to just turn a blind eye as we’re dragged into a situation as serious as this? W O MAN #1. Better to turn a blind eye and remain with our families than turn blind in the darkness of a prison cell. W O MAN #2. (To Woman #1) Enough, for God’s sake. Didn’t you see what just happened? Let’s buy our bread, mind our own business, and go home. M AN #1. Leaders never lack motives to fight. We have nothing to do with their feud. Mumbling is heard among the Customers of the café, which then becomes clearer. CU S T O MER #1. He’s the same one. CU S T O MER #2. The one who was with the Mamlouk Jabir. CU S T O MER #3. He’s still got his nose in other people’s business and it keeps bumping into them.

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CU S T O MER #1. (Loudly to Man #4) Hey, brother, give it up! M AN #4. (Interrupted, he looks at the customers) I wish I could. CU S T O MER #3. It’s a disease. Once it’s got a grip on you, you can’t get rid of it. HAKAWATI. (Raises his voice to control the situation and prevent the flow of the story being interrupted by the discussion) The old man began to speak, to explain what he’d learned from life. M AN #3. I’ll tell you one thing. I’ve lived long enough to know how things happen here. No matter how intense feuds are between our leaders, no matter how far they’re divided by their own self-­ interests, there’s one thing they all agree on. You know what that is, Mr. Bright Guy? M AN #4. I’d love to know. M AN #3. It’s that we, the common people, should never get involved in their business and their conflicts. And if we do, they’ll immediately join forces against us. W O MAN #1. And then the prisons will fill up. M AN #2. Men will begin to disappear. M AN #4. I’ve lived a long life too, much longer than what’s left to live. And what you say is true. I know that as well as I know the prisons of Baghdad and the whips of its guards. W O MAN #2. Have you been in prison? M AN #4. Yes, I have. W OMAN #2. Considering how much you love to ask questions, I’m not surprised. M AN #2. (Sounding victorious and reproachful) See . . . that’s what a person like you gets in the end. W O MAN #2. Consider yourself born anew now that you’re out. Try to stay out of trouble.

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M AN #4. Like you, I used to think that was the way to achieve security. M AN #1. And then the devil whispered in your ear, you changed your mind and found yourself in prison. M AN #4. Yes, I spent a long time in prison, but it made me more certain that your position leads nowhere except to the situation we’re in. We start to rot like garbage and flee in fear like dogs who’ve been bitten. We end up paying the price for disputes whose causes we don’t understand. W O MAN #1. That’s our fate. M AN #2. You’ll certainly be back in prison soon. W O MAN #2. You’d like us all to end up in prison. W O MAN #1. That’s exactly what you’d like to do. M AN #1. We don’t like prison. M AN #4. Neither do I, and I don’t like remembering it. M AN #1. Then don’t get involved in these sorts of affairs. Stay as far away from them as you can. M AN #4. But I also don’t like living like a dog, and I don’t like having to offer my head up as a sacrifice in a dispute in which I have no stake. M AN #1. What’s a person like you or me supposed to do? The dispute’s between the caliph and his vizier. Women #1 and 2, and Men #1, 2, and 3 divide themselves into two groups. The dialogue, which resembles a monologue, is divided among them. They all face Man #4. GR OUP #1. Our master, the caliph, has his soldiers and armies. GR O UP #2. And our master, the vizier, has his soldiers and armies.

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GR O UP #1. The fight between them could start any minute. GR OUP #2. So why should we destroy ourselves? GR OUP #1. The dispute is between a caliph and his vizier. GROUP #2. Each of them has a plan, and each of them has a goal. GR O UP #1. As for us, we have no stake in any of it. M AN #4. (Trying to remain calm) Good people, I see you’re forgetting they’re fighting right above our heads. GR O UP #2. That’s why it’s best if we hide our heads beneath our shoulders. GR OUP #1. We see nothing . . . we hear nothing. GR OUP #2. We wait for the outcome. GR OUP #1. And whoever marries our mother we call uncle. Customers’ comments intermingle with the protests of Man #4. CU S T O MER #1. That’s exactly right. CU S T O MER #2. That’s what anyone would say who cares about his peace of mind. CU S T O MER #1. It’s a headache we can do without. M AN #4. But our heads won’t be spared. CU S T O MER #3. Whoever marries our mother, we call uncle. That’s the safe way. It’s been like that since time immemorial. M AN #4. They’re fighting right above our miserable heads. The heaviest blows will fall upon us. We’re offering up our necks to these executioners . . . worse than executioners. CU S T O MER #1. Be careful. He’s inciting insurrection. CU S T O MER #3. He’s the kind of person who likes to stir up trouble then stand aside and watch what happens. W O MAN #2. For God’s sake, stir up trouble somewhere else.

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M AN #3. And do whatever you’d like with your own head. THE GR OUP . (Imitating the way Man #3 speaks) That’s a good idea, by God. You have a head like everyone else. Do with it whatever you’d like and leave ours alone. W OMAN #1. (Suddenly rises, shouting) Smell that? It’s bread. VOICE S. —Bread. —The bread’s ready. —My turn. —After all this waiting, finally. They all rise except for Man #4, who watches them with sad eyes. They shove each other in front of the bakery window. BA KER . (From inside) Who’s first in line? W O MAN #1. My children have been home alone since morning. M AN #2. We all have families waiting at home. I arrived first. BA KER . (From inside) You have to agree who’s first. M AN #2. I’m first, of course. Remember? I was the first one here. BA KER . (From inside) Maybe you were, but you have to form a line. W O MAN #1. (She acquiesces, stands behind Man #2) There’s no pity left in this world. M AN #3. (Stands at the end of the line. Man #4 remains seated) Everyone needs to wait his turn. It’s better that way. They all stand in line. Each of them buys bread and then leaves. M AN #3. (To Man #4) Get up and take your turn before someone else does. M AN #4. I swear to God, this is not the path to security.

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M AN #3. Buy your bread and go barricade yourself at home. You can’t fix this broken world. M AN #4. I can’t fix a thing by myself, not even the tiny corner of a single room. M AN #3. Then get in the line and buy your bread. They all buy their bread and leave hurriedly. It is the turn of Man #3, who stands by the bakery window. Man #4 rises with effort. He stands behind Man #3, waiting his turn. CU ST OMER #2. Yes, get up, brother. Get up. There, that’s better. Man #4 buys a few loaves of bread and puts them in his bag. He looks at the other Customers with a sad, reproachful look. M AN #4. I swear to God, this is not the path to security. H AK AW A T I. That’s how the people of Baghdad lived. Whoever among them could buy bread did so and then hurried back home. The palace of Vizier Muhammad al-­ʿAbdali was, however, bustling continuously. His Mamlouks would go to the city to try to sniff out news and report back to the vizier. They’d go into his office and then leave it soon after with the vizier screaming and cursing at them. But soon after, they would be sent to the city to sniff out news again and evaluate the situation. The hallways of the palace were brimming with stories. Everyone tried to remain untouched by the turmoil, except for Jabir, who listened to the stories and found them tantalizing. He saw doors suddenly opening in front of him and jumped up and ran toward them, pursuing his dream. CU S T O MER #1. Aha, the Mamlouk Jabir himself. CU S T O MER #2. It must have been an important piece of news to have caught his eye. CU S T O MER #1. Tell us Uncle Muʾnis, what was the news? H AK AW A T I. Be patient. You’ll find out soon enough.

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W AI TER . (Moves around with the coal container) Coals! CU S T O MER #2. Here, Abou Muhammad. W AI TER . Coming right up. As the conversation above takes place, the scene shifts to a hallway in the Vizier’s palace. The Mamlouk Yasir appears. He is tall and well built. His wide face suggests his naivete and coarseness. He walks hurriedly, appearing disturbed and frightened. He encounters Mamlouk Jabir and stops him. YASI R . God help us. J ABI R . What’s wrong with you? You’re acting like your ass is on fire. YASI R . God help us. Grave events are happening in this city. J A B I R . What’s going on with everyone today? Has the apocalypse arrived? YASI R . I don’t know if it’s the apocalypse, but I’m counting my blessings since I left the vizier’s office in one piece. (He wipes the sweat off his forehead) I felt like my soul was being snatched from my body. J A B I R . Maybe the vizier’s been possessed by a demon. Have horns sprouted from his head? Did a pair of fangs descend from his mouth? YA S I R . Stop kidding! I wish you could’ve seen the fury in his face. He looked at me like he wanted to wipe me off the face of the Earth. God help us. If I’d tripped on the way out, he would’ve cut my head off without a second thought. I have no idea what I did wrong. I told him what was going on, no more, no less. Was I supposed to lie? Everyone knows the gates of Baghdad have been sealed shut, and the soldiers are guarding them like angels of death. J ABI R . What soldiers?

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YASIR. His highness the caliph’s soldiers. God help us. All sorts of horrible things are happening around us. I heard the caliph wouldn’t even leave his palace tonight, and he couldn’t sleep a wink. J ABI R . Why, was he afraid someone would steal his pants while he was sleeping? Mansour approaches and stands with them. YASI R . No, but . . . (He suddenly stops, annoyed) God help us, do you think this is a joke? J A B I R . Baghdad’s been decimated by the plague, Mansour. Everyone’s talking about politics now. YASI R . (Afraid) Me, talk politics? I was repeating what I heard, that’s all. M A N S O UR . Don’t mind him. You know how he talks. What’s the latest? YASI R . Everyone’s saying the caliph didn’t sleep last night. (He lowers his voice) His meeting with his security chiefs went on until morning. M ANSO UR . I knew things weren’t going to end well. YASI R . They’ve apparently made some important decisions. At dawn, soldiers left the palace in full gear as if they were marching off to war. They stormed through the streets terrifying everyone then spread out to man the gates to the city. Leaving Baghdad has now become more difficult than a camel passing through the eye of a needle. J ABI R . That’ll save the caliph the need to build new prisons. M ANSO UR . Did you see the soldiers with your own eyes? YASI R . See them? God help us, I was just there. Our master, the vizier, was deeply disturbed so he sent me to see what was going on at the gates and report back to him. When I told him, he became furious with me. What was I supposed to do? Lie? I described what I saw with

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my own eyes, that’s all. They were standing at the gates, searching everyone trying to get out. It was a more thorough search than the one we’ll all face on Judgment Day. God help us, it was enough to make you shiver like you were looking death in the eye. They were searching every pocket, every pleat. They even made some people take their clothes off. They tore the linings out and searched under them. And woe unto anyone who protested or showed the least hesitation. J ABI R . Women too? YASI R . Men, women, it made no difference. J ABI R . (Mocking Yasir) God help us! M ANSO UR . Apparently they’re expecting something important to be smuggled out of Baghdad. YA S I R . Important and dangerous. There’s a letter floating around, looking for a way out. M ANSO UR . Is it from our master, the vizier? YASI R . That’s hardly a secret. When he found out the soldiers had sealed the city shut, his face turned red and furious words started spewing out of his mouth. God help us. Rage destroys discretion. M ANSO UR . The war between them’s getting worse and there’s no way to stop it. Do you know where the vizier was planning to send his letter? J ABI R . You ask him as if he were the keeper of government secrets. YASI R . God help us, how should I know? The only thing I’m certain of is the letter’s very important and very dangerous. When the vizier found out about these new security measures that were put in place by the caliph, he almost had a stroke. He’d pay anything to have this letter delivered. I’m sure of it. J ABI R . (Suddenly paying close attention to what is being said) What did you say?

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YASI R . (Surprised) What did I say? J ABI R . Tell me again what you just said. YASI R . You’re confusing me. I said our master, the vizier, would give anything to have this letter delivered. J ABI R . (Thinking) Anything? YASI R . That’s right. I’ve never seen his face as flushed as it was today. M A N S O UR . Things are happening very fast around here. We have no idea what kind of schemes are being devised. J ABI R . Did our master, the vizier, offer a specific reward? YASI R . Reward, yes, reward? Anyone who can get the letter out can have whatever reward he wants. J ABI R . If he asked the vizier for a promotion, he’d get it? YASI R . He’d rise right through the ranks. J ABI R . (Eyes glowing) The vizier would give him a sack full of gold? YASI R . He’d give him sacks, but who’d be crazy enough to try? God help us, the one carrying it would turn into a cadaver before he took a step out of Baghdad. M A N S O UR . You’re becoming more interested in this, Jabir? What do you have in mind? J ABI R . Something brilliant, Mansour. But wait, tell me again. How do they conduct the search? YASI R . Don’t even ask! I told you it’s more thorough than that of the Day of Judgment. Go see for yourself. It’s more thorough than the examination you’ll go through on Judgment Day. God help us, I watched with my own eyes as they tore a loaf of bread to pieces, looking for something hidden in it. They search everything—clothes,

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shoes . . . And on top of that the interrogations are meticulous. Don’t get your hopes up. Air itself couldn’t pass through unnoticed. J ABI R . But a sleight of hand can be lighter than air. M ANSO UR . What do you have in mind, Jabir? J A B I R . Beautiful and amazing things, Mansour. The glitter of gold, Zumurrud’s perfume, a promotion. (To Yasir) You’re sure the vizier won’t refuse anything to the person who can deliver this letter? YASI R . Sure as I’m standing here. God help us, he’d probably pay much more than that. J ABI R . We’re about to find out. (He starts to leave) M ANSO UR . (Worried) You really are insane, aren’t you? Where are you going? J A B I R . To seek inspiration, Mansour. I need it. I told you we might get paid instead of having to pay ourselves. I have to put on my thinking cap. This is an opportunity that’s not to be missed. M ANSO UR . You’re acting like an idiot. But even so, I don’t want to see you get hurt. You’re being seduced by a snare that’s fatal. J ABI R . That depends on this storm that’s beginning to brew in my head. Remember me in your prayers. (He walks away singing. They appear stunned) When I become the caliph, I’ll appoint you prime minister. (He exits) M ANSO UR . It’s sheer madness. YASI R . (Naively) He can’t be serious. M ANSO UR . You don’t know him. YASI R . If he’d seen those soldiers, the thought would never have crossed his mind. M ANSO UR . (As he exits) God grant that this all ends well.

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YASI R . (Stands for a moment, looking perplexed) God help us. Mansour and Yasir exit together, carrying the props with them. H A K AW A T I . The Mamlouk Jabir’s a brilliant, cunning fellow. He sees a chance and snatches it without hesitation. He knows that opportunity only knocks once. Shrewd people never wait for a second chance. His desires are suddenly within his grasp, if his imagination will only cooperate. Why should he care what happens in Baghdad as long as he succeeds in the end? Several times he goes to the city gates and returns, trying to envision a successful ploy. The Mamlouk Jabir’s a brilliant, cunning man. If he puts his mind to something he’ll certainly succeed. He continues to ponder the problem, and then the ruse occurs to him. His face beams with joy, and he requests an urgent audience with the vizier. As the Hakawati speaks, props that represent the Vizier’s opulent office are set. The Vizier is seated in the office with his friend ʿAbdallatif, a rich and influential prince of Baghdad. The Vizier is past forty and obese. His frowning face shows a deep-­seated cruelty, and his eyes are full of hatred. He looks very worried and agitated. After a moment, he abruptly rises and walks about the room. He involuntarily thrusts out his lower lip, pulls the hair of his moustache and bites on it. He spits. Every once in a while he takes a snuffbox out of his vest pocket, removes some snuff, sniffs it, and sneezes. He repeats these actions before his Guard enters. ʿAbdallatif is as nervous as the Vizier. He tries to appear more composed, however, and remains seated. The Guard approaches the Vizier. GUA R D . One of your Mamlouks is at the door, asking to see you, sir. VIZI ER . What does he want? GUA R D . He didn’t say, but he insists on meeting with you in private.

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VIZI ER . (Annoyed) Let him wait. GUAR D. Yes, sir. (He exits) V I Z I ER . (Walking around, biting his tongue) What do we do now? ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. We have to admit, they’re one step ahead of us. Who could have imagined al-­Muntasir would act so quickly? VIZIER . (Violently) I did. His brother ʿAbdallah has been up to something for quite a while. He’s the brains behind the whole operation. He was talking to influential merchants, writing to regional governors, meeting secretly with the caliph. We should’ve been prepared for a sudden blow to our heads. ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. We didn’t see it coming. VIZI ER . We should have, but you wouldn’t listen to me and now we’ve lost the element of surprise. ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. No one could’ve guessed things would happen this fast. VIZI ER . Don’t tell me no one could’ve known. I told you over and over. I kept urging you to act. It was obvious they wanted to eliminate me and all the princes who support me, especially you. That’s the only way they can have exclusive control and run things the way they want to. No, don’t tell me no one could’ve known. They’d laid their cards out on the table before the crisis ever erupted. If you hadn’t wavered, they would’ve been swallowed up by Satan long before they had the chance to surround us. ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. It’s not a simple matter to invite a foreign army to invade your city without considering the consequences. You know what an invasion entails if it succeeds: indiscriminate destruction that can be impossible to contain. VIZI ER . An army we invite to invade will safeguard our interests

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and lay the groundwork for us to rule. Why should we care what happens beyond that? Sure, there’ll be destruction. An army’s not going to arrive to the tune of drumbeats and singing, handing out perfume and roses. It’ll kill and destroy. The caliph and all his progeny will be annihilated, his palaces will be reduced to ruins, and the city will be ransacked. But that’s the price one pays for victory. What’s to worry about? They’ll come and install us in power. What more could we ask for? ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. Even so, it’s important to consider the circumstances in which we find ourselves. VIZI ER . Our circumstances are no mystery. The motives for the conflict are obvious. We have only two options. We can either agree to our own destruction or request foreign intervention to resolve the conflict in a way that benefits us. ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. You yourself vacillated. You agreed that preparations were necessary before they invaded. VIZIER. Obviously. We had to guarantee the loyalty of a number of commanders. We had to take some precautions . . . How were we going to goad them into invading unless we could guarantee they’d win? ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. Blaming each other’s not going to help us now. We ultimately both agreed a letter had to be sent. VIZI ER . (Takes snuff out and sneezes) Yes, we came to a decision after we’d already lost the initiative. (He sneezes several times. Heavy silence) ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. Tell me . . . do you think they’re on to what we’re up to or is this just precautionary? VIZI ER . They must suspect something. ʿAbdallah has a network of informants and spies. Didn’t you notice the regiment guarding the gates is the one from the palace that’s directly commanded by

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ʿAbdallah, the one that contains none of our collaborators? They may not know our precise plan but they’re obviously suspicious, and they’re taking precautions against all possibilities. ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. If they actually know what our plan is they’ll accelerate the battle. That may be what they’re planning next. VIZI ER . Battle? No. (He sniffs and sneezes) They wouldn’t risk that yet. ʿAbdallah calculates meticulously. He knows the outcome’s unpredictable. (Pause) Their next move is obvious. They’ll contact provincial governors and give them whatever they want in return for their support. They’ll even grant them independence if they agree to assist by dispatching forces. They won’t risk a battle before that. We just have to ride out this period of uncertainty. ʿ ABDALLATIF. We better take precautions. Surprises can always happen. Who knows, the common people may seize the opportunity to start an uprising. No one knows how things will unfold. V I Z I ER . (Scornfully) The common people? Who cares about them? They’re not going to create trouble. All you have to do is threaten them and they disappear into their houses. ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. What about the sheikh at the mosque? Where will he stand on this? He can whip up the common people if he wants to, and, frankly, I don’t trust him. VIZI ER . Don’t worry, I know him better than you do. He’s extremely prudent. He doesn’t get involved in such matters, and he never takes a step without knowing where he’s going. His Friday sermon will be carefully worded. It will give the impression he supports neither side. (With scorn) We shouldn’t be wasting our time on this. It’s inconsequential. We only have a small window of opportunity, and if they’re able to make contact before we are, their swords will show no mercy. They’ll cut our heads off one by one and hang them like trophies in the squares of Baghdad. Did you hear me? Your head, my head, and many others . . . dangling with their blood dripping

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down on the faces of the dancers gathered to celebrate around them. We’re in a race against time, and our opponents have the advantage. ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. It’s a very dangerous situation. It all depends on the letter, but . . . VIZI ER . (Interrupting sharply) Forget about “but.” If the letter doesn’t leave Baghdad, we’re done for. We have to proceed with our plan. It’s life or death. No matter how dangerous it is or what it costs, we have to get this letter out of Baghdad. ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. How do you suggest we do it? V IZIER . We’ll have a meeting this evening and decide. We have to, and we have to find a way to carry out our plan or we’re finished. ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. (Pause) That sounds reasonable. The others may have some useful suggestions too. VIZI ER . We have to come up with a solution. ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. Shall we invite everyone? Guard enters. V I Z I ER . Everyone. And remember, ʿAbdallah has spies everywhere, buzzing around like flies. (Pause) Our opponents have scored a point, but they haven’t won the round, and they won’t as long as I’m still standing. GUA R D. (Afraid) Sir . . . The Mamlouk insists on seeing you. He claims it’s important and can’t be postponed. VIZI ER . (Angrily) Insists? What does that raven want? GUA R D. I don’t know, sir. ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. I’m leaving. VIZI ER . Remember, prince, our every move is being watched. ʿ ABDA LLA T IF. Put your mind at ease. VIZI ER . (After a few moments) Let the crow in. If this turns out

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to be something trivial, I’ll make an example of him for everyone to see. GUA R D. (Exits, walking backward and bowing) Yes, sir. (As he reaches the door, he calls out to Jabir) Our master’s Mamlouk Jabir may enter. Jabir enters, looking exuberant. He shows respect by bowing in such an exaggerated manner that it gives the clear impression he is insincere. J ABI R . (Still bowing) Peace be upon my master and provider, the great vizier of Baghdad! VIZI ER . (Uninterested) Aren’t you the loudmouth Jabir? J ABI R . May God grant you a long life and shorten those of your enemies. Yes, I’m your Mamlouk Jabir. VIZI ER . What do you want? J A B I R . I want my master to have blissful days and successful endeavors. VIZI ER . (Takes out his snuff ) Go ahead, speak. But woe unto you if you’ve come here about something trivial. J ABI R . (As the Vizier sneezes) May God, the Lord of the Kaʿba, forbid it. When I discovered our master, the vizier, was worried I became worried myself. I was so distressed it seemed the world had shrunk to the size of a thimble. V I Z I ER . (Becoming upset, frowning) Have you come here to shower me with cheap sentiment? If you have something to say, say it and be brief. You people bring nothing but trouble. Even an owl would flee fearing bad luck at the sight of you. J ABI R . May God strike me dead if I bring bad news to our master, the vizier. I’ve come to satisfy his needs, if he still has needs, that is. VIZI ER . (Staring) Satisfy my needs? When did anything good

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come from any of you? The second I send you people on a mission, you start shaking as if you were staring death in the eye. J ABI R . Here I am, my master, at your beck and call. Even in a situation as difficult as this, you can count on me to find a solution. VIZI ER . I always knew you were a big talker. Did you come here to flatter me, or do you actually have something in mind? J ABI R . If my master will simply put me to the test, he’ll find out whether I’m flattering him or not. VIZIER. Do you have any idea what this mission is? I need someone who’s prepared to risk his life. J ABI R . I don’t want to stick my nose in other people’s business, but when I heard that my master was worried I became worried myself and began to wonder why. I dreamed of doing something to diminish his anguish and satisfy his needs. After much investigation, I discovered my master was worried about a letter that he wished to smuggle out of Baghdad. VIZI ER . So, everyone in the city knows about our business? J ABI R . I hope my master will forgive my curiosity. I didn’t mean to . . . VIZI ER . (Interrupting and looking interested) Forget it, Mamlouk. It’s too late for caution. What I need now’s a man who’ll undertake this mission in spite of the risks involved. J ABI R . Here I am, my master. VIZI ER . (Surprised. He takes some snuff and involuntarily sniffs it) You! How do you propose to do it? Have you seen what the sol‑ diers are doing at the gates of the city? J ABI R . Yes, by God, I have, sir. No one could evade them, even if he wore a hat that made him invisible. They search anyone coming in or out of the city as if it were Judgment Day. (He pauses, comes

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close to the Vizier and whispers to him) Even so, we’ll make fools of them, turn them into the laughingstock of the town for generations to come. V I Z I ER . (Anxious, he sneezes) Make fools of them? What are you talking about, Mamlouk? If you’re kidding I’ll flay you and use your skin for a daraboukka drum. Tell me, how are you going to make fools of them? What is this wonderful plan of yours? J ABI R . It’s all prepared, sir. VIZI ER . (Very anxious. Sniffs snuff again) Tell me then, now! If what you say is true . . . J ABI R . (With a cunning smile) If what I say is true? VIZI ER . I’ll reward you generously. J ABI R . All I want is for my master to be happy. However, I do find myself unable to resist his generosity. VIZI ER . Cut the bargaining. I’ll give you whatever you want. J ABI R . You’ll free me from slavery? VIZI ER . I’ll give you anything you want if you deliver the letter. J ABI R . You’ll allow me to marry Zumurrud, the servant of my mistress, Shams al-­Nahar? VIZIER . (Impatiently) She’s yours . . . and a large sum of money besides. But tell me first, what is your plan? J ABI R . (Approaches the vizier and bows. Speaks very slowly and stresses his words) I give you my head, sir. VIZI ER . Give me your head? What use do I have for your head? I’m warning you one more time, Mamlouk, if you cross me I’ll use your skin to make a daraboukka. J ABI R . If my head had no use I wouldn’t offer it to my master. VIZIER . What good will it do me?

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J ABI R . I watched the soldiers for many hours, sir. I saw how they searched, like snakes inserting their fingers in everything. They ripped clothes apart and cut shoes to shreds. They scratched people, poking their fingers into every inch of people’s bodies, on their backs, in their bellies and sometimes even between their thighs. But none of them once thought of searching the head underneath people’s hair. VIZI ER . (Naively) What would they find underneath someone’s hair besides fleas and lice? J ABI R . They might find the letter they were searching for, sir. VIZIER. (Surprised. His hand freezes as he tries to get some snuff ) The letter? (Their eyes meet, glowing with interest) You mean . . . ? J ABI R . Yes, sir. (He looks around him) I assume no one’s listening to our conversation. VIZI ER . No one would dare set foot near my official chamber. J ABI R . Then listen to the plan. We contact the barber and tell him to shave my head. When my scalp’s as smooth as a concubine’s cheek, my master writes his letter on it, we wait for my hair to grow back and I walk out of Baghdad. The Vizier gasps. He puts snuff in his nostrils but does not sneeze in excitement, which makes his face look like a wrinkled mask. Customers begin whispering and making comments. CU S T O MER #1. Lord in heaven, what an idea. CU S T O MER #2. How did he come up with a plan like that? CU S T O MER #3. My God, how brilliant! CUSTOMER #1. Now, that’s a man. Someone like him could pull the strings of the whole country. CU S T O MER #2. I told you how cunning he was the first time I laid eyes on him.

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VIZI ER . (Trying to shake off his excitement) Wait. We shave your head first. J ABI R . Right. VIZI ER . Then we write the letter on it. J ABI R . Right. VIZI ER . And we wait until your hair grows back and the words have disappeared beneath it. J ABI R . Right. The Vizier stares at Jabir, looking baffled. He suddenly lets out a big sneeze. CU S T O MER #3. The vizier can’t believe it. CU S T O MER #2. (To the Vizier) Give him a huge reward. CU S T O MER #1. It’s a priceless plan. VIZI ER . (Approaches Jabir, still looking baffled. Tenderly) My God, Mamlouk, you’ve figured out how to do it. J ABI R . (Meaningfully) Seeing how pleased my master is with his Mamlouk’s plan, I hope he’s not having second thoughts about the promises he made. VIZI ER . (Lost in thought, with a look of gratitude at apparently having satisfied his thirst for revenge. Carelessly) Don’t worry, the promises will be kept. (Walks around aimlessly) CU S T O MER #3. A little while ago, he looked like a trapped rat. CU S T O MER #2. And then he heard Jabir’s plan. VIZI ER . They may have won the point, but I’ll win the round. Now we have the upper hand. They’re within our grasp, al-­Muntasir and his brother. (He clenches his fist) I’ll squeeze them like rotten fruit. I’ll spring quite a surprise on people this evening. But we must be very cautious. We’ll do exactly as we planned and watch every step we take.

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J ABI R . (Hastening) Will my master give the order to begin now? The sooner we start, the better. VIZI ER . Absolutely. We can’t lose a second. We’re in a race with time. (Stands in front of Jabir and looks at him with joy and admiration. He grasps Jabir’s head and plays with his hair in a bizarre way) This plan of yours is going to change things in a big way, Mamlouk Jabir. J ABI R . What’s important is my master’s happy and he’s going to show his generosity to me. VIZI ER . (Smiling) Behind your smooth phrases, lies a persistent person. Do you doubt my promises? J ABI R . God forbid. VIZI ER . I told you, we’ll give you what you asked for after you deliver the letter. When you return to Baghdad, the woman you desire and a large sum of money will await you. J ABI R . May God grant you a long life and fill your days with prosperity and happiness, my master. VIZI ER . Bring on the barber. J ABI R . Yes, bring on the barber. And have him bring his sharpest blades with him. Lights are directed at the Hakawati and dimmed on the Vizier’s chamber. The following scene of haircutting is mimed ritualistically. Movement is slow, heavy, and premeditated. It occurs at the same time as the Hakawati’s narration, offering a melancholic counterpoint. H AK AW A T I. The vizier summoned the barber and ordered him to bring his sharpest blade. He came immediately, accompanied by three boys. The Barber enters, followed by Three Boys. They walk slowly in a composed manner, showing great solemnity. They are wearing bright white clothes and carrying the Barber’s tools. One of the Boys carries a bar-

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ber’s chair and a footrest. The second carries a bag with the Barber’s tools and some towels. The third carries a carafe and washbowl made of pure silver. They stand in the middle of the chamber. Every once in a while, they bow ceremoniously in unison. They approach Jabir and begin to set up the chair and equipment. The barber’s chair is placed facing the audience, the footrest in front of Jabir. The ceremonious nature of their gestures reinforces the solemn tone of the scene. H AK AW A T I. The vizier led his Mamlouk to the chair and eased him into it. The Mamlouk sat proudly erect, his eyes twinkling as he began his reverie. The barber opened his bag, removed a glistening razor and leather strop, and began to sharpen the blade. (He sings as the Barber sharpens the blade) Sharpen your blade, barber Hone it until it shines like lightning The head you’re shaving has a role to play in these troubled times Grip your razor firmly, slide your hand with grace The head you’re shaving has a role to play in these troubled times Hone your blade until it shines like lightning. The Hakawati continues narrating. The boys prepared a shave fit for a vizier’s watchful eye. And when the barber’s blade became so sharp it could slice through steel, he held Jabir’s head gently in his hands. The muscles in Jabir’s neck went slack, and he peacefully surrendered to the bliss of his dreams. VIZI ER . (Nervously) This head is priceless to me. Cut as adroitly as you can. Remove the hair, down to its deepest roots. I want my Mamlouk’s scalp to be softer than a virgin’s cheeks. BA R BER . (Bows ritualistically) Yes, sir. BOYS. (Standing at the ready behind the Barber, singing softly) Shave the scalp and make it smooth As smooth as a virgin’s cheeks Slide the blade with grace and skill

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Shave the scalp and make it smooth As smooth as a virgin’s cheeks. H AK AW A T I. (Speaks as the boys are singing) The barber began cutting the Mamlouk’s hair, his hand so graceful and blade so sharp that Jabir felt nothing but a comforting coolness, like that of a gentle breeze. Jabir’s hair fell to the ground, lock after lock, as his head turned smooth. The barber’s hand slid with grace and skill, and as it moved the Mamlouk’s scalp began to glow. VIZI ER . A smoother shave, barber, make it as close as you can. B AR BER . (Bowing) Yes, sir. B OYS. Make the scalp as smooth as a virgin’s cheeks. H AK AW A T I. As Jabir’s scalp was shorn, he could feel the coldness of the steel, but did not shiver, and his eyes betrayed no sign of agitation. Instead they filled with ecstasy as the blade moved across his head until it glistened like a mirror. (Lights fall on Jabir. His head shines) BA R BER . (He puts cologne on Jabir’s head and spreads it with his fingers, which glide on his head) There you have it, clean and dapper, my master. BOYS Our master’s Mamlouk is clean and dapper. VIZI ER . (Feeling Jabir’s head, impressed at how smooth it is) Excellent. Even the most beautiful virgin would be jealous of skin this smooth. (He looks at the Barber and the Boys) You may leave now. (The Barber and the Boys put away their tools and exit in the same ritualized manner, repeating the phrase above) Our master’s Mamlouk is clean and dapper. J ABI R . I tremble with joy knowing my master cares so much for my unworthy head. VIZI ER . Your head is worth an entire kingdom, Jabir.

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J A B I R . It all belongs to you, sir. (Pause until the Barber exits) Now, if my master would find some indelible ink and a quill. VIZI ER . (Excited) Without delay. (He searches for a quill and inkpot. Jabir touches his scalp for the first time and a smile appears on his face. The Vizier approaches with a quill and inkpot in his hands) J A B I R . I’m all yours, sir. (Jabir slowly kneels, facing the audience so that the expression on his face can be clearly seen. The Vizier retrieves a low chair and sits on it behind Jabir. He places the inkpot beside him. He rubs on Jabir’s head, which once more shimmers under the light. He dips the quill in the inkpot and begins to write. Jabir’s face quivers as the quill pierces his head, but he tolerates the pain. His eyelids flutter as he grimaces in pain as he speaks) I wish my master would choose gentler words, which come straight to the point. VIZI ER . Don’t worry, I’ll be as concise as possible. (From time to time he stops to think of a word, then resumes writing) J ABI R . (His face contorting in pain) I can feel this word piercing my scalp all the way to my brain. I wish you’d find another, sir. V I Z I ER . I’m almost done. (He finishes the sentence, puts the quill down and begins to close the inkpot. He suddenly stops and considers) J ABI R . May I rise, sir, now that you’re done with the note? V I Z I ER . (Thinking) No, wait a moment. (He rises and walks around his office. He takes some snuff and sneezes) H AK AW A T I. And the vizier thought and thought. A nota bene, an admonition, seemed to be missing. He hesitated, sneezed and hesitated some more. He paced back and forth. Then his face lit up, he walked back and sat down. VIZI ER . One last sentence and we’re done. (He writes one more sentence. Jabir’s face contorts in pain) VIZI ER . (Pats Jabir’s shoulder. Smiling) You may rise now.

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JABIR. (Rising) Will my master honor me by telling me to whom I’ll deliver his letter? VIZI ER . Not yet. You’ll find out later. What’s important now is that your hair grow back quickly and conceal your head like a black cap. J ABI R . And in the meantime? V I Z I ER . In the meantime you’ll remain in a dark, secluded room so no one, neither man nor jinni, can see you or read what’s written on your head. J ABI R . I’ll do anything for you, sir. VIZIER . Then wrap a kaffiyeh on your head and prepare to remain in a dark room. Come. (The Vizier holds Jabir by the hand and they exit) H AK AW A T I. I must beg the listeners’ pardon for a brief tea break. Of course, if you wish to be excused and go out too, you may. And those who wish may stay. The Customers comment impulsively. CU S T O MER #1. No, continue, for God’s sake. CU S T O MER #3. We want to hear the rest of the story. CU S T O MER #1. You always choose the worst moments to take your break. CU S T O MER #2. Tea for Uncle Muʾnis. CU S T O MER #1. You can drink your tea while you read. H AK AW A T I. Don’t worry, I’ll continue the story, but I need to catch my breath. CU S T O MER #3. Let him do what he wishes. Uncle Muʾnis is not going to change his habits. CU S T O MER #2. Coal, Abou Muhammad. W AI TER . Coming right up.

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The atmosphere becomes casual again. The café is now more chaotic; Customers are speaking, making comments, and calling out to Abou Muhammad, who moves about taking orders. Some Customers take advantage of the break, briefly leaving the café. CU S T O MER #1. I want to know how things are going to turn out for this young fellow. CU S T O MER #2. I like him, by God. CU S T O MER #3. He understands life as if he’s already lived for decades. CU S T O MER #2. He knows how to seize an opportunity. CU S T O MER #3. Life’s like a woman. She’ll only give herself to the one who knows how and when to seize her. The Waiter, who is carrying a tray with teacups on it, places one in front of the Hakawati and distributes the rest. He returns a short while later carrying the coal container to put coal on argilehs. CU S T O MER #1. I think there’s a prominent position in store for this Mamlouk. CU S T O MER #2. As smart and brave as he is, he can sit on the throne of Baghdad. CU S T O MER #4. Let’s not get carried away. He’s just a clever young guy who leaps at an opportunity when he sees it. CU S T O MER #3. Leaps at an opportunity? What about it? That’s the way you rise in this world. CU S T O MER #4. It may be how you fall too if you don’t know where you’re headed. CU S T O MER #2. We know what makes the world go ’round. CU S T O MER #1. A fellow this agile can get out of any tight spot unscathed. For God’s sake, Uncle Muʾnis, hurry up. I think something important’s in store for this Mamlouk. What about you?

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H A K AW A T I . Patience. . . . You’ll find out what happens soon enough. CU S T O MER #1. Okay. Uncle Muʾnis doesn’t want to tell us. Let’s bet on it. CU S T O MER #2. Count me in. CU S T O MER #4. Count me out. It’s possible what you said was going to happen will, but logic says it won’t. CU S T O MER #1. That’s ridiculous. We know what makes the world go ’round. CU S T O MER #2. We’ll hear the rest of the story soon. CU S T O MER #1. Tea, Abou Muhammad! CU S T O MER #3. Turn on the radio since Uncle Muʾnis is still on break. CU S T O MER #2. Yes, turn on the radio, Abou Muhammad. Abou Muhammad turns the radio on. ANNO U NCER . An important meeting was held at the presidential palace at seven this evening. It was attended by the ministers. CU S T O MER #1. Change the station, Abou Muhammad. CU S T O MER #4. Let’s listen to the news. CU S T O MER #1. No news, no headache! CU S T O MER #2. Try to find a pretty song. CU S T O MER #3. Right, a pretty song. Abou Muhammad turns the dial, searching for a song. Umm Kulthum’s song “That’s the Way Love Is” is heard. CU S T O MERS. —Yes. —Leave it there. —Beautiful!

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The dial is adjusted. Umm Kulthum’s voice is heard clearly as she repeats the line, “That’s the Way Love Is.” Uncle Muʾnis watches the Customers and shakes his head as he calmly drinks his tea. Intermission. When the intermission ends the song fades but can still be heard in the background. CU S T O MER #2. Uncle Muʾnis has finished his tea. CU S T O MER #1. Let’s hear the rest of the story. CU S T O MER #3. This kind of story’s okay, but just between you and me nothing can compare with The Epic of Zahir. Now that’s a story. CU S T O MER #1. You’re right. CU S T O MER #2. For heaven’s sake, Uncle Muʾnis, why are you teasing us? Why won’t you tell us The Epic? H AK AW A T I. Uncle Muʾnis doesn’t know how to tease. But he knows his book and its stories. They have an order and it must be followed. CUSTOMER #2. You’re so concerned about the order of the book you’d think it was sacred. H AK AW A T I. We won’t understand the era of The Epic without understanding the historical conditions that preceded it. Don’t forget, there’s a sequence to history. CU S T O MER #2. When will you be done with those stories? H AK AW A T I. All in due time. CU S T O MER #2. Is today’s story the last? H AK AW A T I. Who knows? (He opens his book. In a barely audible voice) In the name of God, the All Compassionate, All Merciful. CU S T O MER #2. It’s useless. He’s reserved and stubborn too. CU S T O MER #3. Abou Muhammad, why don’t you help us convince Uncle Muʾnis to start The Epic tomorrow.

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W AI TER . And what makes you think I can? I’m more anxious to hear it than anyone. H A K AW A T I . We return to the story and commence with our prayer for the Prophet Muhammad. VOICE S —May God’s peace and blessing be upon him. —Now we’re going to find out what happened to Jabir. —Turn off the radio, Abou Muhammad. The Customers and Waiter wait in silent anticipation. H AK AW A T I. The vizier said to Jabir, his Mamlouk, “Come with me.” He covered his head with a black kaffiyeh and led him to a dark room. He posted a frightening guard at the door so that no one dared come near as Jabir’s hair grew back and hid the vizier’s letter. As the tension and anticipation grew within the vizier’s palace, in the caliph’s palace people engaged in meeting after meeting. The caliph and the vizier scratched their heads as if they were chess players studying where on the board, which was the city of Baghdad, to move their knights and pawns. As the Hakawati speaks, two Actors enter. They are the same actors who played the roles of the Vizier and Prince ʿAbdallatif. Now they play the roles of the Caliph al-­Muntasir Billah and his brother ʿAbdallah. They place simple props that represent the office of the Caliph, which looks very similar to that of the Vizier. They take their places and wait for the Hakawati to finish speaking. ʿ ABDA LLA H . The moment’s come to take the decisive step. C AL I PH. You’re certain of the outcome? ʿ A B D A LLA H . I wouldn’t tell you it was the right moment if I weren’t sure of the result. C AL I PH. Don’t forget, he has loyal followers among the army commanders.

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ʿ ABDA LLAH. How could I? What good will they do him now that our correspondence has been fruitful? (He waves letters about) C A L I PH . (Annoyed) Correspondence! You mean concessions that’ll deprive us of most of our provinces. ʿ ABDALLAH. (Stridently) We’re not discussing this again. Sometimes you have to give something up to gain something more important in return. We couldn’t have convinced the governors to send assistance unless we made concessions. Without their aid we can’t defeat him. Tell me, do you want us to simply wash our hands of the matter and hand over free rein of Baghdad to the vizier? He’s consolidating his position, strengthening his troops, and, when the right moment comes, he’ll annihilate us. C A L I PH . (Infuriated) Don’t provoke me. I’m determined not to back off this time. You know I can’t tolerate having two governments in Baghdad anymore. If after everything that’s happened I’m forced to receive him here in my office and look at his wily face I’ll be gripped with fury . . . ʿ ABDA LLA H . Then why are we hesitating? Intrigue’s the soul of governance. We set aside certain rivalries to focus on the one that’s most important. We’ll deal with the others when the time comes. We have the upper hand here. We’ve cut off his communications with those outside the city, which has helped us convince the most powerful governors to join us. Our forces are just waiting for us to give the signal. This is the moment to give the order to march toward Baghdad. C A L IPH . Our calculations must be meticulous. We can’t afford mistakes. ʿ ABDA LLAH. I’m excellent at calculations, as you know. I give you my assurance, the moment has arrived for us to be rid of them and take power again. C AL I PH. Although it’s necessary for all these ambitious gover-

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nors to assist us, I’m concerned about them arriving with huge military forces. We may rid ourselves of one evil only to face another. If victory whets their appetites, they may demand some very substantial spoils. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Leave that to me. Once we’re done with the vizier and can unify the forces in Baghdad, whatever arises will be easy to deal with. Remember, I know all the rivalries that exist among the governors. It’ll be easy to ignite wars between them that’ll deplete their energy and leave them vulnerable. The concessions we made may turn out to be temporary. C AL I PH. They’re binding agreements, ʿAbdallah. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Leader of all Muslims, power is the only contract that binds parties. Besides, there’s no need to get into that now. The essential mission that confronts us is to rid ourselves of the vizier and his followers. The moment has arrived. Give your governors the order to march on Baghdad. We have to prepare their provisions before they arrive. There are many arrangements to make, and time is of the essence. C AL I PH. (Lost in thought. Pause) Can you imagine how many resources these forces will require while they’re in Baghdad? You know how soldiers are. Their bellies are as big as barrels, and nothing fills them. ʿ ABDA LLA H . That’s one of the things we need to prepare for. C AL I PH. The treasury doesn’t have the money for this, even with our personal funds. How are we supposed to cover their expenses and pay them bounties? ʿ ABDA LLA H . We’ll find a way. C AL I PH. Do you think the merchants will be generous and . . . ʿ ABDA LLA H . Merchants?

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C A L IPH . Why not? They have as much at stake as we do. We’re protecting their interests too. ʿ ABDA LLAH. Honestly, I think we should spare the merchants this expense. They were never ungenerous with us. Our treasury bears witness to that. C AL I PH. Then how are we going to cover the expenditures for these forces? ʿ A B D A LLA H . It’s simple. Why are they coming? They’re not coming for a tour of Baghdad. They’re coming to perform a sacred duty, to protect the caliph and to safeguard the unity of Muslims. Protecting the caliph is a sacred duty. When he’s powerful, they’re powerful, and when he’s weak they remain divided. That’s why everyone should pay his fair share to protect the caliphate. It’s their primary duty as Muslims. C AL I PH. (Surprised) What do you mean? ʿ A B D A LLA H . You don’t understand? We’ll impose a religious tax on the people of Baghdad. That way we can cover all necessary expenses. C A L I PH . (Smiling) A religious tax? God deliver us from your cunning. It’s a clever idea, but I’m worried people will protest. In situations like this protests can easily turn into riots and then everything can turn against us. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Riots? The people of Baghdad cause riots? (With disdain) You should inform yourself better about your own subjects, caliph. I, on the other hand, know them well. They may complain, but the minute they see the face of a soldier they’ll chew their complaints into little pieces and swallow them. In the end, they’ll run and dig up the ground looking for the money to pay the tax. C AL I PH. You seem very confident about this measure. ʿ ABDA LLA H . As I said, I have a talent for making calculations,

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and one who knows how to calculate doesn’t miss the opportunity to make his move. This is the right moment, caliph. Give the order, and let’s prepare for the final blow. C AL I PH. Since you’re so certain and God wills it, let’s proceed. CU S T O MER. As God, or this sly dog, wills it! H A K AW A T I . (As the two Actors exit, carrying the props with them) And that’s the way things went between the caliph and his brother, ’Abdallah. As for the people of Baghdad, their situation went from bad to worse. They grew frightened, uncertain of what the future would bring. Life turned more difficult, bread became scarce. Anxiety mingled with hunger, misery with necessity. Their parched tongues cried out: God have mercy. While the Hakawati is speaking a woman, Wife, enters carrying a baby. She should be the same woman who played the role of Woman #2. Her room, which resembles a shed, is wretched. The baby is crying. The Wife, who appears quite sad and miserable, appears to be waiting for something. W I F E . (Rocking the baby and singing) Heeyalla . . . heeyalla . . . sleep, my darling, sleep . . . heeyalla. (Baby still crying) Oh God, what shall I do? (She unbuttons her dress and takes her breast out to feed the baby. To the baby) You know my breasts are dry. There isn’t a drop of milk in them. How could I have milk in me? It’s been two days since I last had a morsel of food. (Finding nothing to nourish it, the baby cries again) Heeyalla . . . heeyalla . . . (The Husband, who is approximately twenty, enters. He is played by the same actor who plays Man #1. He appears unhappy and sits on the ground, not looking at his Wife. The Wife looks surprised and stares at him but is afraid to speak. After a few moments) You returned so soon. (The Husband remains silent. The baby is still crying) Did you plead with him as you promised you would? HU SBAND. It’s no use.

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WIFE. (Desperate) I know you. You preferred to nurse your pride rather than plead with him. HU SBAND. I promise you, I pleaded with him. W I F E . Did you tell him how much we’re suffering? Did you mention we’re at our wit’s end? HU SBAND. I left nothing unsaid. W IF E . Did you swear to him that we’ve not eaten a morsel of food for two days and our son will die of hunger because my breasts have gone dry? If you told him that, he couldn’t have denied you work even if his heart were made of stone. HU SBAND. But his heart is made of stone. W IF E . Did you actually plead with him? Did you explain how much we’re suffering? HU SBAND. (Violently) I did everything but kiss his feet. I kept pleading until he threatened he’d pummel me, and then he threw me out. He said he’s not crazy enough to pay salaries during a depression like this. W IF E . (Pause) God, what’s the world come to? You worked for him for two years. HU SBAND. And when business slowed down, he threw me out like a dog. W IF E . (The baby’s crying becomes louder. The woman looks at the baby sadly and rocks him. To the baby) There’s no mercy left in this world. (To the crying baby) Sleep, my darling, sleep. I’d squeeze out my heart and feed it to you if I could. (Cradling him) Heeyalla . . . heeyalla. (Pause. To the husband) What are we going to do now? HU SBAND. I don’t know. W I F E . Who does know then? Our baby will die in our own hands.

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HU SBAND. (Frustrated) What can I do? W IF E . Do something. We’re not going to let him die. HU S B A N D . (After some hesitation. He speaks while looking down. His tone shows reticence and anger) Why don’t you go to our neighbor’s. His house is stocked with food that’ll feed the whole city for a full year. You can ask him to give us some food. W I F E . (Aghast. After a pause she looks at him, her eyes wide) You’re asking me to do that? HU SBAND. (Still looking down) It may be our only way out. W I F E . Are you serious? You know what it means to go to his house. (Crying) No. You can’t ask me to do that. It’s impossible. (She weeps) HU SBAND. (Angrily) What can I do? You’re acting as if I’m responsible for everything that’s happened in Baghdad. Did I cause the feud between the caliph and his vizier? Am I responsible for the depression, for the lack of jobs? Tell me, what can I do? I’m not a magician. I can’t perform miracles. You know my heart’s bleeding. It breaks to hear him crying. (During his fury the Wife rises and sits beside him. She runs her hand through his hair) W IF E . (Speaks lovingly, while crying) I know. I’m hurt and acting foolish. I wasn’t trying to make you angry. You know the way hunger torments one. Silence. The Husband buries his head in his hands. After a while, the Wife rises. She puts the baby on a straw mattress and attempts to leave. HU SBAND. (He grabs her wrist, crazed) What are you doing? W IF E . God is merciful. He’ll forgive us. HU SBAND. Stay here. W IF E . God will forgive us. We can’t just let him die and sit there looking at one another.

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HU SBAND. No. Not now. I can’t. (He pulls her beside him. They sit and sob together while the baby cries) W IF E . God is merciful. CU S T O MER #2. God forgive us. CU S T O MER #4. The poor are the only ones who pay the price in the end. CU S T O MER #3. God help us. H A K AW A T I . Mamlouk Jabir remained in the dark room. The only light that entered was from a window the size of an open eye. He waited for his hair to grow so he could escape his confinement and depart with the letter. (As the Hakawati speaks, props are set onstage to resemble a room that is surrounded by bars. A Guard stands by the locked door) The vizier’s impatience burned like hot coals. Every day he’d arrange for the door to be opened. (The Guard bends down to open the door. The Vizier walks inside the room) He’d enter Jabir’s room, rub his hand on the Mamlouk’s head and measure how much his hair had grown. If he could, he’d have ordered the hair to grow instantly to the length of a woman’s braids. Instead every day he’d leave the room agitated, carrying his snuffbox in his hand, and wait for tomorrow to come. (The Vizier exits. The Guard salutes and locks the door) No one was allowed to visit Jabir or approach his room during his seclusion. The vizier gave strict orders, and if they were disobeyed he’d be enraged. But women have their ways, and Zumurrud was able, after considerable effort, to have the guard turn a blind eye so she could steal a few moments with Jabir through the window. She spoke to the Mamlouk, who, with his sweet and flirtatious talk, made her heart beat faster. Zumurrud has appeared by now. She carefully approaches the little window. Her walk is that of a seductive and vibrant young woman. Her veil covers half her face, allowing one nevertheless to see her beautiful and anxious black eyes.

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J A B I R . (Exuberantly from behind the window) Zumurrud! I wasn’t wrong. I felt you were coming before you arrived. Suddenly my face flushed, and every inch of my body quivered. It was a sign. I knew you were coming, and here you are in the flesh. Not a second has passed without my thinking of you, Zumurrud. You’ve been here with me the whole time. I see your eyes lighting up the darkness, your perfumed body vibrantly swaying about, full of life. Can you believe I’ve sometimes felt your perfume penetrating my pores? It would make me quiver with pleasure. I would tremble as if I were holding you. For God’s sake, lift that veil. ZUMURRU D. (She looks and sounds worried and sad) I came in disguise. I went to great lengths to come visit you. No one’s supposed to know I’m here. J ABI R . Why not? Doesn’t everyone already know you’re mine? ZUMURRU D. You don’t have anything yet. J ABI R . Why would you say that? The vizier agreed we could be married. His promise couldn’t have been clearer. ZUMURRU D. Perhaps he did. J ABI R . (Violently) Don’t say perhaps. He approved, definitely. Z UMURRU D. I believe you, but so far you’ve received nothing. You’ve turned into a secret locked up in a sealed room. J ABI R . It’s only for a short time, and it will pass. Then I’ll embrace the body that makes me burn with desire. I won’t let it go until I die. I did all of this for your sake, Zumurrud. You ignited the idea in my head, you gave me inspiration. I was dreaming about you when it came to me. You’re mine now. That warm body of yours is all mine. ZUMURRU D. (With tears in her eyes) A gulf filled with dangers still separates us. J ABI R . What do you mean? I’ve never heard you speak this seriously. You’re always happy and flirtatious. Words slide seductively

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from your lips as if you didn’t have a care in the world. What’s happening? ZUMURRU D. The journey. J ABI R . You’re worried about me? I’ll cover the distance like a horseman traveling at tremendous speed. I’ll fly faster than wild birds and be back by your side before you’ve finished making yourself up. ZUMURRU D. I’m worried, Jabir. J ABI R . About what? ZUMURRU D. I don’t know. My heart is sometimes overcome by a strange sensation. I love you, Jabir. J ABI R . I wish I’d heard this confession in other circumstances. For God’s sake, lift that veil. ZUMURRU D. (She looks around, then unties the veil to reveal a beautiful face with proportionate features) If anyone sees me, they’ll flay the guard alive. J A B I R . Let them flay him. They can flay me too if they wish. It’s a small price to pay to see such beauty. (His mouth waters, and he reaches out his hand) If only I could touch those moist lips, that pure neck. (His hand falls on the bars) Damn this window. A few days and I’ll be back. My lips will then set fire to every curve in your face. ZUMURRU D. I can feel my heart recoiling in fear. You shouldn’t have gotten involved in this. J ABI R . I’m doing it for us. Do you want a man who has no ambition, whom no one respects? I thought you were proud of me. You’ll be marrying a man who has wealth and rank. I’m not lacking in intelligence, and intelligence can lead a man to become the caliph of Baghdad, Zumurrud. ZUMURRU D. We’re surrounded by peril and uncertainty. The palace has turned into a fortress. It’s heavily guarded, soldiers are fully armed and under strict orders to be prepared for any eventuality.

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Gloom pervades the palace, and everyone’s terrified, bracing for the worst. Even my mistress, Shams al-­Nahar, hardly cares about making herself beautiful. The vizier comes into her quarters agitated, screaming. (Whispering) Sometimes he utters words so horrific that horror itself would find them frightening. J ABI R . Let them do as they wish. All I care about is delivering the letter and receiving my reward. CU S T O MER #1. Men like you win. You never lose. CU S T O MER #3. He knows what life’s about and how it works. ZUMURRU D. Do you know what’s in the letter? J ABI R . Why should I care what’s in the letter? It’s probably full of nonsense. I know what sorts of things leaders write. Let him write what he wants. What interests me is not the content, it’s the reward. ZUMURRU D. (Worried and hesitant) I don’t know . . . I wish you hadn’t gotten involved . . . Who knows, if your secret’s exposed, the only thing that touches me will be a cold dead hand. J ABI R . Don’t worry, my hand will be full of life when it touches you. I’m not going to fall into a trap like a brainless fly. It’s much simpler than you think. I’ll take off as swiftly as the wind, deliver the letter and return and be with you forever. ZUMURRU D. I’m afraid, Jabir. It’s a risky mission. Maybe its purpose is to harm the caliph. If anyone finds out . . . J A B I R . You’re worried about the caliph and vizier? They can smash each other to bits as far as I’m concerned. It’s our future we should worry about, not theirs. If the opportunity of a lifetime suddenly drops in my lap, should I let it slip from my grasp? I’d be mad not to grab it. What determines whether someone succeeds or fails is whether he seizes an opportunity when he sees it. Don’t be afraid. It’s a simple mission, and there’s no reason to worry, I’ll be back. A future filled with blissful days awaits us.

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Z UMURRU D. (Smiling faintly) Are you sure you won’t be in any danger? J ABI R . There is one danger. Z UMURRU D. (Anxious and serious) What? J ABI R . You walking around the palace in that seductive way of yours. If you do and the vizier gets a glimpse of those breathtaking buttocks of yours, I can imagine him snorting his snuff and taking you straight to bed. Then the only thing left for poor Jabir will be to die in misery. Z UMURRU D. (Smiling) Are you ever going to learn to behave decently? JABIR. How can I when this charming beauty is staring me in the face? (He bangs the metal bars, feeling sorry for himself ) If it weren’t for these metal bars . . . But I’ll be back sooner than you think, so make yourself up. I want to be able to smell your perfume from a mile away as I’m returning to Baghdad. The Guard appears. He clears his throat. ZUMURRU D. (Quickly puts her veil back on and ties it) It’s time. I have to go. Be careful, Jabir. Don’t do anything dangerous. I’ll pray for you every minute you’re away. Take care of yourself. J ABI R . Don’t worry. I’ll fly faster than wild birds do. Zumurrud waves goodbye. She walks away from the window, then looks back and winks at Jabir. H A K AW A T I . (Pause) Jabir remained in confinement, and the vizier visited him regularly until the day came when he decided Jabir’s hair had grown long enough to cover the writing. Now not even a tiny portion of a letter could be seen, no matter how much one probed among his hairs. The vizier’s face gleamed with joy as he led his Mamlouk away to prepare him for his immediate departure.

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Time was of the essence. A single moment of delay could turn the situation around, altering fate entirely. The Vizier Muhammad al-­ʿAbdali appears with Mamlouk Jabir in a corner of the office. Jabir’s hair has grown but is shorter than when he was first seen. VIZI ER . The moment has arrived, Jabir. No vizier, minister, or historian of Baghdad will fail to give you credit for what you’re doing. J ABI R . What pleases me is that my master does not fail to give me credit. As for others, I’m not concerned about them. Will you give me the order to leave, sir? VIZI ER . Yes, it’s time. There’s not a minute to spare. J ABI R . Where should I take your letter, sir? V IZIER . Before I tell you I should warn you, Jabir . . . and I mean every word I say . . . if any being, human or jinni, ever finds out where you’re going you’re as good as dead. The gates of hell will open up and swallow you. J ABI R . God forbid. Do you doubt that I’m trustworthy, sir? May the Almighty strike me dead if I betray a trust or divulge a secret. VIZI ER . I can see you’re loyal, but I needed to warn you. J A B I R . I’ll prove my loyalty. You’ll discover for yourself how worthy I am of your trust, sir. VIZI ER . Good. You’re going to the non-­Arab lands. You should head to the capital and deliver the letter to its king. J ABI R . The land of King Munkatim ibn Dawoud? VIZI ER . Correct, the land of King Munkatim ibn Dawoud. The letter must arrive without delay. The faster you proceed, the greater regard I’ll have for your service and the larger the reward you’ll receive. J ABI R . (Enthusiastically) I’ll cover the distance as quickly as a

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bolt of lightning. The sun won’t rise more than a handful of days before I stand before King Munkatim ibn Dawoud. V I Z I ER . (Smiles and rubs his hand on Jabir’s head. He has a sinister expression on his face) I admire your enthusiasm. If I had ten men like you, I’d be able to conquer the world. Your plan will not be forgotten by any vizier, prince, or historian of Baghdad. J A B I R . You’ve generously compensated my humble service much more than it deserves. You promised me far more than what any Mamlouk could ever dream of. VIZI ER . My promises will be kept. I’ll fulfill them and will give you even more if that’s what you want. J ABI R . I want nothing more than to express how appreciative I am. When shall I leave, sir? VIZI ER . Right away. Everything is ready. (To his men) Saddle the best horse and make sure everything is prepared for his journey. We must win our race with time. (To Jabir) I don’t have to warn you again about being prudent. On this journey, caution is more vital than food. If you find yourself in trouble use your wits to get out of it. J ABI R . I’ll do everything I can to be exactly as you want me to be, sir. VIZI ER . Then let’s go. J ABI R . (Reluctantly) May I make one small request before I go. VIZI ER . Ask anything. J ABI R . I would like my mistress, Shams al-­Nahar, to make sure her attendant, Zumurrud, is well cared for and prepared for the wedding. V I Z I ER . (Laughing) So that’s why you’re in such a hurry. It’s love. Don’t worry. You’ll have what you wish. We’ll look after her and have her prepared like a princess. All you have to do when you return

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is do your celebratory ablutions, walk out of the baths, and go straight to your love nest. Let’s go. J ABI R . I can’t thank you . . . or pray for you . . . enough. (They exit) H AK AW A T I. Everything had been prepared for the journey. And when the Mamlouk Jabir was about to mount his horse, the vizier, to everyone’s astonishment, embraced him. He wished Jabir a safe trip and ordered a few Mamlouks to accompany him to the gates of the city to ensure that he departed safely, and then they left the palace through a secret door. It was a tense wait until the Mamlouks returned with word that the letter and its bearer had successfully departed. It was as if the entire palace issued a collective sigh of relief. The silence, which had previously pervaded its hallways, was replaced by chatter and conversations about the Mamlouk who’d been hugged by the Vizier of Baghdad, who’d left the city with a perilous secret in his possession and who awaited a hefty reward upon his return. Mamlouks Yasir and Mansour enter. They are dressed in combat clothing and are carrying weapons, as if in battle. They place props for a surveillance tower on the palace walls and stand guard in it. Mansour has a grave look on his face. Yasir seems confused and appears to want to speak but is discouraged by the expression on Mansour’s face. The silence is thick. Yasir, who is restless, looks anxiously at Mansour and eventually musters the courage to speak. At the beginning, his speech is disjointed. YASI R . (Speaks in a low voice at first, his tone expressing admiration) God help us, a man like him should wear an amulet to ward off the evil eye. He certainly deserves to be envied. (Silence) I saw him slip away from the soldiers as gently as a hair is pulled from a lump of dough. He left the city laughing, exactly as if he’d been walking through the halls of the palace. (Silence) If I hadn’t been there with him I wouldn’t have believed how easy it was for him to pass through

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the checkpoint. God help us, he’s so clever he could steal kohl out of someone’s eye if he wanted. No one dares to look those soldiers in the eye, but he was cracking jokes with them. He even made them laugh. We couldn’t believe our eyes. They were actually laughing as if they were being tickled. (Silence) His wits never fail him. One of the soldiers wanted to steal his food, but he was so quick on his feet, he didn’t even lose a slice of bread. I heard a little bit of what he said. He told a strange story about his wife, who he said was planning to kill him because she preferred her lover over him. He said he’d discovered she’d put poison in his food on several occasions and was afraid she might’ve done the same thing this time. (Laughing) I wish you could’ve seen how quickly they removed their hands from the food. They treated his haversack like a dead cat they were afraid to touch. He didn’t lose a crumb. (Long pause, dreamily) He’ll succeed at whatever he sets his mind to. God help us, he possesses everything it takes to have whatever he wants. Who’d imagine a man would dare take such a risk? Remember, we were together when he devised his plan. We thought he was crazy. He’s certainly cleverer than any of us. He jumped at the opportunity and seized it like a hawk. If I had even a tiny bit of his intelligence I would’ve made a few of my own dreams come true too. God help us, he left Baghdad as if he were going on a picnic. A man like that should beware of envious people. They wish him ill. M ANSO UR . (Losing his temper and shouting impatiently) And a man like you should have his mouth filled with stones and dammed shut with mud. I’ve had enough of you endlessly weaving this monotonous tale. You haven’t stopped talking for an hour. I don’t want to hear anything about him. YASI R . (Surprised) I’m annoying you? God help us. I thought you actually liked him. MANSOUR. Like him? Me, like him? I wish he’d been consumed by the plague before he set foot out of Baghdad.

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YASI R . You’re just saying that. I know you’re fond of him. You can’t mask your concern with anger. (Silence) CU S T O MER #2. (Taking advantage of the silence) Let’s go back to Jabir, Uncle Muʾnis. YASI R . God help us. Sometimes I don’t understand you, Mansour. Why are you so angry about what he did? How could anybody see an opportunity like that and not take advantage of it? M ANSO UR . (Angrily) What opportunity? It’s not going to do any good. You’ll never be able to see beyond your own noses. He leapt blind into a maelstrom, and you call that opportunity? YA S I R . Maelstrom? God help us. In this maelstrom, there’s a beautiful woman, a huge fortune, and a promotion. Jabir’s not blind. He can see very well what’s in front of him. M ANSO UR . A woman and a fortune, that’s all he sees. Can’t he see that afterward the maelstrom will devour him? And probably you too since you’re speaking so idiotically. It may devour me . . . all of us. YA S I R . (Afraid) Don’t be so harsh. You’re exaggerating. God help us. I don’t understand you sometimes. We’re surrounded by peril whether Jabir stays or goes. M ANSO UR . (Sadly, as if to himself ) How can it not surround us? Intelligent men leap blindly into a vortex in which they see nothing but women and riches, and idiots like you envy them. Peril surrounds us like the damp air in the evening. YA S I R . Your words sting. You’re obviously upset and angry. Sometimes I really don’t understand you, Mansour. M ANSO UR . (Leaving) For that reason you’ll die a happy man. YASI R . God help us. He really is upset. (He carries off the props and exits) CU S T O MER #3. Bring back Jabir.

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CU S T O MER #2. We don’t want to be separated from him for another second until the story ends. CU S T O MER #1. We want to know about him, not the others. H AK AW A T I. Jabir crossed the desert and the wilderness. As he traveled, he could feel the letter the vizier had inscribed upon his head, and his heart would fill with joy. He would spur his horse, riding as quickly as an arrow, singing as he covered the distance to the non-­ Arab lands. (Jabir appears and mimes what the Hakawati is describing. The galloping of a horse is heard) The road there is long and winding, but the road back is short and straight. The wilderness is multihued and verdant but devoid of motion. It cannot spur a horse as I can. The blazing sun shines like a bride, but it too is tied to its orbit and cannot spur a horse as I can. Since I’m filled with longing, I show my horse’s hooves no mercy. Neither wives, nor riches nor exalted positions can abide patience and separation. If kept waiting too long, a fortune will be snatched away, high position will be purloined by the avaricious, a woman will loosen the string on her underwear. I’m hard on my horse because I’m brimming with desire. What’s waiting for me has no patience and can’t bear separation. The road to Persia is long and winding. The road back from Persia is short and straight. Run, my horse, run like the wind, like a cloud. What’s waiting for me . . . (Jabir exits) That’s what we know about Jabir. And the common people of Baghdad, they knew nothing about the events unfolding around them and the one who’d escaped their city. CU S T O MER #4. Poor people, like deaf men in a wedding procession. HAKAWATI. Long-­suffering and frightened, they laid low in their houses and prayed. Hunger gnawed at them, authorities harassed them, and worst of all soldiers burst into their homes and seized the caliph’s religious tax from them. Men #2 and #3 from among the people of Baghdad enter, followed by Man #4, who sits calmly beside them. He is overwhelmed by despair.

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M AN #2. (Pause) It lasted longer this time. M AN #3. It lasted longer, and life’s more difficult. M AN #2. Fortune-­tellers predicted it would be a difficult year. M AN #3. God is merciful. M AN #4. (Calmly) We still haven’t seen the worst of it. There are more hard days in store for us. M AN #2. Are you a fortune-­teller too? M AN #4. Me? I never give credence to what fortune-­tellers say, but I keep an eye out and listen to what’s happening around me. The warning signs are plain to see. M AN #3. It doesn’t matter whether we see them or not. What’s important is that this crisis ends and we survive it unscathed. MAN #4. I swear to God, things won’t end as easily as we’d like. Apparently, the vizier’s concocted some sort of terrifying scheme. The armies from the provinces are marching toward Baghdad and ravaging everything in their path. The caliph and the vizier have both woven nets in which to catch one another. Unpleasant surprises are still in store for us. M AN #3. They can weave as many nets and plots as they please. We, on the other hand, ask only for respite from our suffering. M AN #2. Respite and security. M AN #3. Any form of security. It doesn’t matter whether they come to an agreement or one of them vanquishes the other. M AN #2. What’s important is that this situation end. They’re not our father or our brother. CU S T O MER #2. And whoever marries our mother we call uncle. MAN #4. Yes, but they’re weaving their nets with our skins. That’s right, by God, with our skins.

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M AN #2. (Angrily) Leave our skins out of this. All you talk about is misfortune. We’ve had enough already. M AN #3. What difference will it make what the two of you say? What’s destined to happen will happen. M AN #4. People refuse to see what’s going on. A Woman enters, crying. Everyone else becomes silent and looks at her. W O M AN #1. God is greater than our oppressors. What cruelty and abuse! They swept our house clean. We had some cracked wheat, so they took it and the pot too. What are we supposed to eat now? Should we cook soil, boil stones, or eat dung? M AN #3. What’s the matter, woman? M AN #2. Calm down. WOMAN #1. (Still crying) They kicked down the door and walked in with their swords shining. They said they wanted to collect the tax for our master, the caliph. ME N. (Surprised) —Tax? —Tax for our master, the caliph? —Tax? W O MAN #1. That’s what they said. A religious tax to support the caliph. How can I pay a tax? If the lives of my children depended on three piasters of ransom I couldn’t pay it. No money, nothing. We’ve been boiling a handful of cracked wheat every day and waiting for relief to arrive. Now they’ve taken everything. They’re going door to door, and if people can’t pay, they seize everything people have. M AN #3. Unbelievable! A new tax now? M AN #4. Good God, it was inevitable. M AN #2. Lord save us. We barely have enough food to eat as it is. How are we going to pay a new tax? They’re going door to door?

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W O M AN #1. Door to door. They’re sweeping houses clean one by one. M AN #2. (Stands up, exiting) Lord save us. They must be at my house by now. W O M A N #1. What do I do now? How am I going to feed my children? Who do I beg for food? (Crying) God, what horrible sin are we paying for? MAN #3. (Sighing and exiting) What can we do? We’ll be patient and God will be with us. M AN #4. This is just the beginning. I can imagine us all flayed alive. The worst is yet to come. M A N #3. (Angrily, before he exits) What can we do, whether we’re flayed or not? M AN #4. I certainly know what we’re doing isn’t making us more secure. M AN #3. Tell me, Mr. Wiseacre, can an eye withstand an awl? M AN #4. Yes it can. M AN #3. If you’re blind. (He exits) M AN #4. (Looks at him sadly) If that’s the best you can do, the worst is certainly yet to come. W O MAN #1. There’s nothing left for us. M AN #4. (Rising) Except to weep and wait like the others. (He exits. The woman follows him weeping) H A K AW A T I . After an exhausting and terrifying journey the Mamlouk Jabir reached the non-­Arab lands, but he was so anxious to return that he hardly noticed his exhaustion. He went immediately to the palace of King Munkatim and requested an audience with him. He said to himself, “I’ll be a man of importance when I leave this palace.” A guard and then another and another led him through

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the maze of corridors in the palace until he arrived at the office of the king, whose ominous appearance struck fear in the hearts of the bravest of men. The office, which is similar to those of the caliph and the vizier, is opulent. King Munkatim sits on his throne, his son, Halawoun, seated beside him. The actors should be the ones who played the roles of the Vizier and ʿAbdallatif, and then the roles of the Caliph and ʿAbdallah. King Munkatim’s tone is rude and haughty. J ABI R . (Appearing exhausted, bows excessively) Peace be upon my master, king of kings and sultan of sultans, Munkatim ibn Dawoud. K IN G . Who are you? What have you brought? J ABI R . I am your slave, Jabir. I bring you a letter from my mas‑ ter, the vizier of Baghdad, Muhammad al-­ʿAbdali. K I N G . A letter from the vizier of Baghdad? So he’s managed to get over his hesitation and devise a plan to resolve our dilemma. J ABI R . Your slave Jabir knows nothing about what’s written in the letter. K I N G . Then hand it over. (Jabir looks at Halawoun and hesitates) What are you waiting for? J ABI R . The letter has an important secret. My master, the vizier, commanded me to deliver it to your highness in private. K IN G . (Angrily) You’re dictating conditions too? This is my son, Halawoun, and I keep no secrets from him. Hand the letter over to me at once or I’ll see that your head falls off between your feet. J A B I R . (Scared) Forgive me, your highness. I wasn’t trying to annoy you. I meant no disrespect. (He approaches the king with exaggerated politeness and humility) Here’s my head. The letter is written on it. The words will appear when the hair is shaved off.

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K IN G . (Surprised) The letter is written on your head? What a brilliant idea! The vizier really is cautious. I hope his caution brings us good news. (To Halawoun) Halawoun, get a razor and shave off this Mamlouk’s hair. Let’s see what the vizier of Baghdad has written to us. H ALAW O U N. At once, father. The performance is guided by the speech of the Hakawati. Halawoun exits and then returns to shave off Jabir’s hair. His mimed gestures are harsh. H AK AW A T I. Halawoun left the office and returned with a razor. The movements of his hand were hastened by his curiosity as he shaved the hair from Jabir’s head. The vizier’s letter, inscribed with indelible ink, appeared rapidly. King Munkatim read the letter, and reread it as Jabir looked down, holding his breath in anticipation and dreaming of his return to Baghdad. The king whispered a few words to his son no one else heard, and then Halawoun left the office. K I N G . (Smiling. Cunningly) We read the letter, Mamlouk. We’ll do what your vizier asked us to. Tell me, is he still fond of snuff ? JABIR. Yes, sir. His snuffbox is always in his pocket. A box of high-­ quality snuff would be an ideal gift for him, along with your response. He’d be grateful for the rest of his life. K IN G . Fine. We’ll send him all the snuff we have here in our land. Can you carry it? J A B I R . For your highness’s sake, and that of my master, the vizier, I’m willing to endure any hardship. I only hope that you will allow me to return to Baghdad as quickly as possible, your highness. K IN G . You’re very fond of Baghdad? J ABI R . Someone is waiting for me there. Halawoun enters with Lahab, a large, bald man with a thick moustache and a cruel, emotionless face.

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K IN G . Take him to Baghdad, Lahab. LAH AB. (Bows slightly; his cruelty is obvious) Yes, sir. J ABI R . But sir . . . Lahab takes Jabir by the hand and drags him along. Jabir is stunned and speechless. The King and Halawoun remain in the office. KING. The moment has come to march on Baghdad, Halawoun. H A LAW O U N . I’ve been waiting for this order for quite some time. Shall I prepare the army? K IN G . Are you so eager to go to war? H A LAW O U N . I won’t be deserving of the command of King Munkatim ibn Dawoud’s army until I reduce Baghdad to rubble. K I N G . Then prepare the army. You’ll be its commander, and Baghdad will be yours. Everything must remain a secret. Not a word of this must escape the ranks. We’ll march discreetly and surprise them with a swift and ferocious attack. Since someone will be waiting to open the gates of the city, Baghdad will fall. Its prestige will disappear under our horse’s hooves. H ALAW O U N. There’s no time for goodbyes then. K IN G . The troops should march by dawn, in full gear. Since our army is on permanent alert it should only take a few hours to complete the preparations. We need to move quickly to capture and destroy any troops marching toward Baghdad to offer assistance. When you reach the outskirts of the city, the troops should remain hidden and rest during the day, then march in at night. It’s the best strategy for achieving surprise. H ALAW O U N. We can actually rely on the vizier and his men? K IN G . They’ll be like dogs licking our boots and trying to please us. The walls of Baghdad are daunting, my son. If I weren’t convinced they’d be demolished from within I would never hurl our army

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against them. Our soldiers would be wiped out before they knocked down the city’s fortifications. H ALAW O U N. Then the only thing left for us to do is to blow the trumpets of war. K IN G . It will be a day of reckoning. Great Baghdad will fall to its knees and lie in glorious supplication before the non-­Arab armies. This is an old dream of mine and of my father. Come along, son. We’ll blow the trumpet together on this glorious day. King Munkatim ibn Dawoud takes his son by the hand. They exit together. CU S T O MER #1. What about Jabir? CU S T O MER #3. What happened to him? H AK AW A T I. Jabir had no idea who the man was who held him with an iron fist dragging him along the halls unmoved by the Mamlouk’s disbelief and terror. They moved from corridor to corridor until they arrived at an eerie room full of whips and chains and axes. Lahab had about him the stench of a graveyard, and when Jabir stole a look at Lahab’s steely expression, and the room around him, his heart sank. The silence was thick, which added to Jabir’s sense of apprehension. He tried to lighten the atmosphere by talking to Lahab, hoping to leaven his severity or, at the very least, understand what was happening. Lahab’s room is small and dim, with walls the dark color of rust. It contains chains and axes. A heavy wooden stump with red and black stains is on the floor. A head is mounted on one wall, a horrifying mask on the other. Jabir looks around him in the room. He has a frightened expression and begins to sweat. Lahab is silent, stiff and has a steely, uncaring expression on his face. J A B I R . (Rattled, his speech betraying his fear and trauma) I know . . . I know . . . even though your land is far away, I’ve heard

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about your customs from travelers. You don’t allow a visitor to leave your beautiful land without welcoming him and showing him great hospitality, as well as showing him some of your artifacts and rarities. I believe I may even have heard about this room. There must be a hair-­ raising tale behind it. (Lahab ignores him. He closes the door, bolts it and begins to prepare his tools) So many beautiful and exciting stories are told about your land. People in Baghdad tell mouthwatering tales about your delicacies. And your generosity . . . you make your visitors eat whatever you offer them even if their bellies turn more rotund than a pregnant woman. I wish I could stay longer and travel around and visit the sights and get to know your customs better, which I’m sure are quite sophisticated. (Lahab quietly sharpens a large axe) Many things await me in Baghdad, and they simply can’t be postponed (Jabir feigns a laugh). A stunning woman is making herself beautiful, preparing for my arrival. I’m telling you, the minute I delivered that letter I was no longer a Mamlouk. The vizier has generously rewarded me. He’s going to marry me off and bestow riches and an exalted rank upon me. (Jabir gives a friendly pat on Lahab’s shoulder and smiles) A substantial reward that one could only dream of. Ah. (Whispering) I was the one who came up with the plan to smuggle the letter out of the city even though the gates were heavily guarded. How pleased he was! I wish you could have seen him hug me as I was leaving. The vizier himself hugged me. Would you believe it? Just as I’m hugging you now. (Jabir playfully tries to hug Lahab, but Lahab sternly shoves him aside) Your arm is so strong! You don’t seem to be in a very good mood. (Lahab rises and prepares the wooden stump and chains. Jabir watches him, stunned) I know . . . I know . . . different people have different temperaments, but you should understand why I’m in such a hurry. I can’t stay here tonight. She’s preparing herself and awaiting my arrival. Women don’t like to be kept waiting. (After Lahab finishes preparing, he holds Jabir by the arms. He violently chains Jabir’s hands behind his back. Jabir, terrified, turns pale. He has a blank expression on his face and stammers) But . . .

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What are you doing? What’s all this about? My master Munkatim ibn Dawoud is obviously playing some sort of trick on me. (Lahab throws Jabir to the ground and forces him to kneel. He chains his legs too. Jabir screams breathlessly) What are you doing? I’m a gentleman of exalted position with great wealth and a wife. I delivered the letter safely and will return to receive the reward, my reward. Mercy! Mercy! (Jabir’s voice gives out. We can still see his eyes bulging and his mouth moving, screaming and pleading. He tries to free himself but he is tightly chained. The scene continues to be played in mime as the Hakawati speaks) H A K AW A T I . Jabir was unaware that this man whom they call “Lahab” was the executioner of the King of Persia. Executioners are always exacting in their work. They overlook nothing and they despise idle talk. As soon as the tools were all prepared, Lahab held Jabir’s head with his iron fist and placed it on the stump that was stained with dried blood. With a single blow from his sharpened axe he separated Jabir’s head from his body. This sequence occurs in mime before the audience. We hear noise and complaints from the customers. CU S T O MER #2. What is this? CU S T O MER #3. They cut his head off after everything he did? CU S T O MER #2. It’s impossible. CU S T O MER #1. What kind of reward is that? CUSTOMER #4. I told you he might end up in the lowest imaginable position. CU S T O MER #2. This is unacceptable. CU S T O MER #1. The end’s unfair. CU S T O MER #3. He has to receive what his sharp wits deserve. H AK AW A T I. (Raises his voice, trying to talk over the noise) After

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Mamlouk Jabir’s head rolled, Lahab, the executioner, picked it up with the blood still dripping from it. He took a long, hard look at it and let loose a boisterous laugh. The Executioner approaches the Customers, carrying the head. He looks at them and laughs. CU S T O MER #2. God help us! What a face! CU S T O MER #1. The face of the devil. CU S T O MER #3. May God cut off your hands. EXECUT ION ER. (Stops laughing and looks at the Customers, his expression devoid of compassion. They are silent and awestruck. He holds the head with both his hands and shows it to the Customers) His death was written on his scalp, and he didn’t even know it. He crossed the wilderness with his fate on his head, and he didn’t even know it. He dreamed of returning as a man of exalted rank with great wealth and a wife awaiting him. But, between his return and death lies a single question. H AK AW A T I. And he didn’t ask it. The Executioner lets loose another devilish laugh and tosses the head to the Hakawati, who picks it up and holds it in both hands. The Executioner exits, carrying the props with him. CU S T O MER #1. God help us! Get me some tea, Abou Muhammad. CU S T O MER #3. And a cup of coffee for me. H AK AW A T I. (Looks at the head and reads what is inscribed on it) The vizier of Baghdad says in his letter: “To King Munkatim, We inform you that the time has come to vanquish Baghdad. Prepare your army as soon as you receive this letter. Conduct your attack in secrecy so that you gain the element of surprise in invading Baghdad. If you encounter troops marching toward us, destroy them for they are coming to aid the caliph. We will assist you here and open the

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gates for you.” The vizier adds a small note. “In order to keep this a secret between us, kill the bearer of this letter without delay.” CU S T O MER #3. The vile traitor! CU S T O MER #1. It’s the vizier then. CU S T O MER #2. Goddamn him! A traitor who never keeps his word. CU S T O MER #3. This story has put me in a foul mood. HAKAWATI. The foreign army marched ahead like a thick storm, destroying everything in its path. The vizier stayed in contact with the commanders of his army and together they drew up plans. One day, at dawn, the people of Baghdad awoke to horror, the sound of war drums beating and troops pouring into the city. The common people had no idea what was transpiring. They ran about in fear and sought the help of almighty God above. They thought doomsday had arrived. Gates to the city were flung open, troops invaded the souks. Swords and dust were raised, lives cut short, and blood flowed like a river. Corpses piled up, fires blazed. Houses and women’s honor were yanked down. The only thing that rose in Baghdad was wailing as heavy as clouds of dust and smoke. (The scene is played out to the sound of galloping horses and sword fighting. Screams are heard. Every once in a while, actors who play the people of Baghdad— Man #1, Man #2, Man #3, Yasir, and a Soldier—enter screaming. They mime being stabbed by swords. Woman #2 is raped. She falls to the ground with torn clothes, her legs spread. Their corpses pile up in front of the Customers. The Hakawati rises from his seat, and as he narrates the scene, he walks among the bodies) It was a horrific day the likes of which Baghdad had never seen. Grief pervaded every corner, death spread like air. Dozens died without a clue of what was going on around them. Streets were piled with corpses, the wounded, the rubble of crumbling houses. Night fell early that day in Baghdad, a darkness laden with gloom and horror. A night as black and thick as the apocalypse.

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Long silence. Man #4 rises from among the dead and stands beside the Hakawati. After a moment, Zumurrud rises from another corner. The Hakawati hands her Mamlouk Jabir’s head. She embraces the head and kisses it. In slow ritualistic movement the Hakawati, Man #4, and Zumurrud approach the Customers. Corpses are strewn on the ground behind them. Zumurrud stands between the two men, holding the head. H AK AW A T I, ZUMURRU D, A ND MA N #4. (Together addressing the Customers and Audience) We speak to you from the dark night of Baghdad. From the night of sorrow and death, strewn with cadavers, we speak to you. You may claim it’s not your problem, that whoever marries your mother you call uncle. No one can stop you from saying that. Everyone has their own ideas and you may simply say it’s your opinion. No one can stop you from saying it, but if you look around one day and find you’ve become a stranger in your own house . . . M AN #4. If you’re devoured by hunger and find yourself living on the street . . . ZUMURRU D. If heads begin to roll and you find yourself being welcomed at the dawn of a miserable day by death . . . H A K AW AT I, ZUMURRU D, A ND MA N #4. (Together) If a night thick with horror rains down upon you, don’t forget that you yourself said, “It’s not my concern. Whoever marries my mother, I call uncle.” From the dark night of Baghdad we speak to you. From the night of death and sorrow, strewn with cadavers. The Actors lying on the ground rise, and after a moment of silence, they exit. Uncle Muʾnis picks up his book and prepares to leave. H AK AW A T I. (Starts to exit) That is our story for tonight. We’ll see you tomorrow night with a different story. CU S T O MER #1. What kind of story was that? CU S T O MER #3. That was as gloomy as the one yesterday.

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CU S T O MER #2. If your stories keep up like this, we’ll just stay home, Uncle Muʾnis. CU S T O MER #3. We come here seeking relief, hoping to be cheered up, not to be depressed. CU S T O MER #2. If you don’t begin the Epic of Zahir tomorrow evening, I won’t be coming back to this café. CU S T O MER #3. We all feel the same. (To the Hakawati as he exits) What do you say, Uncle Muʾnis, will you begin the story of Zahir tomorrow? HAKAWATI. I don’t know . . . maybe . . . it all depends on you. (He exits. The Customers exchange confused and dismayed looks) CU S T O MER #1. Depends on us? CU S T O MER #3. What a strange man Uncle Muʾnis is! CU S T O MER #1. We won’t accept anything but the story of Zahir tomorrow. CU S T O MER #2. Tomorrow’s another day. Let’s go home and go to bed. CU S T O MERS. —Yes. —It’s time. —To sleep. Customers exit one after another, saying farewell to Abou Muhammad as they leave. Abou Muhammad remains alone, tidying up the café. He goes through the routine of closing up. W AITER . (To the audience, as he closes the café) Good night to you too. See you tomorrow.

WRETCHED DREAMS

Characters

Ma r y Fa ris Kazi m G h ada Thaʾir W ai ter Bas hi r

First published in Arabic as “Ahlam Shaqiyya” in Saʿdallah Wannous, Yawm nin Zamanina wa-­Ahlam Shaqiyya; Masrahiyyatan (Beirut: Dar al-­Adab, 1995).

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Set: a small Arab-­style house composed of two rooms, almost opposite one another. The narrow space between them is open to the sky, and in the middle is a small, dry pond. In one corner of this space is a long, narrow kitchen, and beside it the bathroom. Stairs lead to an upper room, which has a small balcony in front of it. This design may, of course, be replaced by multiple levels or by any space configuration of which the director and set designer conceive. However, no matter what solution they arrive at, it is important that two impressions of the house be maintained: a sense of being cramped and confined. The action of the play takes place in the fall of 1963. This precise time is not devoid of meaning and significance. Scene 1 Mary, who is the owner of the house, and her husband, Faris, in Mary’s room. The room is three steps higher than the floor of the hall. The room is wide and cluttered with furnishings and other things. A bed with high brass posts is in the middle of the room, with white cloth curtains hanging from the posts surrounding the bed. In order to get up into it, the two curtains in the front must be pulled aside. The room has a divan that can be used as a bed. The room also has an armoire and an old chest. Several items of clothing lie on top of them. A sewing machine is in the middle of the room with pieces of cloth and scraps around it. Mary is sleeping in the bed but cannot be seen by the audience. Faris is curled up sleeping on the divan. It is a cold autumn night. A small lantern provides the room with a cold, dim light. FA R IS . Mary . . . Mary . . . I’m cold. (He raises his head, which is covered with a woolen hat, and looks toward the bed) Mary . . . answer me. You can’t fool me. I know you’re not asleep yet. The cold has arrived early this year. I’m shivering. I can’t sleep if my bones won’t

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warm up. What a cold night. (He lifts the cover and gets out of bed. His teeth chatter) Can you hear that? My jaw is about to break. Mary . . . Why won’t you answer me? I think I’m sick. These are the shivers that come with illness. (He approaches her bed) M A R Y. Go back to your bed. FA R IS. The cold is going to kill me. Look . . . I’m shivering. M A R Y. Go back to your bed. F A R I S . I don’t want anything. I’ll warm myself up for a little while and then go back to my bed. M A R Y. Oh . . . so you’re going to keep me from sleeping. Get another blanket from on top of the armoire. FA R IS. The cold has penetrated my bones, Mary. The covers are heavy on me but they’re useless. M A R Y. You’re not coming to my bed. Go back to your own bed and let me sleep. FA R IS. (Speaking like a little child) My dear mama, I’m cold. Put me in your lap. Answer me, mama. (He imitates the sound of a child crying) I’m cold. I’m cold. M A R Y. Go back to your bed. FA R IS. (Continuing his game) Mama’s angry with me. Why’s she angry? I’m scared, mama. There’s an evil spirit here. Mama, hide me in your embrace. M A R Y. God, you’re insufferable! Go back to bed. FA R IS. Now I’m insufferable? You used to laugh when I’d play with you and imitate little children. M A R Y. (Violently) I used to laugh because I was annoyed and I pitied you. FA R IS. What’s wrong with you? You’re turning crueler, Mary. I’m all you have, and you’re all I have.

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M A R Y. (She rises out of bed, agitated) Who said you’re all I have? FA R IS. (He attempts to sit on the side of the bed) Mary, give me some room. M A R Y. (Loudly) Get off! How many times have I told you not to touch my bed? FA R IS. (Rises in fear) You have no right to treat me so harshly. Who else do you have but me? M A R Y. You know who else I have. I have a son. FA R IS. Are you trying to drive me insane? Where did this son of ours come from? M A R Y. Hush. He’s in the room above. Can’t you hear his steps? Go back to your bed or I’ll call him and tell him: “He’s giving your mama a hard time, Bashir.” FA R IS. This sly fox has caused you to take leave of your senses. You’ve changed since this stranger came to live here. You’ve become more defiant toward me. We don’t know where he comes from or what he does. Who is he for you to treat him like a son? M A R Y. He’s my son who’s come back to his mother after long years of absence. FA R IS. What’s this nonsense? Do you even believe what you’re saying? You’re being manipulated by an illusion. M A R Y. Don’t call my son an illusion, ever. I know why you’re so indignant toward him. It’s because he’s revealed what a rotten soul you have. Remember, he told you: “Don’t mistreat my mother!” FA R IS. Mary, this is madness. We’re at an age where we need compassion toward one another. M A R Y. (Infuriated) Compassion? When were you ever compassionate? I gave birth to him after he’d only been six months in the womb. What did you do? Remember? You gathered the rotten saliva

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in your mouth and spat it out on the ground as if you were heaping dirt over him. You didn’t look at him, didn’t even care. As if he were nothing more than a corpse you’d come across on the street. As if he hadn’t sprung from your own godforsaken loins. FA R IS. You have no right to bring that up now. M A R Y. I am bringing it up now. You always bury things so they don’t disturb your life. Thirty years of forgetting. You fold your feelings away and enjoy your life while misery’s piled up on me like a load of bricks. I created a life without worries for you to enjoy. FA R IS. You’re being horribly cruel. Why are you dredging up our past on a cold night like this? What’s happened to you, Mary? You used to be as meek as a dove, as content as someone bathed in grace. You didn’t nag or complain. What’s this fox done to you? You’ve changed since he rented that room. M A R Y. Obviously you’re not pleased that my son has appeared after such a long absence, that he takes my side after all the misery you’ve caused his mother. In the beginning, when you didn’t know whose side he was on, you loved him. Every morning he’d give you cigarettes and play backgammon with you to join you in your sloth. You claim you didn’t like him, but you never missed a chance to praise him. FA R IS. (Confused) In the beginning, I loved him. I admit it. M A R Y. What was it that turned love into revulsion then? F A R I S . Look, he’s turned our lives upside down, hasn’t he, Mary? He hovers over us and spreads discord between us. There’s no serenity in this house or in the coffee shop. It’s as if he’s a shadow trailing me wherever I go, relentlessly blaming me. Who is he after all? He’s a stranger who’s renting a room in our house. MARY. Don’t call him a stranger. If he were a stranger, it wouldn’t matter that he blames you. Of course you hate him. You’re afraid of

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him because he’s come to repair what remains of his mother’s life, to alleviate some of the misery she’s had to silently swallow for thirty years. Do you know what he told me today? He said: “When you go up to heaven, mama, you’ll find the angels perplexed and wondering how to make up for your having endured so much misery. What joy can cleanse your spirit of the suffering you bore? Oh, mama, the angels will flutter around you like birds of light and benevolence. They’ll sing with the sweetest voices to console you and fill your heart with happiness.” I live now under the protection of my son who’s returned while I await that journey that sparkles with purity. Every night, I purify myself and my bed and I wait. What do you know of the happiness that awaits me? I will give a gentle sigh, then I’ll hear the sound of silver bells surging around me like breezes laden with dew. Then I’ll leave you and this rotten world behind. FA R IS. You can’t do that. You’re not going to leave me behind alone. I’m cold and have no one else but you. M A R Y. Have you done anything to deserve someone to be here for you? You rejected your child and shrouded him in spit. F A R I S . Don’t you ever tire of blaming me? I’ve also had my share of misery. M A R Y. You dare speak of misery? Do you realize what kind of life we’ve had? FA R IS. For God’s sake, Mary, let go of the past. I’m cold. I may not even make it until morning. MARY. I’ve heard that broken record before. Whenever you want something you hint at your impending death. FA R IS. All I want is for you to let bygones be bygones and give me my due. You’re supposed to be submissive. M A R Y. I squandered my time complying with your wishes and what did it get me? Infertility and a wasted life. Do you remember

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what gift you gave me for our wedding? Mary was blind and knew nothing about men. On her wedding night, her groom gave her a disease that sullied her purity and destroyed her health. Do you remember how fire would gush from inside me? You’d say: “The pleasure of men is painful, Mary.” I was rotting without understanding why. My pain worsened and I didn’t dare cast blame or inquire. I was always complying and reaped nothing in return except infertility, illness, and affliction. FA R IS. Stop it, Mary. You’ve never spoken to me this harshly before. I too was ignorant and knew very little about women. M A R Y. How proud you are of your obstinance. FA R IS. All men like to take pride in themselves, Mary. I too was miserable and lonely. The only reason I was stubborn is I wanted to hide the truth. My God, what’s happened to you? It’s been years since you’ve talked about this. All of a sudden, tonight you decide to dig up all our suffering. Was it this stranger who incited you against me? Tell me, did you reveal everything about our lives, our secrets, to him? M A R Y. My son has the right to know what his mother has suffered. FA R IS. (Hides his face in his hands, moves backward, and collapses on the divan) No. What shame! This is too much. You’ve humiliated me in front of a stranger. Where can I hide my face? (He begins to cry) You hate me, Mary. I’d rather be dead than watch the gentle and compassionate Mary turn into this angry selfish creature. I pray, Lord, that you take my soul tonight. I’ve been severed from the tree, and the woman who was my support has debased and disowned me. I’m lonely and cold. My bones are breaking, my entrails are shivering, and no one has compassion toward me. Lord, all I asked for was a blameless slate for the sake of my afterlife. Why are you inflicting this punishment upon me? M A R Y. (Exhausted) For God’s sake, shut up . . . You’re making

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me cry. (She rises from her bed and approaches the divan. She makes Faris lie down and covers him) I no longer know when you’re being truthful and when you’re joking, but I can’t stand it when you cry. FA R IS. Yes, this is the Mary I know. Give me your hand to kiss. I know your heart is as pure as snow. This stranger, however, has come between us like a jinni. M A R Y . Calm down and go to sleep. Do you want another ­blanket? FAR IS. See how serene we are when we’re alone. You shouldn’t have revealed our secret to a stranger. M A R Y. (Violently) I told you this stranger is my son. I’ve been expecting his return for many years. FA R IS. For the love of Christ, have you gone mad, Mary? He must have bewitched you or placed a curse upon you. No, I won’t allow a stranger to destroy our lives here and in the hereafter. Tomorrow I’m going to ask him to pack up and leave. M A R Y. What right do you have to ask him to leave? He’s in his house . . . my house. Wasn’t it my father who bought the sewing machine that provides you the means to eat? Isn’t everything we own purchased with my toil? And you, what do you do? You loaf around between the house and the coffee shop. FA R IS. Say it. I’m a cadaver, I’m a leech. M A R Y. I don’t want to say anything. Go to sleep and let me rest. FA R IS. You were never a woman to boast about her generosity, Mary. Don’t you see what’s happened? This man has poisoned your soul. I won’t let him. He has to leave. Don’t forget, there’s another family in the house and things are happening with this man and . . . M A R Y. Shut up. Don’t say another word. FA R IS. Are you trying to turn our home into a nest of problems?

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Do you think we can stand disgrace and scandal at our age? Open your eyes, Mary. What do we know about him? He says he’s a student, but have you ever seen a student who only leaves his room at night? Why doesn’t he carry books and go to the university like the other students we’ve known? What if he’s involved in politics? M A R Y. Shut up. I forbid you to say such things, to raise doubts about my son. FA R IS. Are you trying to drive me mad? Where’s the father with whom you had this son? M A R Y. He’s a father in whose loins disease dwells, whose heart is devoured by envy. You didn’t care about him when he was born, and when he grew up you were jealous and terrified of him. FA R IS. Wake up, woman, either he leaves or we all go mad. M A R Y. Listen, man, if you don’t like the fact that my son’s back, leave. FA R IS. You’re telling me to leave? You’re giving me up for a lowlife from who-­knows-­where, Mary? M A R Y . What I said is clear and I don’t want to hear another word. This is my house, and my son has come back to me. I want to rest and have some peace now. FA R IS. You don’t know your own husband. If Faris decides . . . (Mary turns off the light and slips into her bed) What are you doing? I hate the dark. And I’m cold. What a terrible night. I swear, it’s terrible. M A R Y . (In a soft and humble voice) Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Lights fade.

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Scene 2 An army adjutant named Kazim, his wife Ghada, and their threeto four-­year-old son named Thaʾir are in a room in Mary’s house. Kazim is wearing his pajamas and is sitting on a rug on the floor. A wicker tray is placed in front of him with plates of mezze,1 a grilled chicken, and a glass of ʿaraq2 on it. Ghada sits in the corner writing on a notepad placed in her lap. The child is asleep. K AZI M . Where are the onions? Can’t you ever prepare mezze without forgetting something? One day there are no olives, the next it’s pickles. You prepare my mezze as if it were a punishment. GH ADA. I forgot the onions? K AZI M . Yes, madam . . . you’ve forgotten the onions. Let’s go, get up and get the onions. Ghada puts the notepad aside and rises calmly. She leaves the room to get the onions. K A Z I M . (Sipping from his glass while humming a song) “Ask me, oh Damascus . . .” (He rises, checks on his son, and sees that he is asleep. He speaks to him in a soft voice) Thaʾir . . . Thaʾir . . . He likes chicken. I wish I had fed him before he went to sleep. I’ll leave the thigh for him. He’s like his father, he likes thighs. (Ghada enters carrying a plate of sliced onions) Have you noticed how much Thaʾir is like his father? He likes thighs. Cut a thigh for him to eat in the morning. GH ADA. When you’re done. K AZI M . No, cut it now. GH ADA. Okay. Leave it on the plate. 1. A collection of small appetizer-­like dishes accompanied by alcoholic drinks. It is usually Anglicized as meze or mezze. 2. A strong colorless liquor made of grapes and anise seeds that turns milky white when diluted with water.

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K AZI M . When I ask you to do something, just do it. Don’t be obstinate with me. She grabs an empty plate and cuts off a thigh from the tied-­up chicken. She places it on the plate. K AZI M . You can have a piece of this chicken too. GH ADA. No, thank you. I had supper with Thaʾir. K A Z I M . I’m in a good mood today, Ghada, I don’t want any trouble. (He raises the glass toward her) Take a sip. GH ADA. You know I don’t like the way it tastes. K AZI M . Have a little sip. She takes the glass, puts it to her lips, and looks repulsed. K A Z I M . Drink! Don’t be afraid. It strengthens the blood and purifies the soul. (She returns to her corner and grabs the notepad) Aren’t you finished with writing to your brother yet? Tell him his brother-­in-­law says hello and drinks in his honor from afar. Don’t forget to tell him that the revolution is becoming more firmly established after we defeated the separatists and traitor unionists who follow the peacock of Egypt. Yes . . . Yes . . . Tell him Abdel Nasser won’t get it right this time. He sings, “Where to begin eating you, little duck?” and we sing back, “Don’t count what you have until you’ve been paid, rhinoceros.” Yes, tell him that on my behalf. Also, tell him we don’t need Western education. He should return to serve the revolution. Why aren’t you writing? GH ADA. I’m not writing that to him. K AZI M . Give me the pad. I’ll write it myself. GH ADA. I love Abdel Nasser. K AZI M . What did you say? Have you lost your mind? GH ADA. I love Abdel Nasser.

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K AZI M . Where did this love come from all of a sudden? This is the first time I’ve heard this story. Are you looking for trouble? Tell me, are you looking for trouble? GH ADA. I love Abdel Nasser. K AZI M . I told you I’m in a good mood tonight. Why do you want to provoke me? GH ADA. I love Abdel Nasser. K A Z I M . (He rises angrily) Damn your ancestors and Abdel Nasser too. I’ll bash your head in and knead you with your own blood. (He holds her by the hair) Are you defying my beliefs? Do you want to destroy my house? Here . . . (He begins to beat her. Ghada does not resist) GH ADA. Beat me. K AZI M . My uncle didn’t know how to raise you, but I do. GH ADA. Beat me. K AZI M . By God, I’ll cure you of this obstinacy. (He beats and kicks her more) You brood of the sole of a shoe. Who are you to raise your nose in my face just because you stumbled into a high school degree, and your sheltered brothers filled your head with rotten, degenerate ideas? You’re here with Kazim, and the only words I want to hear are, “Yes, sir.” The child wakes up startled and crying. TH A ʾ IR . Mama . . . Mama. K AZI M . Go to sleep. Now. TH A ʾ IR . Leave Mama alone. K AZI M . Shut up and go to sleep. Damn you and your mother too. Haven’t these years been enough to break you? God damn it, I’ll bury you alive if you continue with this disgusting attitude. My uncle married me off to a disease, not a woman.

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Ghada walks away and picks the child up from his bed. She hugs him with tenderness, crying. TH A ʾ IR . Did he hurt you, mama? GH ADA. Don’t worry, my love. K A Z I M . My good mood and the drink in my head have both disappeared. What kind of catastrophe is this? (Screaming) I’m God here. In this house, the God you worship is me. You have no say. Not a single word. Do you understand that? What I want from you is obedience. (He pours himself a drink and drinks it in one gulp) TH A ʾ IR . Mama . . . I’m afraid. GH ADA. Don’t be, my love. TH A ʾ IR . Mama . . . blood. GH ADA. (She wipes her mouth and sees blood on her hand) It’s nothing. I’ll wash my face and the blood will go away. You go to sleep. (She puts him in his bed, tidies herself up, and washes her face) K AZI M . Do you always have to push me to hit you? I was in such a good mood tonight. I’d planned for us to have a nice evening. What got into your head all of a sudden? GH ADA. It was a mistake. K AZI M . So you admit it, you made a mistake. GH ADA. All of it was a mistake, from the beginning. K AZI M . Listen, blessed daughter, I admit it. I have a nasty temper. But I have a good heart. Isn’t it about time you learned how to humor me? If you could simply cajole me, I’d be yours. You’d own me. You’re my cousin, after all, my flesh and blood. Every time I’m harsh with you my conscience torments me. GH ADA. It was a mistake. All of it, son of my father’s brother. From the beginning.

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K AZI M . Don’t be angry with me. Don’t you know me by now? I’m quick to anger but easily pleased, Ghada. You purposely tried to make my blood boil, didn’t you? What do you have to do with Abdel Nasser? Are you suddenly involved in politics? Come sit next to me. GH ADA. I’m finishing the letter to my brother. K AZI M . Okay, I’ll leave you alone until you calm down. (Kazim gulps his drink. He tears the chicken with his hands and gluttonously begins eating it while Ghada attempts to finish the letter. He takes a piece of the chicken and approaches her) Open your mouth. GH ADA. I don’t want any. K AZI M . Open your mouth. This is a morsel for making up. GH ADA. I don’t want any. K AZI M . (Angrily) Don’t let your heart be vengeful. Here, take it from my hand. (Ghada opens her mouth in surrender. He sticks the piece of chicken in her mouth) Consider this a way to make amends, to break bread together. Are we reconciled now? (Ghada rises and walks toward the door) Where are you going? GH ADA. (Speaking with a mouth full of food) To the bathroom. K A Z I M . Don’t forget to give my regards to the speaker of the parliament. Ghada exits while Kazim laughs at his own joke. He goes back to eating his food. ANNO U NCER . (On the radio, as soft music plays in the background) Poetry and the night. (The music becomes louder for a few seconds then gradually fades) “Your eyes are two forests of palms at sunrise . . .” Kazim changes to a channel playing softer music. Ghada returns. K AZI M . On your brother’s life, come here, sit next to me. Let’s have a calm night. I insist on it.

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GH ADA. What do you want? K AZI M . A clever person would have figured it out from a hint. (She begins to undress. He looks at her with sexual desire) See how easy our life can be, full of harmony and happiness. I’ll go clean my mouth and come right back to you. (He leaves the room) GH A D A . It was all a mistake. (The child wakes up frightened, gasping. Ghada goes hurriedly to him) In the name of the Prophet . . . May God protect you! Sleep my darling, sleep. K AZI M . (Enters whispering) Is he awake? GH ADA. No. K AZI M . (Rubbing his hands together) Great. He turns off the light. Scene 3 Mary’s room. Mary is sitting behind the sewing machine. Faris sits cross-­legged on the divan, his legs covered with blankets. He takes a long cigarette from his jacket, which is laid out next to him. He straightens the cigarette out with his finger, then lights it up. FA R IS. What’s the story? I saw him leaving early today. M A R Y. Who? FA R IS. The tenant. (Mary stops sewing. She gives him a long, grim look) Really. I’ve never seen him leave early before. M A R Y . Bless him, may he bury my bones. He’s changing his habits by leaving early for his mother’s sake. FA R IS. It’s daylight now, Mary. M A R Y. Yes, it is daylight. And I break my back all day in front of this sewing machine while you sit there idly and do nothing but reek of indolence.

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FA R IS. What I meant was that daylight obliterates the illusions and superstitions of the night. M A R Y. (Angrily) Which illusions and superstitions? FA R IS. I’m referring to that story that spoiled our evening. Wake up, Mary, we have no son. M A R Y. Are you trying to cause a permanent rupture in our relationship? Do you want me not to speak to you again ever? He’s my son. Do you want to know why he left so early? FA R IS. For the love of Jesus, tell me, why did he leave so early? M A R Y. May God take my life from me and grant it to him. He left early to arrange for my demise. He cried when I explained what had to be done. But when I insisted and told him I have no one else to rely on, he agreed, though he was sobbing. He’ll choose a sparkling coffin for me. He’ll ask the headstone maker to carve me a stone whose beauty will outshine the misery of this life. FA R IS. (Rising as if bitten) What? You chose to entrust this task to a stranger instead of me? M A R Y. Shut up! I don’t want what’s brewing inside me to come pouring out. How many times have you lied? How many times have you spent the money that was supposed to be for the coffin for something else? FA R IS. I admit it, I was wrong. But it’s something that has to do with the end of our lives, and we should arrange it together. We’ve lived together our whole lives. We shouldn’t separate at the edge of our graves. M A R Y. No, Faris! This lifetime is quite enough. It’s an injustice the Lord won’t condone: you following me into the afterlife too. FA R IS. (As if he’s crying) What about me? Are you going to toss me aside like an orphan? Am I not even to have a coffin or a tombstone?

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M A R Y. You squandered the money for a tombstone twice. FAR IS. I don’t understand. Are you taking revenge? M A R Y. Life’s over. It’s too late. If I’d had the courage just once . . . but no . . . Let what weighs on my soul remain dormant within me. FA R IS. (Still acting as if he’s crying) I’m an orphan . . . I am. I’m an orphan. You’ll bear this sin when you meet your maker. I won’t talk to you ever again. That’s right. I’ll be furious at you. We’ll spend the rest of our lives like strangers. M A R Y. Fine. God sees all. He knows who actually sinned. Thaʾir enters. TH A ʾ IR . Good morning. M A R Y. Blessed morning to you, my love. What are you carrying? TH A ʾ IR . Tarzan. M A R Y. Is this Tarzan, the brave one? TH A ʾ IR . Yes. He can destroy a building with one hand. M A R Y. Destroy an entire building! Who bought it for you? THA ʾ IR. Baba. I have a secret. (Speaking softly) I don’t love baba. FA R IS. Shame on you, boy. You should love your daddy. TH A ʾ IR . I don’t love baba, and I don’t love Uncle Faris either. M A R Y. (Laughing) You’ve given them exactly what they deserve. Why don’t you love baba? TH A ʾ IR . Because he hits mama. (He stretches his arm toward the handle of the sewing machine) Can I turn it? M A R Y. No . . . Keep your hand away . . . ouch. FA R IS. I’m going out. Do you need anything from the market? TH A ʾ IR . Chocolate. FA R IS. You shut up.

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M A R Y. Don’t yell at the boy! I don’t need anything. FAR IS. Okay. (He walks toward the door. He hesitates for a moment and then walks back toward her looking servile) Mary, I can’t leave when you’re angry. M A R Y. Don’t worry. I’m not angry. FA R IS. Do you have a lira? I’m not going to spend it. I’ll keep it in my pocket. M A R Y. I thought you were angry. Aren’t you angry with me? FA R IS. How can I be angry? Who else do I have in this world but you? You’re my wife, my mother, my father. M A R Y. What about my son? FA R IS. Fine. He’s your son. He’s our son if that’s what you want. M A R Y . (She reaches into the bosom of her dress and takes out some money) Take this . . . it’s half a lira. FA R IS. Make it a lira, Mary. M A R Y. What’s the difference if it’s a lira or half a lira since you’re not going to spend it? FA R IS. (Obsequiously) Make it a lira, Mary. M A R Y. (She reaches into the bosom of her dress and angrily takes out some more money) I break my back at this machine while you do nothing but shoo flies and then say, “give me.” Here. FARIS. May God increase your bounty. (He takes the money very eagerly, puts it in his pocket and walks out the door) TH A ʾ IR . Aunt Mary . . . Poor Tarzan . . . He’s cold. He has no clothes. MARY. He has no clothes? I see. You want me to sew him clothes? TH A ʾ IR . Yes, Aunt Mary. I want a skirt.

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M A R Y. A skirt for Tarzan? No . . . I’ll sew him a military uniform like baba’s. TH A ʾ IR . No. Not like baba. Ghada enters. GH ADA. Have you come to give Aunt Mary a hard time? M A R Y. A hard time? He’s giving me a good time. He’s made my day. TH A ʾ IR . Aunt Mary, sew Tarzan a skirt. M A R Y. Whatever you’d like. I’ll make a skirt for Tarzan. GH ADA. Aunt Mary has enough work to do already. What shall I help you with? M A R Y. Will you cut this sleeve for me? I have to finish Nuwwar’s dress today. (She takes out the scissors and hands them to Ghada. Then she takes out scraps of cloth and gives them to Thaʾir) Now go, play with these. GH ADA. Yes, love. Go out and play in the courtyard. TH A ʾ IR . What about the skirt? GH A D A . I’ll bring it to you. (Thaʾir exits. To Mary) I saw you going up to his room last night. M A R Y. Did you hear him screaming? GHADA. I got out of bed, startled. I stood by the window ­listening. M A R Y. Light of my eye. He must have suffered a great deal while he was away. I told him to open up and tell me what was in his heart but he avoided the subject. He didn’t want to burden his mother. GH ADA. That’s the second time I’ve heard him scream at night. M A R Y. He says it’s nightmares, but they pass. He smiles when he awakens and tries to comfort me. Tell me, do you love him?

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GH ADA. Oh, auntie, what should I say? I used to often ask my brother: What are the signs of love? He’d say, “One’s days are usually monotonous and one’s soul is stagnant, but when one is in love each day feels different, the world blossoms, rejuvenating itself. The senses awaken to wondrous sensations, and everything is transformed into joy and yearning.” I don’t remember everything he said but I know it was true, that his expressions describe what I’m feeling, what’s swirling inside me. Yes . . . Ever since we met, I feel like I’m living in a new world. M A R Y. Then why didn’t you wait for him? GHADA. How could I have known? May God forgive my brother! He abandoned me to face all this by myself. He was a brother, a friend, a beloved, a window through which I saw the light. Oh, Aunt Mary, our energy was inexhaustible. We’d stay up all night talking. Even though I’m younger and know almost nothing compared to him, he treated me as a comrade. He’d tell me about his dreams, what he was reading. He read constantly. His happiest moments were delving into the pages of a new book. He’d choose ones for me, and share his insights and experiences. We dreamed of continuing our studies together. I graduated from middle school the same year he graduated from high school. As usual, he ranked near the top of his class, so he left to prepare for a scholarship and to travel outside the country. Our father decided I should be content with a middle school degree, and my brother made no effort to change his mind. He said, “You know how harsh father is. I don’t want to ruin my own plans to travel by creating problems with him. Stay home and try to continue your studies. I’ll write to him from abroad and try to convince him.” Yes, my brother went away, he abandoned me. My father had promised me to his brother’s son. After my own brother left it felt like I’d died, and I didn’t know how to resist. It seemed impossible. I married my cousin Kazim who repeated the same grade three times just to get his grammar school degree. His failure was the source of jokes and ridicule among us, which he knew how to avenge as soon as we

228 Plays

were married. I don’t mention my suffering to my parents. I used to find solace in the long missives I sent to my brother, but he’s been stolen away by his life in a foreign country, and he’s become more and more distant. Oh, Aunt Mary, how many times I’ve decided to kill myself, but what dissuaded me was that flower to which I gave birth! I was a corpse who believed life was nothing more than soulless anguish and insipid repetition. Then the world blossomed anew. My senses suddenly began to blaze, and each day ceased to be like the previous one. Had I known, I would have withstood everything in the world waiting for him . . . but as you can see . . . things didn’t happen at the right time. M A R Y. Things certainly don’t happen at the right time. I should have waited twenty-­six years. Even so, we can’t let them snatch this opportunity from us. GH ADA. Who are you talking about? M A R Y. Faris . . . and your husband. Perhaps others. GH ADA. I can’t imagine living without him. M A R Y. Can you face your husband, your family, other people? GH ADA. I have to. I don’t care about being beaten anymore. No form of suffering can be worse than not having him near me. M A R Y. Oh, dear me, had she known how to stand up for herself she could have spared herself thirty years of misery. Life has passed us by, and all we’ve tasted is bitterness. GH A D A . You’ve suffered a great deal, aunt. Open your heart to me. M A R Y. I will someday, as I have to my son. But we’re discussing your fate, Ghada. It’s not too late for you. You have to be strong and prepared to fight. GH ADA. Teach me, aunt. What am I supposed to do? I no longer care . . . I feel stronger every day.

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M A R Y. We have to bathe away his feeling of alienation. Protect him. GH ADA. I’d do anything he asks, but he doesn’t ask for anything. M A R Y. Yes . . . He prefers to give to others. From the moment he arrived, I sensed he’d come to share my worries with me. He called me mother and gently induced me to tell him about the oppression and deprivation I’d suffered. I spoke . . . and spoke . . . It was as if I’d taken a lozenge made of mint. My chest opened and expanded. Cool refreshing air penetrated my lungs. GH ADA. He’s a good listener. He entices one to divulge secrets. Ever since my brother left, no one listens to me, but his eyes have a mournful glow that breaks one’s heart, makes one forget one’s self and bare one’s soul without a trace of shame. But about himself, he says nothing. At times it seems he’s only living here while he prepares for his next journey. Has he ever told you how long he intends to stay? M A R Y. He hasn’t, but a mother’s heart knows, Ghada. He’s not only come to satisfy my yearning for him, he’s also come searching for you. GH ADA. Do you think so? Whenever we start to share secrets he walks away looking pained. I don’t know what he’s hiding. M A R Y. He’s afraid for you. He applies pressure to his own wound so as not to cause you harm. Imagine if only the three of us lived in this house? GH ADA. What about the baby, aunt? M A R Y. The baby would be with us too. I’ll make arrangements for his life just as he’s making arrangements for my death. I’ll get new furniture for his room and arrange it in preparation for the wedding. GH ADA. What wedding? M A R Y. Your wedding. Yours and his. GH ADA. Are you dreaming, aunt?

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M A R Y. You should dream, Ghada. The two of you can decide on a date and you’ll have a magnificent wedding. Do you think we’ll have daughter/mother-­in-­law fights? GH ADA. I promise not to quarrel with you ever. M A R Y. We mustn’t quarrel. You’re a kind and loving girl. All I want is to have a pleasant death in the arms of my son for whom I’ve waited for so long. GH ADA. Don’t turn our joy to melancholy. May God grant you a long life. M A R Y. Death is my joy. I look at it with anticipation in the same way you look forward to your wedding night. In it I’ll find the delight I’ve been lacking in this life. Thaʾir enters carrying his father’s military cap. TH A ʾ I R . Mama . . . Mama . . . Tarzan peed in the cap. He thought it was a potty. GH ADA. (She takes the wet cap) What did you do to the cap? Do you want your father to hit you? TH A ʾ IR . I don’t like baba. M A R Y. You’ve hit the nail on the head. TH A ʾ I R . It’s Tarzan he should hit for thinking the cap was a potty. M A R Y . My goodness, how intelligent you are! A potty’s all he deserves. GH ADA. In the end I’ll be the one who pays the price. M A R Y. What did we decide? GH ADA. I’ll stand up to him, aunt, and I’ll dream. M A R Y. Now you’re talking. And we’ll stand up and dream too. Will you be feeding him or shall I? GH ADA. I’ll prepare lunch. Come on, Thaʾir.

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TH A ʾ IR . (Following his mother) What about the skirt? I want a skirt for Tarzan. M A R Y. As you wish, Thaʾir. It’ll be ready after lunch. Lights fade. Scene 4 Kazim and Faris are sitting in a secluded corner of a local coffee shop. Kazim is wearing his military uniform. KAZIM. (Claps his hands and looks around impatiently) Where’s that idiot? FA R IS. (Rising obsequiously) He probably didn’t hear you. I’ll get him. K AZI M . No, stay right where you are. (He raises his voice) Hey, brother. Mister. W AI TER . Coming. Coming in a minute. F A R I S . In the old days, waiters used to be as nimble as birds. They’d be at your service before you even sat down. W A I TER . Welcome, Abou al-­Fawaris. What can I get for the two of you? FA R IS. Take Sir Kazim’s order. K AZI M . How many times have I told you, no “sir,” no “beik,”3 no “effendi.”4 These titles are reactionary. The revolution demolished the forces of reaction and their titles with them. W AI TER . Right on! No effendis, no beiks, and everyone drinks his coffee without sugar. What’ll you have? 3. A courtesy title Anglicized as Bey. 4. A well-­educated man or one of high social standing in the Eastern Mediterranean or an Arab country.

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K AZI M . I’ve had enough of your loud mouth. W AITER . With God as my witness, there’s nothing better than everybody ordering their coffee without sugar. K AZI M . (To Faris) What do you want? FA R IS. Just order for yourself. I don’t want anything. K AZI M . You have to drink something. FA R IS. (Humiliated) I’m trying to spare you the expense. K AZI M . Forget about the expense. Order something, my man. W AI TER . Order, Abou al-­Fawaris. The café’s all yours. FA R IS. All right. Bring me a cup of coffee with two sugars, and an argileh. K AZI M . For me, coffee with no sugar. W A I TER . Yes, sir. (In a loud voice) One medium and one no sugar. FA R IS. Extra careful with the argileh. And ʿAjami tobacco. W AI TER . (Leaving) No need to admonish the prudent, sir who sucks up to power. FA R IS. Goddamn you, get out of here. (To Kazim) You’re confusing me, Kazim Effendi, how do you want me to address you? K AZI M . Call me Mr. Adjutant or Mr. Kazim. Forget about the “effendis” and the “beiks.” FA R IS. You’re right, but what am I supposed to do? My tongue has the habit of saying the words “effendi” and “beik.” K AZI M . Train your tongue to say “mister” or “comrade.” FA R IS. Yes, Kazim Effendi . . . sorry, I mean Mr. Adjutant. K AZI M . Fine. Let’s get to the point. What’s this important subject you want to talk to me about?

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FA R IS. Where shall I begin, Mr. Kazim? I have only myself to blame. (He strikes his face with obvious exaggeration) Yes, I’m the one to blame. I deserve to be pummeled on my head with shoes. K AZI M . What’s the matter? F AR IS. (He stretches out his hand with reluctance) May I have a cigarette? K AZI M . Take one and let’s get on with it. What’s wrong? FA R IS. It’s time I came clean with you. The tenant who’s living in the room upstairs, I was the one who leased the room out to him and carried his bag up for him, if you can believe it. K AZI M . So what? You talked my ear off singing his praises: an ideal man, good upbringing, commendable moral values. He stirred hope in your soul and brought happiness to your heart. FA R IS. I deserve to have my head beaten in. He made me into a laughingstock, convinced me he’d teach me to read and write at my age. He used to prepare tea and invite me to sit with him. God, he was cunning! He has the ability to twist a person’s mind any way he wants. Imagine, I almost made myself believe I could do it, that an old man like me still had hopes ahead of him. K AZI M . That was a good thing. He used to teach you how to read while the two of you drank coffee and smoked cigarettes. FA R IS. He deceived me. He’s two-­faced and clever. If it was only me, I’d put up with it, but he’s manipulated the mind of that poor woman Mary. Who knows what else he’s been doing? The Waiter enters carrying the coffee and hookah. W AI TER . This is the coffee without sugar, this is the medium one, and here’s the argileh, Abou al-­Fawaris. FA R IS. Did you prepare the tobacco with care? W AI TER . Extra care.

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The Waiter moves further away. Faris pulls the hose of the hookah toward him hungrily and takes several tokes in a row while the bubbling sound of the water in the argileh rises. FA R IS. Can you believe it, Mr. Adjutant? He manipulated poor Mary’s mind and convinced her he was her son and she his mother. K AZI M . I don’t understand anything so far. Do you mean he’s kind to her and calls her mom? FA R IS. It’s not kindness, Mr. Adjutant. It’s more dangerous than that. I’m telling you, he’s an incredible fraud. You should hear how she talks about him. She’s convinced he’s her son, the fetus she miscarried twenty-­six years ago. K AZI M . What kind of story’s this? Is she delusional? FA R IS. I don’t know if it’s a delusion or madness. He’s bewitched her, he’s controlling her, he’s an extremely devious man. For example, a couple of days ago he frowned in my face and said: “Don’t give my mother any trouble.” It’s as if she’s possessed. She talks nonstop about her son who came back from abroad. I’m afraid she’s going to hand over control of everything we have to him. K AZI M . So you didn’t have children? FA R IS. It was God’s will. She became pregnant twenty-­six years ago and miscarried in her sixth month. (Whispering) It’s her fault, but she thinks it’s mine. I thought it was better not to upset her with the truth since believing I was responsible made her feel better. K AZI M . I still don’t understand the problem. If you know he’s a fraud and wishes you harm why don’t you throw him out? FA R IS. How can I do that? K AZI M . Tell him, “We want the room. Leave.” FARIS. Mary owns the house, and she’s changed. She’s no longer the Mary I’ve spent my whole life with. I swear to God, if I were to prove to her the error of her ways, that charming mellow woman

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would turn into a ferocious lion. She won’t allow me to throw him out. I’m counting on you, Mr. Adjutant. K AZI M . Counting on me for what? F AR IS. (Conspiratorially) I believe it’s your duty to get involved. K AZI M . Why? You think he’s a dissident? And by the way, what are his ideological views? Is he involved in politics? FA R IS. His story’s dubious. Imagine it, we don’t really know a thing about him. He says he’s studying law, but he’s home all day and only goes out at night. That behavior alone should raise doubts. K AZI M . Does he talk about the revolution, about the situation that’s going on in the country? F A R I S . He’s hiding something, but he’s too clever to let you catch him at it. I’m positive it’s related to politics. There’s something else I’m worried about which I’ll have on my conscience if I don’t tell you. I’m the one to blame. I should’ve seen it coming from the very beginning. I shouldn’t have allowed a bachelor to live in a house inhabited by an honorable and decent family. K AZI M . (Perturbed) You’re singing a strange tune all of a sud‑ den. What are you insinuating? FA R IS. Nothing. It was my fault from the beginning. I should’ve known it was inappropriate for a young unmarried man to stay in the same house with a woman who exudes finesse and beauty. But how could I have known he’d stay home all day while her husband was doing his duty at work? When I realized what the situation was, I swear, it scared me. I decided I wouldn’t leave the house except in an absolute emergency. K AZI M . What are you talking about, man? Stop beating around the bush. Have you noticed something improper that has to do with my wife? FA R IS. Just little things. But as you know, Satan can enter places

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as small as the eye of a needle. No, with God as my witness, I don’t want to burden my conscience by saying something malicious. K AZI M . What sort of little things? Give it to me straight or I’ll put a bullet in your brain. FA R IS. I’m begging you . . . I wish I’d cut my tongue out and hadn’t said a word. I don’t want you to be angry. You know how much I care about you. With God as my witness, your honor is my honor. All I mean is it’s prudent to be careful. We need to prevent anything from happening that could lead to discord. KAZIM. You’re a truly base man. Are you raising suspicions about my wife so you can get rid of a tenant who’s bothering you? F A R I S . You know the saying, Mr. Adjutant, “Where there’s smoke there’s fire.” Doubts don’t arise out of nothing. “Take a look at this book.” “Have you read this novel?” Then an invitation for a cup of coffee. K AZI M . I’ll murder you, old man. Be careful. You need to understand how dangerous what you’re saying is. Have you seen anything explicit? FARIS. No. I don’t want to burden my conscience with anything. These are just thoughts, little things I felt. But they’d be on my conscience if I didn’t tell you. K AZI M . Look, I’m on duty tonight. You’re going to pay dearly for these vile insinuations. FA R IS. God help me, don’t be angry. I’ll do the watching. Consider me the watchdog of the house. I’ll be responsible for your family. It’s in both of our interests to be rid of this con artist. As they say, you won’t have bad dreams if you don’t sleep in a graveyard. If we get rid of him, our worries will disappear. K AZI M . You’re right, even though your intentions aren’t. I can’t stand having doubts about my family.

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FA R IS. I’m at your service, sir. I’ve simply done what every trustworthy guard does. The rest is in your hands. K A Z I M . Be prepared, old man, tonight at midnight. If there’s already talk going around then he’s not staying in the house tonight. FARIS. Now you’re talking. May God preserve strongmen. I’ll be right by your side. The important thing’s that we get rid of this fraud. K AZI M . Tonight’s the night then. F AR IS. I’ll be ready. Kazim rises and leaves the café while Faris sits back and enjoys smoking his hookah. FA R IS. Who needs a son? I wouldn’t be so happy, Mary. I’m not going to allow a son to remove me from your bosom. The hookah continues to bubble for a while, and then lights gradually fade. Scene 5 The upstairs room in which the tenant Bashir lives. The atmosphere is different from previous scenes. The setting feels fluid, and the scene alternates between dream and reality. Bashir appears relaxed with his head in Mary’s lap. Mary’s appearance is markedly different. M A R Y. Where did you travel to, my son? BAS H I R . Away from the river because it frightens me. M A R Y. The water flows and flows while I remain in place, waiting. He ripped him out of me, threw him in the river and spat. The water flows while I remain in place, waiting. BAS H I R . Sing me a song. M A R Y. I’ve forgotten the lullabies that mothers sing. B A S H I R . Your beautiful voice used to lull me to sleep as you

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swayed to that song “Abou al-­Zuluf.” How long ago are the days of my childhood . . . Did my father abuse you? MARY. Don’t refer to him as “my father.” Every day, with a needle as thick as an obelisk. Look, my behind has turned blue. It’s swollen and covered with sores. (She raises his head and pulls up her dress to show him her sagging behind) See what my buttocks have become. BASH I R . (Refusing to look) No . . . Cover your thighs, mother. M A R Y . (Laughs strangely) Are you embarrassed? I’m your mother. Look at how deformed my behind is. BAS H I R . I can’t look. Mary takes his head and places it in her lap. BAS H I R . I have to get up. M A R Y. Don’t travel anymore. BAS H I R . I don’t want to live near the river. M A R Y. The river flows and flows while I remain in place, waiting. A very bright light appears on Faris. He looks different from previous scenes. He has a very stern, cold expression on his face, and his moustache is thicker. He is wearing a kaffiyeh and ʿiqal5 headdress. FA R IS. Come, my child. BAS H I R . Am I late for the harvest, father? FA R IS. You’re my first son, Bashir. Two harvests await you this year. BAS H I R . You needn’t worry. I’ll do the task of two reapers. FA R IS. What are they teaching you in school? Have they shorn

5. A traditional Arab headdress for men that consists of a kaffiyeh and a camel’s hair cord.

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you of all self-­respect? We have traditions, customs we must not relinquish as long as we’re living and have our dignity. BAS H I R . I know who you are. You’re Faris. F AR IS. What are you saying, boy? I’m your father. It’s time for you to take on my legacy, to assume the task of purifying my life. BAS H I R . What do you want from me, father? FA R IS. I’m referring to your sister. BAS H I R . What about her? F AR IS. She’s disgraced us among friend and foe. My firstborn son cannot assume his rightful place in our community unless he purifies us by eliminating this disgrace. Look. (He tears his shirt open. A dark blue lump of flesh that resembles a breast appears on the left side of his chest) See what’s happened to your father? BAS H I R . (Very frightened) What is it? F A R I S . It’s the black disgrace. That’s right, your father has a breast like women do. (He holds the lump of breast in his hands) Yes, a breast with a nipple. Come, touch it. BAS H I R . (Walking back) No. I don’t want to. FA R IS. It has milk as well. Poisonous black milk. Look how it oozes out when I press the breast. (He presses the lump and a black, extremely slimy liquid oozes out) BAS H I R . What a horrible smell. FA R IS. It’s the smell your sister has covered me with. BAS H I R . What’s she done? F AR IS. Can’t you smell the stench? She fell in love. I’m leaving the task to you. You’re my firstborn son on whom I can lean and who’ll carry on my legacy. BAS H I R . Father . . .

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FA R IS. No objections or hesitation. Take this. (He pulls a studded dagger out of his pants and gives it to Bashir) This dagger is your father’s. Clean it and hold on to it. Take her to the field by the river. After you’ve finished harvesting the crop, wash your hands with her blood. Don’t kill her until you’ve completed the harvest. Listen to me, my fury won’t diminish and my deformity won’t disappear until I see her blood dripping from my dagger. (He approaches Bashir and squeezes the black lump in his chest. The black liquid flows out onto his sleeve and clothes) Fill your nostrils with the stench. Smell it. (Faris attempts to shove Bashir’s face in his chest. Bashir moves away, disgusted and afraid) BAS H I R . I can’t. FA R IS. Smell it. Fill your lungs with it. His boisterous laughter has a metallic ring to it. Bashir takes his fingers off his nose and turns the dagger around in his hands. He takes it out of its sheath and then, revolted, puts it back in the sheath. Ghada, who also looks different from the way she has in previous scenes, appears wearing peasant’s clothes. GH ADA. What’s that? You’re carrying a dagger? BAS H I R . It belongs to my father. GH ADA. (Sadly) Really. My father’s dagger. You want to kill me? BAS H I R . I don’t know. GH ADA. (Laughing) I love harvest time. We’ll have such fun, you and I, alone in the field. Come, I prepared a picnic. Bring the tools you need for reaping and follow me. (She gracefully disappears) M A R Y. (Unseen) Stay here. BAS H I R . I have to go. M A R Y. Don’t listen to him. I noticed that thing on his chest a long time ago.

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BAS H I R . Even so, I have to go. M A R Y . Stay here. I can’t follow you. I have sores all over my buttocks. Ever since I met him, he’s done nothing but spread death. Don’t leave, my son. The scene changes to a tent in a wilderness. There are bundles of wheat and a full moon. Ghada is asleep, her dress pulled up, exposing her thigh. Bashir sits next to her. He steals glances at her thigh then turns away with embarrassment. He reaches out to gently touch her thigh. He withdraws his hand as if it had been bitten. He pulls out his dagger, removes it from its sheath and turns it around playfully, looking at the reflection of the moonlight on its blade. He suddenly throws himself onto her thigh and kisses it. He is overcome with successive shudders and moves away. He presses his hand against his groin. BAS H I R . Damn you . . . No . . . don’t ejaculate . . . Don’t. Ghada calmly rises and sits cross-­legged. GH ADA. Did you touch me or was I dreaming? BAS H I R . (Angrily) I didn’t touch you. You have no shame. Why aren’t you wearing panties? GH ADA. I washed them and they haven’t dried yet. Why didn’t you let me wash your clothes? BAS H I R . The harvest is over. GH ADA. Yes, the harvest is done. Look at the moon. It’s so luminous and near. BAS H I R . More than luminous. GH ADA. Has the time arrived? BAS H I R . Yes, it has. GH ADA. Have you drawn the dagger to kill me? BAS H I R . I have.

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GHADA. If only you’d do it while I were sleeping. Try not to cause too much pain. Bashir, overcome with emotion, weeps. He leans his head on her shoulder and hugs her. BAS H I R . (Choking on his tears) I can’t. I’m a coward. I adore you. GH ADA. Are you crying? Don’t, my brother. I’m not worthy of your tears. Calm down. I’ll spare you this tribulation. How beautiful the moon is tonight! What’s that poem you used to recite to me? Recite it now. BAS H I R . I’ve forgotten it. GH A D A . When you remember it, recite it to me. Wherever I am, I’ll hear it. She kisses him on the forehead and rises slowly. She takes the panties laid out to dry on the bundles of wheat. She puts them on and walks gracefully away as if in a dream. BAS H I R . Where are you going? GH ADA. To the river. BAS H I R . You’re leaving? GH ADA. The river is calling me, I’ll do what I must. Go to my mother’s grave and give her my greeting. BAS H I R . Your eyes are a pair of palm orchards at dawn, two balconies from which the moon has receded. Listen to the river roar . . . She’s disappearing . . . Something’s paralyzing my legs. Why can’t I move? I have to save her. Pull your feet from the mud, now. He tries hard to lift his feet but is unable to. They sink further into the mud. He looks exhausted and afraid. BAS H I R . I’m sinking. (He screams, frightened) The mud . . .

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A dark void appears onstage. Ghada enters wearing a see-­through nightgown. The setting is dark, resembling the attic of a farmhouse. GH ADA. (Caressing his head) Don’t be afraid. (She hands him a glass of water) Drink. Your mouth is dry. BAS H I R . I couldn’t kill her. She threw herself into the river to spare me the trouble. I was sinking in the mud as the water swallowed her up. I gave up on her. GH ADA. It was a dream. Here I am right beside you. You didn’t give up on me. BAS H I R . I was paralyzed by fear. How did you get here? GH ADA. You didn’t want me to come? BASH I R . I don’t want you to do anything rash. If something happens to you, I’ll despise myself. GH A D A . Don’t worry. The delight I feel will protect me from harm. BAS H I R . Do you believe that? GH ADA. I’m certain. I was suffocating, rotting away in the fetid air. Then you suddenly appeared, conveying pure air and sunlight. Oh, how I’ve waited for you! BASHIR. I’ve been searching for you too. I can’t believe someone like me could be a vessel for air and sunlight. GH ADA. Why? Can’t you see how my life has changed? B ASH I R . Where is he, my father? GH ADA. I haven’t seen him. The house is empty, so is the neighborhood. There’s no one here but you and me. BAS H I R . It’s a trap. I have to return the dagger to him. GH ADA. You won’t find him. Everyone has gone to walk in the funeral procession.

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BAS H I R . That’s right, the funeral. I should have slipped the dagger between the pleats of the shroud. GH ADA. No, keep it. You can’t live without a dagger. BAS H I R . You know . . . when you were sleeping I kissed your thigh. GH ADA. I was only pretending to sleep. BAS H I R . The entire time? GH ADA. Yes. I felt peculiar shudders. B A S H I R . It’s impossible. We’ve shared death and forbidden blood. GH ADA. Forbidden . . . but . . . it’s out of our hands . . . look, we’re shivering. Give me your hand. Touch my breast. Ah, how luscious your touch is. BAS H I R . You’re making me sweat. (Frightened) Go . . . leave. My father’s arrived. Ghada disappears. Bashir adopts a deceptively innocent posture. BAS H I R . (In a sweet voice) Your eyes are a pair of palm orchards at dawn, two balconies from which the moon has receded. A black void. After a few moments, Kazim and Faris barge in. K AZI M . So, this is the suspect. Coward. Traitor. You sneak behind our backs and trifle with our honor. BAS H I R . I was reading poetry. K AZI M . We know what the poetry of traitors means. FA R IS. He’s an enemy of the revolution. BAS H I R . Poetry’s graceful and pure. Kazim pulls out his gun and shoots Bashir in the chest. K AZI M . Go read your poetry to the dead.

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FA R IS. Amen. The only thing a scoundrel like him deserves is a bullet. K AZI M . Come, roll up your sleeves and help me. FA R IS. What do you want me to do? K AZI M . Pick him up and we’ll toss him in the trash can. FA R IS. Yes, that’s the perfect place for him. BAS H I R . (While both are carrying him) I’m not dead . . . I’m not dead. Your eyes are a pair of palm orchards at dawn. Lights fade. Scene 6 In the room of Kazim and Ghada. The child is asleep and Ghada appears to have been awakened by a terrible dream. K AZI M . Haven’t you gone to sleep yet? GH ADA. I just woke up. Why are you back early? K AZI M . I missed you. GH ADA. I thought I heard noise and voices. K A Z I M . It was nothing. I tossed that young scoundrel and his suitcase out of the house. GH ADA. (Suddenly rising) You did what? K AZI M . I threw him out of the house. GH ADA. By what right? This isn’t your house. K AZI M . Why do you care? He’s a suspect. He should thank God I threw him in the alley instead of in jail. GH ADA. But he’s a tenant like us, and someone else owns the house. What business is it of yours? K AZI M . The owner of the house was with me. But tell me, why are you so upset I threw him out?

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GH ADA. You act as if you’re in charge by the will of God. K AZI M . Yes, I am the one in charge in this household. Do you think I don’t have my eyes on you? People are talking about you, cousin. What’s going on between the two of you? GH A D A . (She confronts him with desperate anger) You really want to know? K AZI M . Watch it . . . unless you want to see a volcano of rage erupt. GH ADA. Do you want to know or not? K AZI M . You’ve turned this evening into a nightmare. GH ADA. It’s a nightmare already, my cousin. Don’t try to drag it out of me unless you really want to hear it. I think I love him. K AZI M . (Stupefied) Say that again. GH ADA. I love him . . . I love him . . . I . . . K AZI M . (Pleading) No . . . don’t say that again. My God, are you in that much of a hurry to die? GH ADA. I’m not afraid of dying. KAZIM. You’re breaking my back, cousin. I may have been rough with you, and I didn’t know how to treat you right, but you know I’ve never loved any woman but you. Our childhood, our family, our life together have forged a bond between us. I know how my uncle raised you, and I don’t believe what you’re telling me. I’m willing to forget what you just said. We can’t allow sin to come between us. GH A D A . (Crying) Divorce me, Kazim. Our marriage was a colossal mistake. K AZI M . No, my cousin. No one divorces in our family. Don’t forget, it was our parents who tied our fates together when we were children.

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GH ADA. Staying with you’s unbearable. K A Z I M . Can’t you see I’m trying to remain calm? I’m doing everything I can to restrain my demonic fury. I just allowed you to insult me in a way nobody but a pimp would put up with. Use your head. Let’s not fight tonight. GH ADA. Divorce me, Kazim. K AZI M . Shut up. Don’t utter that word again. GH ADA. Let’s speak calmly. K AZI M . There’s nothing more for us to talk about. Your fate is tied to mine till death do us part. Apparently I was mistaken to treat you kindly. I was wrong to put my pride aside and talk to you about love as if I were a teenager. You belong to me, and I’ll spill blood for what’s mine. Do you want to know how I was able to control my anger? You’re below me and you’ll always be below me until the day you’re covered with a funeral shroud. GH ADA. Divorce me. K A Z I M . I don’t want to do this. I’m trying to hold back the demon inside me but apparently you won’t be able to sleep unless I humiliate you. GH ADA. Divorce me. K A Z I M . (He kicks her and knocks her around) You want a divorce? Here. GH ADA. (She does not avoid his blows. She looks hypnotized) Divorce me. K AZI M . (Breathing heavily) Stop. GH ADA. Divorce me. She falls. The child awakens, crying. TH A ʾ IR . (Shouting) Mama . . . Don’t hit mama.

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K AZI M . Stay in your bed, son. Goddamn it. (Kazim gets water and a towel. He leans over Ghada and washes her face with water. He wipes her blood away and gently carries her to the bed) TH A ʾ IR . Mama . . . (He gets out of his bed and approaches his mother) Mama . . . answer me. K AZI M . Don’t worry. She’ll answer you shortly. Leave her now and come with me. TH A ʾ IR . No . . . I’m afraid . . . Mama. GH ADA. (She braces herself, stretches her arm out to lift him onto the bed) Apple of Mama’s eyes, come here beside me. They both cry while Kazim lights a cigarette and smokes it ravenously. K AZI M . Goddamn it, you had no right, tonight of all nights. You ruined my happiness. I got rid of that imposter and came down here to tell you. An excellent future awaits me, Ghada. They’re going to give me an important job in security. The door in front of me is wide open. My status at work’s going up and so is my salary. We’ll live lavishly and forget about all these troubles. That’s right, our life’s going to change. All I ask is that you obey me and keep an eye out for this angry streak I’ve got inside me. It’s about time we had a decent life. This new job’s going to require that I have a proper family life and a stable home life untarnished by rumors. That’s right . . . our life is going to have to change. He finishes his cigarette, rises to go to sleep and turns off the light. Muffled crying can be heard. Scene 7 Ghada is kneeling on the ground with bowls and a pail of water in front of her. She is busy cleaning lamb tripe. Mary comes down the stairs that lead to the upper room carrying a tray with a coffeepot and two cups on it. She sits next to Ghada.

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M A R Y. Morning coffee no longer has any taste. I used to wake up every day brimming with enthusiasm and energy, thinking, “I’ll brew a pot and take it up to him.” And then we’d slowly drink our precious, delicious coffee. He’d surround me with warmth and tranquility, offer me comfort, ask how my past few days had been. He’d promise to make up for a share of my suffering. I still carry the tray up to the room, get everything off my chest and cry, tell him how much loneliness he’s left behind. He appeared to me, then disappeared as if he were an apparition. Do you still blame me? My pain’s worse than yours. I have no idea what happened to me that night. My sleep turned into a leaden nightmare. I kept hearing someone call me. I’d try to get up, but I couldn’t, as if I were paralyzed with a horrible weight pressing down upon my chest. I wouldn’t be surprised if Faris put a sedative in the mint tea I drink in the evenings. I wouldn’t be surprised by anything he did. He’s vile and rotten. Are you crying? GH ADA. I don’t know what I’m doing. They’re stronger than we are. They can’t stand it that we have dreams, that we might find pleasure in our own lives. There’s nothing left for us but to return to this dreadful, agonizing waiting. It’s like having chills and fever. I can’t stand it anymore. M A R Y. I’m lost since he left. This place has become as cramped as a cell. It’s as if we’re confined in a prison. GH ADA. All we can do is swallow our unhappiness and feed it to ourselves. M A R Y. If you swallow your unhappiness you’ll end up a desperate, embittered old woman like me. We can’t swallow our sorrow this time. GH ADA. What can we do? M A R Y. Are you preparing tripe for lunch? GH ADA. No, his eminence wants to have it for dinner. He’s taken the little one with him so he doesn’t distract me.

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M A R Y. Faris likes tripe too. How filthy men are! They’re entrails that feed on entrails. I’ll be right back. (Rising) Look what I found under his pillow. (She takes a book out of her clothes and hands it to Ghada) He must have left it for you. GH A D A . (Looks at the book) It’s the poetry he never tired of reading, the poetry two people read to me: he and my brother. How similar they are! Mary disappears to her room. Ghada flips through the book and reads it softly. Eyes drowning in a gauzy mist of sorrow Like the sea stroked by nightfall’s fingers Within them the warmth of winter, the shiver of autumn, Birth and death, light and darkness A shudder awakens, filling my soul with weeping And a feral ecstasy hugging the sky When he read these verses, his voice would swell with sweetness. He was a dream, a striking vision for whom I was waiting. God, why must beautiful visions disappear so quickly? Was he really here, or was he the dream of two desperate women? Mary comes out of the room carrying a box that is wrapped in several layers of cloth. M A R Y. Did you prepare the spices? GH ADA. Yes, they’re ready. M A R Y. Then take this. (She gives her the box) GH ADA. What is it? M A R Y. It’s what I’ve been holding in for more than twenty years. I’m a perplexed woman. My life has been wasted in hesitation and self-­pity. How many times have I opened this box, then closed it again, having given up on the idea and said to myself this is my lot in life. I’ll tell you . . . yes, it’s about time I told you. When Faris pro-

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posed to me my parents were happy. I was twenty-­five and no one had proposed to me yet, and father didn’t ask many questions about him. My parents were old and afraid I’d remain alone in this world without a husband or a family, especially since my sister had left the country with her husband and we heard very little from her. So my parents accepted. My father bought me this house and sewing machine to ensure I’d have no financial problems. I married Faris and discovered afterward that he’d blinded us with lies. He had no profession, couldn’t keep a job, and on top of that he gambled and stole. He hung out with scum and pushed me into a life filled with filth and lies. Just a few days after our first night together I began to feel pain whenever I urinated. Stains from a foul-­smelling fluid appeared in my underwear. Oh, my daughter, I’m ashamed, but I want you to know how I’ve lived my life, and why my soul is so full of disgust for my own body, for my very existence. I didn’t dare say a thing. I didn’t know what to do. In the beginning I thought it was marriage and the secretion that comes from the physical relationship one has with a man. He’d do that disgusting thing, turn his back and lie there sleeping as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The burning sensation and foul-­smelling secretions increased. When I started to smell my own stench I would wash myself with soap and water several times a day, but that had no effect at all. The secretions wouldn’t stop, and they were accompanied by pain. I was overcome with the feeling of being impure, of having a body that was cursed. My mother was sick and had only a short time left to live, and I was ashamed to ask her about this unexpected illness I had contracted. She died thinking I was a secure and contented woman. My father didn’t live long after her death, and sadness followed sadness as my insides rotted away. My aversion to my impurity and my own body grew. Once, I gathered up my courage and asked Faris about these symptoms, and he replied, in a demeaning voice, taking a drag on his cigarette: “There’s a lot of filth in women. It’s an obvious fact: women are impure.” How ashamed I felt that day! How I hated myself! Then, after more than two years of

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marriage, I began to have symptoms of pregnancy. I was so overjoyed I forgot about my pains and no longer cared about the stains on my clothes. I suffered constantly during my pregnancy, but the suffering barely diminished my joy. In the sixth month . . . after my son was complete in my womb and one could see his image inside me . . . I began to bleed and he slipped away from me. He was already fully developed when I miscarried him. As Faris bundled him up in a piece of cloth, he spat, then went outside and threw him away. To this day I don’t know if he dumped him in the garbage or the river. The midwife who tended to me said I had a delicate physique, and I summoned up the courage to ask her about my pains and the fluids I was secreting. She claimed they were nothing more than signs of weakness. After I lost my son, my pains grew more intense, Ghada. My condition became unbearable. I was alone and didn’t know what to do. Then we rented out the room you’re now living in to a young couple. In the beginning, I couldn’t stand the young woman. My aversion to her was like the kind one has toward scandal or shame. How strange human beings are! Can you believe it . . . she made sounds at night that filled the house and made me shiver in shame in my bed. GH ADA. What sorts of sounds? M A R Y. How should I put it . . . gasps, grunts, screams, obscene words. The first night I heard them, I couldn’t shut my eyes. I barely managed to control the acrid sensation of nausea I felt until the morning arrived. For days I was ashamed to even look at her and too disgusted to speak to her. I asked if she was ill and what those sounds were that filled the house at night. She laughed so hard she almost fell over. She said, “What’s the matter with you, neighbor? How could you not understand something like that? It was the pleasure beyond which no pleasure exists.” Tell me, Ghada, have you ever experienced that sort of pleasure? GH ADA. (Embarrassed) What kind of question is that, aunt? M A R Y. You’re embarrassed to tell me?

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GH ADA. I don’t know. I may have with myself, or in a dream. What about you? M A R Y. You’re asking me? I’ve felt nothing but disgust and aversion. Didn’t God say to Moses, “Every bed he lies upon, on which blood has flowed, is impure. Anything he mounts from which blood has flowed is impure. Earthenware touched by a bleeding person is impure. One who commences marriage with the flow of blood will experience nothing but impurity and disgust.” GH ADA. What was your ailment, aunt? M A R Y . Despite my aversion to this female boarder, when my condition worsened I told her about my symptoms. She said, “But neighbor, this is a disease. You should consult a physician.” I shouted, “God forbid. How could I allow a man to examine my private parts?” She laughed and said she’d go with me. She kept insisting and warned me of the consequences of not going until I agreed and we went to see a doctor. How can I say it, Ghada? With God as my witness, I wished my mother had never given birth to me. The doctor said angrily, “Couldn’t you have come before? You have a chronic venereal disease which worsened after you miscarried.” I asked him where this disease came from and he said, “Have you had relations with any man besides your husband?’’ I was ready to curse at him. I was furious. He apologized and said you must have gotten it from your husband then. GH ADA. Where does this disease come from? M A R Y . Prostitutes. He must have gotten it from one of them. God knows when. GH ADA. Did he have it when he married you? M A R Y . Yes, and he gave it to me the night we were married. Imagine, this is what I received for a wedding gift. GH ADA. Did the doctor treat you? M A R Y. He insisted on examining my husband and said both of

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us should receive treatment. I came home and told Faris, but he was so infuriated that he swore he’d divorce me immediately if divorce were permitted by our religion. He said, “I’m a perfectly healthy man. There’s nothing wrong with me.” I tried to convince him. I begged him, but he refused to change his mind. I went back to the doctor and begged him to try and heal me without my husband. He prescribed fifty injections, one in the morning and one in the evening. My buttocks turned hard as stones and were covered with sores. I never could heal, however, because Faris was the source of the disease and he kept infecting me again. When I remember what I suffered those days, I start gasping for air. He was never good for anything. He didn’t maintain any profession. He couldn’t keep a job for more than a month. He’d spend whatever money I’d saved and come home crying for an hour or so. Then he’d forget all about how he’d acted and swagger about like the neighborhood rooster. I toiled and toiled to earn money for the house and him. When he grudgingly agreed to visit the doctor with me, we discovered the disease had made him sterile. I had almost no chance of becoming pregnant. On that day I bought this box. I decided to end the misery I was suffering and cleanse the house of his sloth, his filth, his base existence. But I couldn’t do it. The days passed, and I continued trying . . . but still I couldn’t. I recognized he was miserable and lonely and his spirit was feeble, so I simply gave up. I moved my bed away from his, and I began waiting anxiously for a son to appear and say to me, “Mother, you have suffered enough.” GH ADA. This was your life, aunt? M A R Y. This was my life. When a glimmer of joy appeared, when what I’d been dreaming of became a reality, he exploded, full of jealousy and depravity. You were deprived of your dream, your happiness too. Think about it . . . they couldn’t bear the possibility that we might dream, that we might experience a bit of happiness. They soiled every beautiful thing, turned life into nothing more than the unbearably slow passage of time. I know where my salvation lies. I’ve prepared

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my dress, my coffin, my tombstone. What about you, do you want to end up like me? GH ADA. (Crying) You’re just increasing my sorrow and despair. M A R Y. Would you like to rid yourself of sorrow and despair? GH ADA. I wish I knew how. M A R Y. Don’t you want to be happy, to dream, to find what your body and spirit wish for? GH ADA. Don’t add to my grief. M A R Y. Forget about grief. There’ll be no happiness or dreaming as long as they hover about us like rancid shadows. Open the box. GH ADA. (Takes the box and opens it) What is it? M A R Y. It’s not important to know what it is. GH ADA. (Her eyes widening) You mean? M A R Y. What I couldn’t do when the time was right you can do now. No, not you alone . . . we’ll do it together . . . but I need willpower. Look within you, behold your suffering. You are suffering, aren’t you? GH ADA. Yes, I’m suffering, but . . . M A R Y. Don’t you want to escape from this prison and behold a horizon full of promise? Don’t we have the right to remove this misery that’s weighing down on our spirits . . . to dream? GH ADA. Yes. Tell me, what do I need to do? M A R Y. We’ll do it tonight. Bring the spices. (Ghada rises and walks to the kitchen to get the spices) He wasted my life one day at a time, but I kept hesitating. When a bit of happiness came my way, he snuffed it out. Forgive me, Lord and Virgin Mary. Haven’t I spent my whole life turning the other cheek to him? This time, however, I feel wronged and furious. He deprived me of a child when I was

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young and when I was old. I pity myself and this young woman who will wither away waiting. Ghada appears carrying a platter with the stuffing on it. GH ADA. Here are the spices. M A R Y. Divide them into two equal parts. Are you having second thoughts? GH ADA. (Dividing the stuffing on two plates) No, I’m not. M A R Y . We can’t hesitate. They couldn’t stand for us to have dreams and a bit of happiness. I, Mary, who made preparations for my death as I would have for my wedding, am telling you: Life will be impossible and death will bring no peace as long as those two are with us. (Mary kneads arsenic into half of the stuffing) Which piece of the tripe does your husband like? GH ADA. (She takes the stomach) This one. We call it the judge’s hat. M A R Y. My Faris, on the other hand, likes the thick casings of the intestines. (They begin to stuff the pieces) What a vile meal! I remember the moaning of that neighbor. She was a kind and considerate woman, but when she was staying in that room I couldn’t suppress my disgust for her. If you’d only heard those noises. GH ADA. She was probably just happy. M A R Y. She was, and she didn’t hide it. She’d say, “It’s the pleasure beyond which no pleasure exists.” GH ADA. Maybe it was true what she said. M A R Y. You think so? How can pleasure be born out of filth and debauchery, the acts of animals? GH A D A . We’re two miserable women, aunt. Everything we know about happiness and pleasure are mere guesses and illusions. M A R Y . You’re right, Ghada. We’re nothing but two miserable women.

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The scene continues with them stuffing the tripe. Lights slowly fade. Scene 8 In the house. Kazim and Faris are sitting at a table. Mezze and ʿaraq are set in front of them. K AZI M . What a regal evening after that cold front. The weather’s lovely. It’s like fall again. Are you cold? FA R IS. How could cold coexist with this blessed fire? Cheers! KAZIM. Cheers, Abou al-­Fawaris! The house is so congenial now. One feels at home. After this episode with the charlatan I was thinking I’d look for another place to live, but I like this house now, and I like the people who live in it. FA R IS. This house is yours, Mr. Adjutant. I promise you, a mistake like that will never happen again. K AZI M . Why don’t you close the door completely on mistakes so we can have some peace. I was thinking about renting the room upstairs myself. F A R I S . That would be wonderful. Mary would certainly welcome the idea. K AZI M . Be a man, Faris! FA R IS. Mary wouldn’t dare contradict me if I give my word. The room’s yours, starting this minute. K AZI M . That’s the kind of talk I like to hear. Thaʾir enters carrying a plate of chopped onions. K AZI M . Give that to me, Thaʾir. Onions are the highlight of the feast. Come, son. (Kazim lifts his son up and puts him in his lap. He raises the glass to the boy’s lips) Take a sip. TH A ʾ IR . (Turning his face away) I don’t like it.

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K A Z I M . Don’t you want to become a man? A mother should wean her son from her own milk with the milk of lions. TH A ʾ IR . (Screaming) It burns! K AZI M . Okay . . . okay. Have some of these. Don’t you like almonds and hazelnuts? FA R IS. May God protect him. He acts older than he is. He has a response to everything right on the tip of his tongue. GH ADA. (From the kitchen) Thaʾir. Come here, Thaʾir. Thaʾir leaves his father’s lap and goes to his mother. K AZI M . Tell your mother to hurry up with the tripe. (To Faris) Drink, man. FA R IS. I’ll drink to your new job. K AZI M . Well said. We need your help, Abou al-­Fawaris. FAR IS. I’m ready. What can I help you with? K A Z I M . You’re from this neighborhood and you know all the people who live here. You can find out very easily what they’re talking about and what they’re thinking. The revolution needs protection, Abou al-­Fawaris. The country has a fifth column of reactionaries, Nasserist agents and Communist mercenaries. These people are all viruses. If we don’t destroy them, they’ll destroy the revolution, which is strong. But we need to keep our eyes open. Good citizens have to protect their revolution and expose its enemies and those conspiring against it. I know you’re a good citizen and support the revolution. FA R IS. Of course. I’ve supported you my whole life. I’ve never opposed the government. I’m not a troublemaker. K AZI M . Good. First of all, I want you to sniff out the news about people in the neighborhood and tell me what they talk about. You should visit them at their homes and have conversations with them, learn how to encourage them to be open. Don’t forget coffeehouses.

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You should go to the coffeehouse every day and listen discreetly to people, without drawing attention to yourself. FA R IS. I’ll be more than happy to serve, Mr. Adjutant, but, as you know, I’m of limited means and going to the coffeehouse means I’ll have to expend funds. If you visit someone, you have to expect they’ll visit you back, and when a visitor comes, you have to offer food. KAZIM. I understand. I’m not asking you to provide your services for free. We’ll cover your expenses. I may even be able to secure a monthly salary for you. FA R IS. (Surprised) A monthly salary for me? K AZI M . Why not? The revolution is generous with those who serve and defend it. FA R IS. You mean I’ll be like a government employee and have a salary paid to me every month? K AZI M . Yes. If you work hard and provide us with good service, I promise you’ll become an employee who has money jingling in his pockets at the end of every month. FARIS. (Astonished) Bless your beautiful moustache, Kazim, this calls for a little jig. (He rises from his chair and prepares to dance) I, who spent my whole life jobless, I, who was called a good-­for-­nothing corpse, am going to be a government employee. My head is spinning. Truly, this calls for a jig. (He claps his hands and sways, dancing) K AZI M . Do we have a deal? F AR IS. God bless you. Of course we have a deal. Kazim enthusiastically claps his hands with joy while Faris dances around the table. Mary enters, and Thaʾir walks behind her. She is carrying a tray with pieces of tripe stacked on it. She places the tray on the table. M A R Y. Woe is me. Are you drunk or have you gone mad?

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FA R IS. You’ll change your tune when I explain, Mary. You may even start dancing with me. M A R Y. God forbid that such a day should come. Go back to your seat and act your age. TH A ʾ IR . (Laughing) Mama . . . Mama . . . Come and see. Uncle Faris is drunk. M A R Y. May God deliver us from evil. This is a scene not to be missed. My Lord, you are drunk. Stop making a laughingstock out of yourself. Sit down. K AZI M . You’re overreacting, dear neighbor. We’re family. Faris is happy today. Let him enjoy himself. FA R IS. (Goes to sit) When I explain, you’ll see that it merits a dance. M A R Y . Fine. Sit down like a decent human being and stop making a fool of yourself. Mary exits but the child continues mimicking Faris and laughing. K AZI M . (Softly) What are you doing, Faris? A loose tongue’s no good in this line of work. FA R IS. Did I do something wrong? K AZI M . Yes, you did. What we agreed on is a secret that no one else in the world can know about. FA R IS. Not even Mary? K AZI M . Nobody. If you’re exposed or people know about you, you won’t be any good to us. You have to continue being the simpleton who everybody refers to as a good-­for-­nothing corpse so people won’t avoid you and they won’t stop talking when you’re around. I offered you this job after careful thought because, excuse me for saying it, no one has any respect for you. No one would ever consider that you might be an informant or have a relationship with security.

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You have to keep your lips sealed and maintain the appearance of a poor, indolent clod with no initiative. Besides, I’ll teach you the job as we go along, but you can’t say a word about what we talked about. FA R IS. Yes, sir. Like I said . . . think of me as a ring around your finger. K AZI M . Great. Cheers. (They clink each other’s glasses then each takes a large sip) Which part of the tripe do you like, Abou al-­Fawaris? FA R IS. I like the fatty sausages actually. K AZI M . I, on the other hand, like that round part, which Ghada and I call the judge’s hat. Listen, let’s forget about formalities between us, I usually don’t eat until I fill my head with ʿaraq. Everybody has his own way of doing things, so don’t wait for me. Just start eating. You shouldn’t expect an invitation from me. FA R IS. I’m like you. I prefer to eat after I’ve filled my head too. As you said, I don’t need an invitation. (Speaking to Thaʾir) What about little Tarzan? Which part does he want to eat, the judge’s hat or the sausages? TH A ʾ IR . (Approaching the table and pointing to the sausages) I like these. F A R I S . Great. Tarzan likes sausages. (He picks out a piece of sausage and gives it to Thaʾir) Here, eat it in good health. TH A ʾ IR . No. Mama forbade me to eat with you. K AZI M . Why would she do that? She’s a dim-­witted woman. If you obey her, Thaʾir, you won’t grow up to be a real man. You’re a man and should eat with men. Take it from Uncle Faris’s hand. TH A ʾ IR . Mama will be upset. K AZI M . Don’t you worry about your mother. Just take it. Thaʾir takes it and begins to eat. TH A ʾ IR . Mama, I ate with baba.

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Kazim takes another piece and hands it to Thaʾir. K AZI M . Yes, eat my dear, eat. TH A ʾ IR . Mama . . . my stomach! Ghada rushes in. Mary rushes in behind her. GH ADA. What did you do? TH A ʾ IR . Baba made me . . . GH ADA. (Distressed) No . . . No . . . K AZI M . What happened to you? TH A ʾ IR . (Screaming, as if he is burning inside) My stomach . . . my stomach (He falls to the ground and begins to throw up. He turns green. In a weak and broken voice) Mama . . . K AZI M . What’s happening? Tell us, what’s going on? Ghada embraces the boy who rolls in his own vomit. He quivers and looks like he’s suffocating. Mary goes weak in the knees and falls to the ground. GH ADA. (Wailing) I poisoned my son. (She looks at Kazim with hatred) What about you? Why didn’t you eat? Why won’t you eat? Eat! You killed my little boy and didn’t eat. Look at me. I’ll eat. Is there anything left for me but to eat? (She reaches for the plate and tries to take a handful of food. Kazim holds her wrist and throws the plate to the ground) TH A ʾ IR . (A rattle in his throat, as his voice fades) Mama . . . GH ADA. Light of my eye. (She holds the boy tightly and walks about hysterically) Come, Mary. Look. There’s no room for dreams. Nothing but darkness and death. Where are you, my brother? Where’s poetry in this world? Where are the palm orchard and the balcony from which the moon has receded? Faris rushes toward the door. Kazim sees him and begins to come out of his shock and regains his composure.

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K AZI M . (Sharply) Where are you going? FAR IS. I’ll call a doctor. K AZI M . We want no doctor. (He grabs his wife and pushes her inside their room) And you, stop wailing and get inside. GHADA. (Walks toward the room, looking dazed) What’s the use? He’ll remain a burning flame inside my heart until I die. He’ll sleep with us. He’ll separate us like a wall of hatred and tears. K AZI M . (Pushing her) I said get inside. GH ADA. What’s the use? His flame will burn me wherever I am. (She disappears inside) K AZI M . (To Faris and Mary) Now listen, nothing happened. It was an accident, fate. I don’t want any talk. No gossip. If a whiff of this comes out from any of you, any sort of scandal, you’ll pay dearly. Do you hear me, Faris? FA R IS. Yes, Mr. Adjutant. I promise. Not a word will come from my mouth. K AZI M . (To Faris and Mary) Then go to your room and forget what happened. Faris helps Mary, who is weeping, to get up. They stagger toward their room. K AZI M . Remember. Not a word. Not a whisper. Faris and Mary exit into their room. Kazim remains alone. He takes his full glass and drinks it all in one gulp. GH ADA. (Her wailing is heard from inside) Light of my eye . . . I’ll dig a hole in my heart and lay you out in it. He wouldn’t eat. He murdered you. Wishes and dreams, they’re impossible. There’s nothing. Only horror and death. Kazim walks toward their room. Lights fade.

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Scene 9 In Mary’s room. Mary is in her bed. Faris is lying on the couch. M A R Y . (Whispering submissively) Our Father, who art in Heaven . . . FA R IS. It’s been so long since they left town. M A R Y. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come . . . FA R IS. Did you really want me dead, Mary? M A R Y. We should have parted ways a long time ago. One of us should’ve died, or both. FA R IS. God, how that charlatan changed you! M A R Y. Don’t let his name pass your lips. A period of silence. FA R IS. Are you going to leave me without a coffin? M A R Y. Shut up and let me finish my prayer. FA R IS. After all the time we’ve spent together I’m entitled to a nice coffin like the one you paid to have made for yourself. (Silence) I can’t believe you were so cold-­hearted you only bought a coffin and tombstone for yourself. I need to make arrangements for my death too. M A R Y. Shut up and let me sleep. FA R IS. I can’t sleep. Suppose I die tonight and have no coffin. It’s my right to have a coffin, which you should buy for me. M A R Y. Go to sleep. We’ll see what path God opens up for us tomorrow. FA R IS. Will you? M A R Y. (Angry and frustrated) What am I supposed to do? I shall carry the load for you in death as I have in life.

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F A R I S . This is the Mary who has a heart of gold. Sweet and gentle Mary. Yes, this is the Mary I know and love. I almost thought I’d lost you. Now I can sleep in peace . . . truly in peace. M A R Y. Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. FA R IS. I kept something from you. It’s true. I was about to become a government employee. The job was easy. All they asked me to do was to keep an eye on people in the neighborhood, find out what was going on behind their tongues. M A R Y. That was going to be your job? Earning a living by eavesdropping on people and causing them grief. Good God, what a rotten soul you have, Faris! FARIS. I’ll accept the criticism since it’s coming from you, Mary. Besides, the whole thing fell apart before it started. And after this promise you just made to me, I don’t care about anything else. All I want to know is whether you’re satisfied, Mary. Are you completely satisfied? M A R Y. Go to sleep and don’t interrupt my prayer. F AR IS. Tell me, are you satisfied with me? M A R Y. (She shouts angrily and impatiently) I’m satisfied. FA R IS. I’ll sleep peacefully. I feel truly peaceful. M A R Y. (Mumbling nervously) Our Father, who art in Heaven . . . hallowed . . . Our Father, who art in Heaven . . . hallowed be thy name . . . Thy kingdom come . . . Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven . . . Give us this day our daily bread . . . Lead us not into temptation . . . Lead us not into temptation. Sound and light slowly fade.

RITUALS OF SIGNS AND TRANSFORMATIONS

Characters

M u ʾ mina /A LMA S A ʿ A bda lla h ( Naqib al -­A sh raf) M uf ti (Qasi m ) Wa rda ʿ Izza t Be i k a l-­ʿ A fsa ʿ A bbas ʿ A bdou Hari m Bas m a Po l i cem an #1 Po l i cem an #2 Ham id Ib ra h im S i m si m P rison GUARD S afwa t W a li

First published in Arabic as “Tuqus al-­Isharat wa-­al-­Tahawwulat” in Saʿdallah Wannous, Tuqus al-­Isharat wa-­al-­Tahawwulat (Beirut: Dar al-­Adab, 1994). First performed in Arabic in 1997 in Beirut. First performed in English in December 2013 in Beirut, at Babel Theater, produced by the American University of Beirut.

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E u n uch P leas ure Gi r l s Devo tee s Gu ide She i kh M uh a mm ad SAFW AN ʿ A bda lra hm an Yo un g Man C hi ld ren

Prologue

In the first volume of his memoirs, the freedom fighter Fakhri al-­Baroudi offers a brief account of how conflict erupted between the Mufti1 of Damascus and the Naqib al-­Ashraf 2 during the rule of Rashid Nashid Basha, and how the Mufti was able to overcome his personal conflict with the Naqib and lend him a supporting hand when the Naqib was set up by the chief of police and arrested while frolicking with his mistress. This story is the nucleus from which I built the play. I drew most of its characters from this story, even though I disagree with al-­ Baroudi’s understanding and interpretation of its moral. It may be necessary for me to state that both the setting of the play, which is Damascus, and its time, which is the second half of the nineteenth century, serve as the hypothetical time and place of the play. They are neither intended to render that environment nor address the social and historical realities of the nineteenth century. The same can be said about the characters’ ranks, since they are not intended for their own sake. Rather, they are relevant only to the extent to which they contribute to the cultural and psychological makeup of the characters. The characters in this work are individuals who are torn by desires and inclinations and are burdened by the choices they must make. These characters will be profoundly misunderstood if they are perceived as simplistic symbols of the institutions they represent instead of individuals with complex psyches. The characters of this play

1. A Mufti is an expounder of legal judgments in Islamic law. Here he is the Grand Mufti of the city of Damascus. 2. Sharif (pl. ashraf ) is literally an exalted or honored person. Here it is an honorific title given to the descendants of the Prophet Muhammad. This class traditionally appointed a marshal (naqib) to safeguard its interests. Hence the title “Naqib al-­Ashraf ” refers to the head or leader of the descendants of the Prophet.

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are not symbols and do not represent functional institutions but are rather individuals with personal, unique forms of suffering. It goes without saying that my intention in writing this work, whether I have succeeded or failed, was to raise questions and problems which, I believe, are current and ever recurrent. ■

Act I: Schemes

Scene 1 A private garden planted with fruit trees in the Ghouta3 region of Damascus. An apricot tree is full of white blossoms. Rugs are laid out on the ground and on top of them plush mattresses and small, colored pillows. ʿAbdallah Hamza, Naqib al-­Ashraf,4 the Leader of the Notables, and Warda, a prostitute, who is ʿAbdallah’s mistress, are shamelessly frolicking. Between them is a large plate with several kinds of mezze and drinks on it. Further away, the servants, Harim and Basma, are busy grilling and preparing food. Warda holds a lute and strikes its chords. W A R DA . (Singing in a soft, seductive voice) If it’s my hair you yearn for Then I’ll not depart I’ll let you sleep on my belly And teach you to love, light of my eye If it’s my breasts you yearn for Then go fetch the lute and drum I’ll let you sleep in my arms 3. Ghouta is the name of the fertile oasis on the south side of Damascus. 4. We have chosen to maintain the title “Naqib” and have generally translated the term “Ashraf ” as “notables.”

270 Plays

And teach you to love, light of my eye If it’s my body you yearn for Then fetch me a fine-­fitting dress I’ll let you sleep on my body And teach you to love, light of my eye ʿ ABDA LLAH. Oh, Lord, have mercy. W A R DA. (She answers with fake coquettishness and continues to strike the chords of the lute) Oh, poor dear! My cheeks are the apples of Damascus. ʿ ABDA LLAH. Mercy, Warda. W A R DA. Oh, poor dear! My breasts are ivory and pomegranates. ʿ ABDA LLAH. Quench my thirst and give me a kiss. (He raises a glass of ʿaraq to her) Take a sip and let me drink it from your mouth. W AR DA. First remove the barrier. ʿ ABDA LLAH. Which barrier, my darling? W A R DA. The barrier of your exalted rank. (Singing coquettishly) Your waistcoat, sweet ʿAbd. ʿ ABDA LLAH. You want me to take off my waistcoat? Done. (He takes off his waistcoat) W A R DA. And your vest, sweet ʿAbdallah. ʿ ABDA LLAH. Here’s the vest! W A R DA. And your sash, sweet ʿAbdallah. ʿ ABDA LLAH. I’ll untie the sash. May God never tie us to sorrow or worry. W A R DA. Your gown, sweet ʿAbdallah! ʿ A B D A LLA H . Here is the gown. (He attempts, like a drunken man, to lift the gown over his head, but it becomes stuck) Get me out of this cursed . . .

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W A R DA. Prestige is suffocating, darling. (She laughs. The Servants hide their laughter) My goodness, it looks better inside out. (She approaches him and tickles his tummy. He rises, laughing hysterically) What an abundant waist! (She tickles him) What sweet-­ smelling armpits! ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Unable to catch his breath as he laughs and bends over) No . . . no . . . you’re killing me . . . I’m dying . . . please . . . I can’t stand tickling . . . stop . . . stop. (Warda helps him remove his garment, pulling it over his head. Then he breathes comfortably, his eyes tearing with laughter) Damn you, I almost died. I can’t stand being tickled. Now give me my due. (He places her in his lap and embraces her) W A R DA. (She coquettishly slips away) You already took what was due you and more. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Don’t deny water to a person who’s thirsting. W A R DA. Everything in its time. ʿ ABDALLAH. Fine. Now it’s my time. (He claps his hands, swinging and dancing) Your panties, dear Warda. W A R DA. The moon doesn’t come out during the day. ʿ ABDA LLA H . (He takes a sip from his glass) Today the stars and moon will come out at high noon. W A R DA. Then give me a sip. (He fills her glass with ʿaraq and adds water to it. He raises it to her lips. She sips it seductively) Where is the drum? ʿ ABDA LLA H . (To the servant) Heat the drum and bring it to me. (Warda picks up ʿAbdallah’s sash from among the scattered clothes and begins to put it on) Wait, I’ll tie it for you myself. (He rises, staggering, and pats her on the buttocks) Pillows of paradise. You might as well be dead if you haven’t rested on pillows like these. W AR DA. Where’s your green turban? ʿ ABDA LLA H . That’s the insignia of my rank, Warda!

272 Plays

W A R DA. I’ll put your insignia on my head and use it to embellish my dance. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Put it wherever you’d like. Let me tell you something serious, Warda. ʿAbdallah never allows anyone to share with him the water that gives him life. If I ever find out that another man is touching these treasures . . . W A R DA. What will my jealous man do if another man touches these treasures? ʿ ABDA LLA H . What will I do? The skies will erupt with thunder and lightning. You can count on it, all hell will break loose. W A R DA. How delicious you are! How I love to see you light up, my silly darling. A woman who knows ʿAbdallah has no need of another man. ʿ ABDALLAH. Praise be to God. Come here. (He bends down and gets on the floor on his hands and knees) Come here, ride on my back. Do whatever you want with me. (Warda rides on his back, laughing) My God, how light you are! Sensuous silk floating on my back. Pinch me so I know it’s a body and not a cloud. Harim, the male servant, approaches holding the drum and tries hard to hide his laughter. H AR IM . The drum is ready, Sir. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Did you warm it well? H AR IM . Yes. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Hurry up with the barbecue. He sits, drinks what’s in the glass in one gulp, puts the drum on his lap and tests it with a few taps, then adjusts his beat until it becomes a dance beat. Warda begins to dance. Every once in a while she comes closer to ʿAbdallah, bending backward toward him, causing the turban to drop. He puts the turban back on her head. The music makes

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him ecstatic. He rises and continues to beat on the drum and sways in front of her. She puts her scarf around his buttocks and leads his movements, laughing, ecstatic, and drunk. ʿIzzat Beik, the chief of police, charges in with a few Policemen. ʿAbdallah and Warda freeze and look at him, astounded. ʿ IZZA T . Good heavens, what have we here? What an intimate atmosphere, music and love! ʿ ABDA LLA H . What is this? I’m in my own garden. How did you get in without permission? ʿ IZZA T . The government does not need permission. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Do you know who I am? Warda tries to cover herself and takes the turban off her head. ʿ IZZA T . No, my lady, keep it on your head. It appears that Sir5 ʿAbdallah has given you the gift of the leadership of the notables. You should accept the gift. ʿ A B D A LLA H . What’s happened? Is there a new Wali?6 A new Sultan? ʿ IZZA T . On my mother’s grave, neither the great Sultan nor the Wali has changed. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Then how dare you? Don’t you know who I am? I am the leader of the notables. ʿ IZZA T . All I see in front of me is a leader of pleasure and fornication. (To the Policemen) Look! Do you recognize the Naqib in this attire? Come along, dear lady. We’ll continue the affairs and frolicking of Sir ʿAbdallah elsewhere. Put some clothes on. W A R DA. (Embarrassed) For the sake of our honor, sir. 5. The original Arabic is sayyid, meaning mister or sir. It is also the title given to the direct descendants of the Prophet Muhammad. 6. The title of an Ottoman provincial governor.

274 Plays

ʿ ABDA LLAH. You overstep all bounds, ʿIzzat Beik. ʿ IZZA T . What about you? Haven’t you overstepped all bounds? (To Warda) Come. Do as you’re told. W A R DA. Please! ʿ IZZA T . (To Warda) I said, come! What do you care? All of Damascus will see you as you are, prancing and parading in the clothes of the Naqib. (He drags her and forces her to put on the Naqib’s clothes) ʿ ABDA LLA H . Are you out of your mind? Do you know what the repercussions will be? You’re insulting all of the notables. You’ll ignite a crisis in the city. ʿ IZZA T . Are you threatening the government? We’ll see if the notables condone this drinking, fornication, and immorality. Lady, you’re beautiful in these clothes. They fit you better than they do him. ʿ ABDA LLA H . The Mufti’s behind this. I know it. You’re involving yourself in something that’s none of your business, ʿIzzat Beik. It’s a grave mistake for which you’ll pay dearly, you and that speckled snake. ʿ IZZA T . When the ʿaraq evaporates from your head, you’ll realize who committed the mistakes and vile deeds. (To the Policemen) Cuff him. ʿ ABDA LLA H . You’re handcuffing me too? ʿ IZZAT . You’re going on a grand parade through the streets of Damascus. (To the Policeman) Bring the mule of Sir ʿAbdallah. ʿ ABDA LLA H . (He collapses) No . . . please . . . I beg you, ʿIzzat Beik. You can’t do this to me. (Whispering) Listen, do this good deed for me, and you’ll be generously rewarded. ʿ IZZA T . A while ago you were threatening me, now you’re bribing me? W AR DA. (She kneels, as if to kiss his foot) I beg you.

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ʿ ABDA LLAH. Please spare us this humiliation. Allow me to give you some sincere advice. Do not join hands with that snake. Don’t trust him. He’ll bite you the first chance he gets. If he’s provided incentives to meddle in our feud, I’ll give you many times more. As everyone knows, my hand is extended. ʿ IZZA T . I don’t know what you’re talking about. I couldn’t care less about your quarrel with the Mufti. My duty is to pursue people who break the law. I’m performing my duty now and nothing else. W A R DA. (Sobbing) ʿAbdallah is a man of lofty rank. Leave him and take me. I’m the daughter of sin. You have nothing against him. ʿ IZZA T . The lady is in love. You’re lucky with beautiful damsels, ʿAbdallah. (Harim brings the mule) Let’s go. Make him ride and have his mistress ride behind him. ʿ ABDA LLA H . You’re taking me in these clothes? ʿ IZZAT . I’m taking you as I found you. ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Begging) I’ll give you whatever you wish. Have mercy on us. ʿ IZZA T . Move! On with the procession! ʿ A B D A LLA H . (He is infuriated as the procession moves. To ʿIzzat) You’re putting your hand in fire, and you’ll get burned. You think you’re destroying me, but you’re actually destroying yourself. We’ll see how well you stand up to the fury of my followers and the notables. You’re starting a fire, a revolution. The procession moves away. ʿIzzat and his men ride on horses with ʿAbdallah among them, handcuffed and riding on a mule. Warda is seated behind him, wearing his clothes. HARIM. (With tears in his eyes) What a shame! The Naqib’s reign is over. BAS M A. Does this mean we’re not getting married?

276 Plays

H AR I M . We’ll see what the future brings. BASM A. Then you’ve changed your mind. H AR I M . I haven’t changed my mind, but now with what’s happened . . . BAS M A. What does what’s happened have to do with us? H AR IM . You’re right. What does it have to do with us? At least we can eat until we’re full, and, look, the mattress is still laid out. (He embraces her and steals a kiss) BAS M A. (She runs away from him) No. Stay away from me. H AR IM . (Runs after her, singing) If it’s my breasts you yearn for Then go fetch the lute and the drum. Lights fade. Scene 2 The reception room in the house of the Mufti Muhammad Qasim al-­Muradi. The Mufti is with two guests, Hamid al-­ʿAjlouni and Ibrahim Daqqaq al-­Douda. IB R AH IM . This feud between you and the Naqib has divided the city and exhausted everyone. H AM ID. I swear to God, Sheikh.7 This enmity has affected our businesses and undermined our interests. Those who side with the Naqib won’t even buy a needle from the merchants who are loyal to you. Thankfully, your supporters are the majority, but the friction has now turned to deep-­seated hatred. MU FT I. You think I’m happy with the situation? It grieves me 7. An elderly or venerable gentleman and a title of clerical dignitaries or members of religious orders.

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greatly. We used to be like a family, loving and supportive of one another. No stranger could come between us until they chose this Naqib who doesn’t have the slightest qualifications. I didn’t say anything. They chose him to be the Naqib, and so be it. Fine, I said. But it was he who started this feud. He attacked me. IB R AH IM . But we speak to you because you are the larger vessel, and the larger must contain the smaller. MU F T I. I tried my best, and I’m still trying. I overlooked many of his indiscretions. I disregarded his frivolity and transgressions. He closed all doors to reconciliation. If I told you about my efforts it would take me all day long. Even so, tell me what you think I should do. If any of the notables or aristocrats has a way to solve this conflict I’ll cooperate. H AM ID. God bless you, Sheikh. We’ve always thought so highly of you. People like you can never be a source of disappointment. MU F T I. May God forgive me. The best interests of the country are dearer to me than my own life. One of the Mufti’s men, ʿAbdou al-­Dakkak, enters. Two men, al-­ʿAfsa and ʿAbbas al-­Surouji, from among the common people, walk in, pushing one another. ʿAbdou attempts to speak, but the others speak first. AL -­ʿ AFSA. We bring you good news, our Mufti, worthy of a reward. ʿ A B B A S . Damascus saw a scene today that one would never have dreamed of. AL -­ʿ AFSA. We saw your enemy, the Naqib, shackled and near naked beside his bitch, who was wearing his turban and clothes. MU F T I. What delusion is this? AL-­ʿ AFSA. We’re telling you what we saw. ʿIzzat Beik made them ride on a mule and drove them through the streets for the people to see.

278 Plays

ʿ ABBAS. They were so astounded they took refuge in God. They hissed at your enemy. They showered him with spit and curses. A L -­ʿ AFSA. The two of them are now in prison carrying on with their lovemaking, and . . . you know. MU F T I . (Angrily) Shut your mouth! May God cut both your tongues out! AL-­ʿ AFSA. That’s how you reward us? Doesn’t it make you happy that your enemy has fallen so low? All of Damascus is still in an uproar. Many people will no doubt be coming to tell you what you’ve just heard from us. But we rushed right over to deliver the glad tidings and receive the reward. MU F T I. (Looks angrily at ʿAbdou) How did these people get in? Why did you allow them to enter? ʿ ABDO U . They came running in and said they had good news they needed to tell you urgently. MU F T I. This is good news? Does it please you to see your noblemen dishonored by mercenary policemen, to see their honor dragged through the mud? How dare you speak about the Naqib of the Ashraf using this foul and irreverent language? ʿ ABBAS. But . . . Sir? That’s what we saw. A L - ­ʿ A F S A . We thought you’d be happy to hear about your enemy’s misfortune. MU F T I. The Naqib is not my enemy. We may have differences of opinion, but they don’t amount to hostility. Our enemies now, the enemies of the notables, and yours too, are those who degrade your noblemen and disgrace them. They want to bow our heads, to allow humble men to insult our nobles. Does that please you? AL -­ʿ AFSA. It’s not our fault if the Naqib debased himself. MU F T I. Silence! I don’t want anyone to speak of this incident.

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Spread the word. No one in the city is to talk about what happened. Anyone who utters a word about the Naqib will have to answer to me. AL -­ʿ AFSA. Then, there’s no reward for us, Sheikh? MU F T I. (To ʿAbdou) Throw them out of here, immediately. Woe unto anyone who speaks of this story. ʿAbdou roughly pushes the two men out. H AM ID. (Rushing to the Mufti, taking his hand and kissing it) Allow me to receive your grace! MU F T I. God forbid. H AM ID. It’s in situations such as these that the true nature of a man becomes clear. What you just did has made you even nobler in our eyes. MU F T I . One does what’s in one’s nature. But now that we’ve heard this story, do you still think my previous harshness with the Naqib unwarranted or due simply to rivalry? Does the Naqib have the right to act so recklessly and frivolously? IB R AH IM . By God, no! If what we’ve heard is true, such behavior would tarnish even the lowliest person. MU F T I. That which a noble does will harm not only himself, but all other ranks as well. He harms us all. I don’t know how people can still respect the position of Naqib, or any other rank for that matter. He is squandering our dignity and making us the talk of the lowly. H AM ID. What do you suggest, our Mufti? MU F T I. What should I suggest? He shits and we have to wipe it up. This stench must not spread among the people of the city. Go now and ask the notables to meet me at my house this evening. We should speak with one voice about this. They must help me find a way to deal with this that will save their honor and ours. H AM ID. God bless you, Sheikh. We’ll seek them out immediately.

280 Plays

IB R AH I M . They will never forget this good deed. MU F T I. What matters is that God guide us to a beneficial solution in which all hearts attain serenity. Hamid and Ibrahim bid the Sheikh farewell. MU F T I. (To himself ) This is your final chapter, ʿAbdallah, and I promise you, it will be a boisterous one. ʿAbdou enters. ʿ ABDO U . You were harsh with al-­ʿAfsa and ʿAbbas, Sir. MU F T I. What else could I have done? Better to be harsh with them than have people say the Mufti showed malicious joy. ʿ ABDO U . I did what I could to placate them. MU F T I. You did well. Caution them and all men who support us not to exceed the limit. They must not forget that social rank is sacred. Beware lest they think that now is their chance to disregard hierarchy and smear the aristocrats and notables with their foulness. ʿ ABDO U . Exactly, this is what I told ʿAbbas and al-­ʿAfsa. Many came after them who wanted to give you the good news, but I reprimanded them and would not allow them to enter. They hear knocking on the door. MU F T I. See who’s at the door. ʿAbdou leaves quickly then returns with ʿIzzat, whom he is welcoming. ʿ IZZA T . Peace be with you, Sheikh. MU F T I. Welcome. You honor us with your visit. ʿ IZZA T . At last, I’ve caused him to fall like stunned prey for your sake. MU F T I. For my sake, ʿIzzat Beik? ʿ IZZAT . Your sake and mine, if you so wish.

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MU F T I. No . . . no. Don’t involve me in this affair. The prize you caught today will create more problems than it solves. ʿ IZZA T . Are you washing your hands of this? MU F T I. My hands are clean. ʿ IZZA T . Who do you think told us about the garden? MU F T I. How would I know? ʿ IZZA T . It was one of your men. MU F T I. My men? You must be mistaken, ʿIzzat Beik. ʿ IZZA T . Who’s al-­ʿAfsa then? MU F T I. Al-­ʿAfsa? You do my men an injustice to consider him one of them. A short while ago he came to inform me about the scandal with the Naqib, and I threw him out of my house. Al-­ʿAfsa is a hyena who lives off intrigue and slander. I’d never allow someone like him to be one of my aides. ʿ IZZA T . You’re absolving yourself, Mufti? The enmity between you and the Naqib is over? MU F T I. I thought you were more judicious, ʿIzzat Beik. Don’t you know what you’ve done? You’ve thrown the baby out with the bathwater. ʿ IZZA T . On my mother’s grave, I’ve no idea what you mean. MU F T I . I mean you went too far. You were imprudent. It would’ve been enough for him to be shamed in front of you. But to shame him in front of the common people, to sully the position of the leader of the notables, is irresponsible. ʿ I Z Z A T . How strange. Instead of thanking me, I see you’ve turned against me. What’s changed that’s making you defend him? MU F T I . I haven’t turned against you, and don’t think I’m defending him. However, order in this city is based on rank. What main-

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tains harmony are the many positions that evoke respect, which must be defended. Just as the awe-­inspiring state should be unified and tightly interwoven, so things should be in Damascus. For example, if someone insults the position of Wali, does this insult not also fall upon the position of grand vizier, the Sublime Porte, the entire state? ʿ IZZA T . I’m thoroughly confused. How can an insult that fell upon your worst enemy fall upon you? MU F T I. True, the man is my enemy, but the position of leader of the notables supports my own. The awe it evokes adds to mine. When you put the green turban on a whore’s head, you insult the notables and my own turban as well. Whoever acts toward the Naqib with such disrespect may do so with the Mufti at a moment’s notice. ʿ I Z Z A T . Spoon-­feed me your meaning, Mufti! What are you saying? MU F T I . I’m saying the situation is complicated. I wish you’d consulted me first. ʿ IZZA T . I thought no consultation was required. I assumed you knew. Why are you displeased? MUFTI. Your insult went too far. It spoiled our pleasure. What do we do if the notables are so furious they incite the people against us? ʿ IZZA T . Why would the notables be furious? Did I falsely accuse him? I caught him in the act of debauchery . . . drinking and committing adultery. MU F T I. You know better than anyone that drinking, adultery, and debauchery are hardly rarities in our city. You’ve habitually turned a blind eye unless the harm was general . . . except if there was another agenda. ʿ IZZA T . Say it clearly, are we allies or not? MU F T I. Of course we’re allies.

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ʿ IZZA T . Then why are you reproaching me? I expected a warm welcome. I thought we were going to celebrate. MU F T I. My expression of welcome will arrive at your house before you do. And we’ll celebrate in due time. But, please understand, I may have to pretend, to play along. ʿ IZZA T . Are you taking their side against me? MU F T I . How could I possibly be against you? I’d never harm you. However, if I’m forced to take certain actions, don’t be concerned. I know the people of Damascus better than you do. If things get complicated, I’ll solve them. ʿ I Z Z A T . I’m the government, Mufti, and in the end the decision will be mine. MU F T I . I know. But the government doesn’t want chaos and headaches. I’m telling you, don’t worry. Let me settle things. ʿ IZZA T . Fine. I hope you remember what we have in common. Conflict between us would not be beneficial. MU F T I. God forbid that any conflict should arise between us. ʿ IZZAT . That’s what I’m hoping. I’ll follow up on things and try to get to the bottom of this. MU F T I . You’ll find your reward at home, and we’ll celebrate later. ʿ IZZA T . Save yourself the trouble, Sheikh. I didn’t come here to be rewarded. MU F T I . Of course not. Rewards are not necessary between friends. ʿ IZZA T . (Leaving) We’ll see. MU F T I . (To himself ) I didn’t allay his concerns. (Calling) ʿAbdou! ʿAbdou!

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ʿAbdou enters hurriedly. ʿ ABDO U . Yes, sir. MU F T I. I have a delicate mission for you. Have you appeased al-­ʿAfsa and ʿAbbas? ʿ ABDO U . I tried my best. MU F T I. Good. Now go to the prison warden and tell him when night falls and everyone’s asleep we’ll exchange the woman who’s imprisoned with the Naqib for another woman. Tell him if he objects, he’s dead. ʿ ABDO U . He wouldn’t dare object. MU F T I. If he does, he’ll be eliminated. This is all confidential. ʿ ABDO U . There’s no need to admonish the prudent. MU F T I. Then go and hurry back with the news. ʿAbdou leaves. Lights fade. Scene 3 A secluded corner of a field along the Barada River. A cloth is laid out on the grass. Al-­ʿAfsa and ʿAbbas are drinking. Between them is some food. AL -­ʿ AFSA. There’s more to this Mufti than meets the eye. My God, he’s profound. (ʿAbbas takes a gulp from his glass and turns away sullenly. He appears angry) Yes, Abou al-­Fahd, my friend, don’t be angry. ʿ ABBAS. I’m furious. I can’t forget the cold water he poured on my head. AL -­ʿ AFSA. At the same time he poured cold water on us, he gave ʿAbdou a wink and a nod. If the Mufti hadn’t ordered him to do so, ʿAbdou wouldn’t have dared treat us kindly and tried to appease us. How he beseeched us to allow him to take responsibility for what hap-

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pened. He went to great lengths to assure us that the Mufti was forced to maintain appearances and had to feign being angry. Our Mufti’s exterior doesn’t reveal what’s going on inside him. What’s really going on is what ʿAbdou told us, not what the Mufti said. ʿ ABBAS. I’m sick and tired of this story. I’m straightforward. I don’t know how to be two-­faced. A L -­ʿ AFSA. But what should we do, we’re his men. He calls the shots. ʿ A B B A S . I don’t allow anyone to call the shots except for this dagger. AL -­ʿ AFSA. Do you think you’re the only one with a dagger? ʿ ABBAS. I didn’t say that. AL -­ʿ AFSA. Men don’t change their loyalties every day, and we, whether we like it or not, are the Mufti’s men. ʿ ABBAS. It just sticks in my throat. A L - ­ʿ A F S A . Okay, cheers. (He lifts his glass and touches it to ʿAbbas’s) I’ll tell you the same thing ʿAbdou told you, forget about it and let me take responsibility. ʿ ABBAS. I don’t know. I wonder sometimes what we have to do with all this. A L - ­ʿ A F S A . You’re pure, Abou al-­Fahd, and naive as well. We make our living from this, strong-­arms like us with a big shot to back us up. The Mufti’s the one with position and resources. He’s a great man. You stand up for him and do his business and he gives you some of the power and money. (He lifts his glass) Drink, Abou al-­Fahd, my friend, drink. ʿ ABBAS. (Raising his glass) I like everything straight. It’s the way I am. I detest schemes and deception. AL -­ʿ AFSA. Forgive me, Abou al-­Fahd, you’re older than I am,

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but apparently life’s taught me more than you. The business of great men is always done in roundabout ways. The Mufti has the whole city wrapped around his finger like a shadow play by using politics and deception. Only the adept can win at this game. How do you think the Naqib fell? Through scheming and deceit. ʿ A B B A S . Let’s change the subject and drink. I want to fill my head. AL -­ʿ AFSA. (He pours the drink in both their glasses) Now you’re talking. ʿ ABBAS. (Raising his glass) To tarragon. AL -­ʿ AFSA. (Laughing) Why tarragon? ʿ ABBAS. Because tarragon is a traitor. You plant it somewhere and it sprouts somewhere else. You’ll drink to tarragon. AL -­ʿ AFSA. (Raises his glass) To tarragon, Abou al-­Fahd. ʿ ABBAS. To tarragon. (They gulp their drinks) AL -­ʿ AFSA. I’m thinking it’s a good day to humiliate Abou Riyah. ʿ ABBAS. You want to humiliate him? AL -­ʿ AFSA. Yes, he’ll be weak today now that the Naqib has been humiliated and imprisoned. ʿ ABBAS. Fighting someone who’s wounded is dangerous. AL -­ʿ AFSA. And we’re up for the challenge. Simsim, who is homosexual, appears, crossing the field behind them. He walks seductively. ʿ ABBAS. Look who’s coming. AL -­ʿ AFSA. (He sees Simsim and looks quite disturbed) Don’t let him come over here. ʿ ABBAS. Let’s have a little fun. (To Simsim) What’s happening, Sus? Have you lost your beloved?

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SI M SI M . (Looks around and answers after some hesitation) How can I lose a beloved when he’s talking to me? ʿ ABBAS. And who’s the beloved? Come here. A L - ­ʿ A F S A . No, this isn’t right. It’s filth. You’re disgracing us, Abou al-­Fahd. ʿ A B B A S . What’s the matter with you? If someone heard you, they’d think we were sitting in the courtyard of the Kaʿba. I’d like to flirt with him a little. SIM SI M . (Hesitantly) Are you really calling me? ʿ ABBAS. Come, are you afraid? SIM SI M . (He approaches) Afraid? I’m dying of happiness. Al-­ʿAfsa looks annoyed and leans away. ʿ ABBAS. (Handing his glass of ʿaraq to Simsim) Take this, drink the lion’s milk. SIMSIM. You’re killing me with this moustache of yours. It’s your milk I’m interested in, not the lion’s. ʿ ABBAS. You’re really on fire, aren’t you? S I M S I M . And the only thing that will extinguish it, Abou al-­ Fahd, is a thrust of your dagger. Do you remember that time? My God, it was as if you ripped my soul out of my body. ʿ ABBAS. Where are your manners, Sus? There are other people present. You need to spread your love around. SIM SI M . I wouldn’t go there, Abou al-­Fahd. AL -­ʿ AFSA. (Angrily) Get out of here. I don’t want to see you. SI M SI M . Protect me, Abou al-­Fahd. A L -­ʿ AFSA. (Draws his dagger) I said go, or I’ll turn you into a sieve.

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SI M SI M . (Terrified, hides behind ʿAbbas) Why are you attacking me? Did I say something? Did I let the cat out of the bag? A L -­ʿ AFSA. (Jumps to his feet) I’ll tear your guts out, you whore of the cemeteries. ʿ ABBAS. (Rises, waving his knife) What’s going on, what’s happened to you, ʿAfsa? A L -­ʿ AFSA. I’ll slit his belly open. ʿ ABBAS. (Angrily) You’ll slit nothing open. He’s under my protection. Damn it, you drove those couple of drinks out of my head. What’s the matter? AL -­ʿ AFSA. I can’t stand the sight of him. SIM SI M . (Sly and effeminate) He can’t stand the sight of me because I know a couple of things. ʿ ABBAS . What are you insinuating, you son of a dyke? SIM SI M . Are you really going to protect me? Al-­ʿAfsa leaps up and tries to stab Simsim. ʿAbbas stops al-­ʿAfsa and twists his arm. Al- ­ʿ AFSA. Are you giving me up for a leech like this, Abou al-­ Fahd? ʿ ABBAS. You’re way overboard. Sit down and try to calm yourself. And you, faggot, what is it you want to say? SIM SI M . Am I under your protection? ʿ ABBAS. Talk! SIM SI M . We’ve checked him out, and we’ve discovered he’s no bigger than a grain of rice and hard as a limp rag. We’ve discovered what we have is what he has. What scratches our itch scratches his. ʿ ABBAS. (Trying to hide his laughter) Now get out of here and don’t look back. If you repeat what you just said, you’re dead.

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SI M SI M . (Trying to steal a kiss from ʿAbbas) Let me take a souvenir with me. ʿ ABBAS. (Pushing him away sternly) Get out of here. Simsim leaves, ʿAbbas sits down. Al-­ʿAfsa looks down, embarrassed. There is a tense silence. ʿ ABBAS. (He drinks calmly from his glass) Drink, ʿAfsa. Drink. AL -­ʿ AFSA. (Humiliated, using a tone of blame) If you’d only let me spill his blood. ʿ A B B A S . What good would that have done? Then you’d have blood on your hands, and it wouldn’t change a thing. AL -­ʿ AFSA. (Broken) Am I diminished in your eyes? ʿ ABBAS. I swear on my son, I had questions of my own. Now you’re my little darling. I’ll guard you as if you were my eyes. Drink. AL -­ʿ AFSA. (He takes a big gulp) Words like that hurt me. ʿ ABBAS. You’re exposed to me as if you were one of my women. There’s no need to feign shyness. AL -­ʿ AFSA. (Takes ʿAbbas’s hand and kisses it) I beg you, keep this between us. ʿ ABBAS. (He puts his hand on al-­ʿAfsa’s neck) Don’t be absurd. Would a man defile his woman? AL -­ʿ AFSA. (He rubs his face in ʿAbbas’s hand) Will you promise me everything will stay the same on the surface? ʿ A B B A S . (Caresses al-­ʿAfsa) We will have our appearance and our reality. A L - ­ʿ AFSA. Like all people. ʿ A B B A S . If you are submissive, then I will be like a tent that covers and protects you.

290 Plays

A L - ʿ­ AFSA. I will be as you wish. Oh, I’ve suffered so hard to hide this thing. It was like an abscess poisoning me inside. ʿ ABBAS. Now the abscess has been lanced, and you can rest. A L -­ʿ AFSA. Yes, I will rest. (He buries his head in ʿAbbas’s lap) Put your tent above me, and I will rest. ʿ ABBAS. (Leaning over him) Here is my tent, and you will be as you really are. And you will not suffer anymore. Lights fade. Scene 4 The reception room in the house of ʿAbdallah, the Naqib. The Mufti sits alone and looks around. Muʾmina, ʿAbdallah’s wife, enters after a short while. She is a tall woman, her eyes are bright, and she is modestly dressed, wearing a veil. MU ʾ M INA. Welcome, Sheikh. MU F T I. (Stares at her face) Modesty would’ve required that I send one of my women, but this is a sensitive matter that can’t be handled by frivolous women. MU ʾ M I N A . Well, thank you. Have you come here to call me frivolous? MU F T I. (Disturbed) No, I meant my harem women. MU ʾ M I N A . Aren’t we all called harem women, but that’s not important. Why do you honor us with this visit? To talk about the harem? MU F T I. That’s right. You know . . . MU ʾ M INA. Yes, I know, and I don’t blame you for being gleeful at ʿAbdallah’s fall. MU F T I . I didn’t make the weighty decision to come here because I was seeking pleasure at his misfortune.

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MU ʾ M INA. That’s generous of you. May I ask you then about the purpose of your visit? MU F T I. I’ve come to save your husband from his predicament. MU ʾ M INA. You? Save him? MU F T I. Yes, me. MU ʾ M INA. And what drives you to do this? Didn’t you want to get rid of him? MU F T I. And today I want to save him. Call it what you will, but my sense of honor requires it. Is there no more honor? Do we have to look at every good deed with suspicion? I come with open arms offering my help. Don’t refuse me. MU ʾ M INA. I don’t wish to refuse you, Sheikh, but you shouldn’t find it peculiar that I’m surprised by your zeal, and I’m skeptical. We know what happened, and what’s been going on between you and the Naqib al-­Ashraf. MUFTI. Let’s forget the past and cooperate to solve this problem. MU ʾ M INA. What do you suggest? MU F T I. Were you told the whole story? MU ʾ M INA. They told me everything. MU F T I. Then listen to me. You must get dressed up and prepare yourself to leave the house when it’s dark. MU ʾ M INA. Where do you want me to go? MU F T I. (Looking around) Are you sure no one can hear us? MU ʾ M INA. No, rest assured. MU F T I . I’ve made arrangements with the prison guard, and everything is ready. When it’s dark we’ll take you to prison and exchange you for the prostitute he was caught with.

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MU ʾ M INA. What a fine arrangement, venerable Mufti. Only the shrewdest of men could have come up with such an idea. MU F T I. And it’s guaranteed to work. When the Wali and the people realize that the Naqib was arrested with his wife, the one with the problem will be the chief of police. MU ʾ M INA. Is the difference between a wife and a prostitute so slight? MUFTI. What’s important is that we confuse people and surprise them with your presence in prison. MU ʾ M I N A . I’ll be the one who was defamed, who wore the Naqib’s turban on her head. MU F T I. They’ll be beating themselves up for the mistake they made, and it will be their problem. MU ʾ M I N A . (Her eyes wander) I’ll be the one who was caught nearly naked, who was swaying to the beat of the Naqib’s drums. MU F T I. People will forget all of that when they realize the one doing it was the wife. MU ʾ M INA. And the wife was a prisoner in her own home, reading a tale from The Thousand and One Nights and wandering in the clouds of spring. Have you ever read The Thousand and One Nights, Sheikh? MU F T I. These are not books that a learned man needs. MU ʾ M INA. Reading them will give life to your learning. MU F T I. Do you think religious science is dry, Muʾmina? MU ʾ M INA. I don’t know, sometimes I think it’s dry. Don’t you think it’s dry? MU F T I. What do you know of religious science that makes you think it’s dry?

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MU ʾ M INA. Would it surprise you to know I’ve read every book in my father’s library, and the Naqib’s too? MU F T I. (Astonished) I’ll admit it, you amaze me. MU ʾ M INA. With time I’ll amaze you even more. Let’s get back to our subject. You want me to play the role of the prostitute in this story. MU F T I. Heaven forbid. We’re removing the prostitute, the coupling was with the wife. MU ʾ M I N A . Wife-­prostitute, prostitute-­wife. It’s an appealing and dangerous game. No, Sheikh, you’re pushing me down a treacherous road. I don’t know where it’s leading. MU F T I . (Confused) What’s treacherous about it? You’ll stay with your husband for a while until your identity is verified. You’ll both be released and the problem will end. MU ʾ M INA. His problem will end. Mine will just be beginning. MU F T I. I don’t understand. Don’t you want to save your husband? MU ʾ M INA. Why should I save him? To protect him for his prostitutes! To tell you the truth, I hardly care about that. My concern is it’s dangerous. What you ask of me is a frightening gamble. It’s a terrible temptation, like walking at the edge of an abyss. What do you feel when you stand at the edge of an abyss? MU F T I. I try to be careful. MU ʾ M INA. That is the answer of a composed and settled man. In my case, the abyss shakes me to my roots. Falling terrifies and seduces me at the same time, and between terror and seduction I shiver like a tree on a stormy day. Would you believe it, most of my dreams have that combination of terror and pleasure. But why am I telling you all this? I don’t think I can help you or my husband, Sheikh.

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MU F T I. You’re strange, Muʾmina. I never imagined I’d have to beg you to do a small favor to save your husband from a serious predicament. MU ʾ M I N A . I understand your astonishment, Sheikh. It never crossed your mind that I live, that I have desires and thoughts. You’re worried about the Naqib and the impression your good deed will give. I don’t think you ever thought of me except as a submissive tool, one of the Naqib’s possessions. MU F T I . You must be submissive. After all, you belong to the Naqib. MU ʾ MINA. See, that’s how you think of it. I’m nothing but a concubine who belongs to your enemy. You have a plan, and you want to show your gallantry and save my master. How can I not be happy! How can I not accede to every aspect of your plan! MU F T I . You’re right, your refusal confuses and astounds me, Muʾmina. MU ʾ M INA. I’m trying to resist temptation. If I accept, I’ll start sliding down a slippery slope to where we’ll all start crumbling. I’ll be at the edge of the abyss, and I’m afraid this time it will call and I won’t be able to resist. MU F T I. I must admit I don’t understand what you’re afraid of. I don’t see the horrible danger of spending an hour in prison. MU ʾ M INA. Have you ever looked inside yourself, Sheikh? MU F T I. I thank God there is nothing inside me I fear or that I’m ashamed of announcing to the outside world. He put piety in my inner and outer existence and tamed my soul, which then commanded evil to be transformed into obedience and contentment. MU ʾ M INA. You’re a happy man, Sheikh. One who believes he knows himself must be happy. I envy your trust and certitude.

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MU F T I. Certitude is necessary for a man like me. I don’t think this is the appropriate time to talk about the soul and its desires. We have a task at hand. I understand you’re upset. It’s natural that you feel humiliated and need to express your displeasure. But that’s a matter between you and your husband. You can confront him afterward. MU ʾ M INA. This is what you’ve understood from what I’ve said? MU F T I . What do you want me to understand? The matter is larger than your jealousy and suspicion. It’s been decided that you will go to prison, end of discussion. MU ʾ M INA. Who has decided? MU F T I. We have, I and the notables of the city. Our reputations depend on the success of this scheme. You’re a cultured woman who requires respect. We’re in a sensitive situation here, which won’t allow for coquettish ways and delusions of danger. MU ʾ M I N A . Me, coquettish? You don’t understand a thing, Sheikh. I’m telling you for the last time. You’re pushing me down a slippery slope. MU F T I. This slippery slope exists only in your delusions. MU ʾ M INA. Is that what you believe, Sheikh? So be it. You and the notables have decided that I should dress up and go to prison like a prostitute. One prostitute in place of another. Obviously, I understand your motive for doing this gallant deed. You don’t want to save the Naqib. You want to humiliate him with your generosity. You’ll tie his neck up with a favor from which he can’t escape. You want him at your mercy and under your control. MU F T I. We’re back to suspicions. MU ʾ M INA. Let me finish. I’m not insinuating anything, and I don’t care what happens to your relationship with the Naqib. I’m certain you’ve won, and if your scheme succeeds the Naqib’s reins will be in your hands. But it’s clear to both of us that the scheme will

296 Plays

not succeed unless I agree to it, and since your lives are all based on bargaining, I myself will bargain before I agree. MU F T I . Bargain for what? Are you forgetting that I’m saving your husband and you too? MU ʾ M INA. Here’s the bargain, I’ll dress up and go to prison if you guarantee me a divorce as soon as this story ends to your satisfaction. MU F T I. (Surprised, eyes twinkling) You want a divorce? MU ʾ M INA. Yes, and I won’t go to prison unless you guarantee it. MU F T I . How can I guarantee that? That’s something I have nothing to do with. Perhaps it’s beyond my control. MU ʾ M INA. When he gets out he’ll be more pliable than your own fingers. He won’t be able to refuse you anything. Anyway, that’s what I want. MU F T I. Why don’t you put this off until later? You’re angry, and when one is angry one doesn’t make good decisions. MU ʾ M INA. No, I’m not angry. If you want me to agree, this is my condition. And that’s final. MU F T I. You’re an unusual woman, very unusual. MU ʾ M INA. Do you accept? MU F T I. I’ll do what I can. MU ʾ M INA. No, say I’ll give the order, I’ll see that it’s done. MU F T I. How strange! Get dressed and a man will come escort you as soon as it’s dark. MU ʾ M INA. And the prostitute will be ready. MU F T I. (As he leaves) What an unusual woman, truly unusual. MU ʾ MINA. Now, Muʾmina, shall we answer the call of the abyss? Shall we change everything? I have a cold chill running down my

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spine. Shall I sit in front of the mirror and make myself up? Shall I throw out my name and break the strongest shackle that has bound me since birth? I have a chill running down my spine. Lights fade. Scene 5 A jail cell. Night has fallen. A filthy old lantern gives off a faint light. ʿAbdallah sits curled up in a ball with an ashen face. Warda looks bored and agitated. There is a plate with some food on it on the ground. W A R DA. Is it possible we’re going to spend the night here? No one has come. Has everyone abandoned you? Look what they’ve thrown to us. Is this the kind of food one offers to the Naqib? Please talk to me. I can’t stand the silence in this place. What’s wrong with you? You haven’t looked at me once. You’re curled up in a ball with your tongue tied. Do you think I’m to blame? What have I done wrong? Didn’t I ask them to punish me instead of you? If you’d listened to me, this scheme wouldn’t have succeeded. How many times did I beg you to marry me? You promised, but you stalled like all men do. If I’d been your wife, no one would have dared to come near us. Today, everyone knows about us. (She approaches him) ʿAbboudti, my love . . . ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Looks at her angrily) Don’t ever say that again. W A R D A . You always loved it when I flirted and cuddled with you. Gloom doesn’t suit you, ʿAbdallah, you’re losing your charm and appeal. Talk to me, please, say something. It’s not fair for you to act like you don’t know me. We shared the good, now we’re sharing the bad. Think a little bit about me. I’m all alone. Your followers will come tomorrow and get you out, but what about me? Will you leave me to the taunts of people who take joy at my misfortune? What will I do if the Mufti issues a decree that says murdering me is legal?

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You’re my only refuge. You’ve made me pledge myself to you. I have no one but you. Please, offer me your protection. It will be an act of honor that will put your enemies to shame. You’ll be a man worthy of a woman who pledges her life to him. Didn’t you tell me you hadn’t experienced pleasure with a woman until you knew me? Weren’t our times together overflowing with ecstasy and love? (She wraps her arm around his shoulder and caresses his face. ʿAbdallah pushes her away harshly) You’re pushing me away now? You have no right to treat me like dirt. I’m trying to console you. (She strokes his hair) ʿ A B D A LLA H . (He violently moves her hand away) Stop this farce. Don’t touch me. W A R DA. Now you’re saying don’t touch me? How many times have you run after me so I would touch you? Now, it’s don’t touch me. Only this morning you were dancing on all fours under my bottom. The pettiness of men! (She beats on her face) Why won’t you ever learn, you stupid woman? You’re a whore, daughter of a whore. How many times have we agreed not to trust men? How many times have we committed ourselves not to believe their vile promises and lies? Hours ago, he was melting with ecstasy and thundering with jealousy, demanding that I be his and his alone. Hours ago, my buttocks were pillows from heaven. Now he’s disgusted by my touch, my words, my very presence. Why are you here, Warda? Because of Sir Naqib. Sir Naqib treats me as if I were the disgrace that’s befallen him. You’re vile, ʿAbdallah. I’m saying it to your face, you’re vile. ʿAbdallah rises angrily and raises his hand to slap her. He stops suddenly. He looks broken and moves back. He collapses on the bench he’s sitting on. WARDA. (Surprised and sad) Why didn’t you slap me? Say something, curse me, hit me. God, what’s happened to you? Why do you look so broken? I’m with you. I didn’t mean what I said. (She begins to cry) I’m alone, and your silence doubles my loneliness. What wrong

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have I done? Wasn’t the picnic your idea? Our being here is just one fleeting event. Your family and friends will come tomorrow and put an end to this affair and punish the schemers. The silence and fear have exhausted me. I thought I’d find favor with you and our fates would be united. At first I found it charming we were here in prison together. I never imagined you’d turn against me. Tell me, didn’t you love me, even a little? past.

ʿ A B D A LLA H . (Calmly) I’m forgetting you. I’m forgetting the

W A R DA. You can’t forget me, ʿAbdallah. Not now. What will I do? I’m afraid. Even if I do survive, it won’t be easy to go back to the life I had. It was you who made me leave it. ʿ ABDA LLA H . That life, the one in which I knew you, is over. It’s gone. My future’s dark, without a glimmer of light. I see no escape. WARDA. I know men, ʿAbdallah. I know that when they decide to run away they utter vague sentences and twisted words. I thought you were different, but you men are all the same. I’ve gotten used to living with vileness, lies, and rotten intentions. I will not break like you. If you decide to end this and run away, I’ll find a way to overcome my fear and go on with my work. You’re not the first disappointment, and you won’t be the last. My God, this silence is so ugly. Don’t you want to know how I took this path? Yes, it’s quite a story to tell. Well, well, we’ve both said what we had to say. Listen, ʿAbboudti, you who’ve forgotten how you rubbed your reverence, your insignia, your whole being between these thighs, you who used to sigh over my belly and pull out your beard in ecstasy. Listen to this story. Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was more beautiful than a full moon. Her parents needed to eat instead of look upon beauty, so they sold her to a rich family. The father of the family was a revered sheikh, esteemed among the elite and populace alike. The day will come when I reveal his position and his name. This revered sheikh looked after me with

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such concern that before I’d even menstruated he’d guided me down the path and walked upon it with me. As we fornicated, he instructed me in levels of perversion. When I menstruated . . . A sudden sound of clicking metal. ʿAbdou walks in with Muʾmina who is hidden in a black cloak and veil. ʿ ABDO U . Don’t say anything, master of the notables, don’t make a sound. (To Warda) Let’s go, woman, come with me. W A R DA. Who are you? Why should I go with you? ʿ ABDO U . Swallow your tongue and come along. W A R D A . Why should I swallow my tongue? They caught me with the Naqib, and I won’t leave without him. ʿ ABDO U . Come with me or I’ll smash your face. W A R D A . Wait, wait, you’re breaking my arm. I want to know what’s going on. Who’s the Madame? talk.

ʿ A B D O U . (Drags Warda violently) I don’t have time for small MU ʾ M INA. Wait, wait. (Muʾmina takes off her cloak and veil ) W A R DA. Does it please you what he’s doing to me, ʿAbdallah? MU ʾ M INA. Come here, woman. W A R DA. My name is Warda, you who are taking my place.

MU ʾ M INA. (Gently) God keep your name, Warda. Here, take the cloak and put on the veil. W A R DA. No, Madame, I love being unveiled. MU ʾ M INA. Listen to me, Warda, I’m his wife and I’ve come to save him and you. W A R DA. (Surprised) His wife? ʿ ABDO U . Do as she tells you.

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W A R DA. (Confused) How could I take your cloak and veil? I’m used to being unveiled, but you . . . MU ʾ M INA. I need to be unveiled now. I might even get used to being unveiled after tonight. Come on, we’re running out of time. Wear it. ʿ ABDOU . Put it on. Let’s be done with this. W A R DA. (Putting on the cloak and veil ) How will I return them to you? MU ʾ M INA. Don’t worry. I may pay you a visit soon. W A R DA. You visit me? ʿ ABDO U . (Dragging Warda) Come on. They hastily and quietly leave. The door shuts behind them. The sound of metal clicking is heard. MU ʾ M INA. Why don’t you ask why I’ve come? ʿ ABDA LLAH. I’m ashamed to ask. MU ʾ M INA. Don’t act like a big baby. Why are you looking down? Afraid to look at me? ʿ ABDA LLAH. This day has destroyed my eyes and my soul. I wish I could disappear, see no one and be seen by no one. MU ʾ M INA. Take it easy, it’s just a little scandal, and my coming here will erase it from people’s minds. Tomorrow you can return to being the ʿAbdallah who walks haughtily among his aides and prostitutes. ʿ ABDA LLA H . You have every right to be angry and to blame me. MU ʾ M INA. I’m not here for either. You haven’t asked me why I came. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Why did you come? MU ʾ M INA. Because the Wali may send a messenger to see if the

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prostitute you were arrested with is your wife. Look at me. Haven’t you noticed, I’m all dressed up? I’m supposed to be a prostitute. Don’t I look like one? ʿ ABDA LLA H . Who contrived this tale? MU ʾ M INA. Who else but the Mufti could weave such a story? ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Astonished) The Mufti? MU ʾ M INA. Yes. He may at this moment be with the notables at the Wali’s. ʿ ABDALLAH. The Mufti with the notables! This is the decadence my father used to talk about. It’s difficult to explain how much I’ve changed since I entered this cell. It’s as if I’m going through the pangs of a painful labor. MU ʾ M INA. We’re all going through it. ʿ ABDA LLA H . When I was sitting here in the darkness, and the effects of drink still blurred my mind and vision, I saw my father. He wasn’t angry. Instead he was sad. With his deep and mellow voice he asked me, “What have you done with my inheritance, ʿAbdallah?” I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me into its deepest depths. I turned away. I was overcome by shame as if it had turned into my own skin. It’s true, what have I done with his inheritance? And he said, as if consoling me, “You’ve corrupted your outside, now be mindful of your inside and save it from decay. Don’t forget, ʿAbdallah, that I lived for seventy years. With God as my witness, were those seventy years to be placed on a platter and presented to the Creator, I wouldn’t be ashamed of anything on it no matter how small.” In the last few hours, I feel as if I’ve put a veil over the past and I’m groping along the summit of a peak, searching for the door that leads to the rest of my life. I don’t know . . . but my life is going to change. In fact, it already has. Please forgive me. I know I’ve hurt you, and I promise, I’ll make up for everything.

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MU ʾ M I N A . Your father will follow you until the day you die, ʿAbdallah. What should I forgive you for? Nothing you’ve done has hurt me. Can you remember me ever blaming you for anything? Did I ever ask you where you were or what you’d done? Did I ever express my disgust at those strange smells you brazenly brought with you into our bed? ʿ A B D A LLA H . I admit you’re a woman of rare substance, and you’ve risen far above me with your tolerance, kindness, and generosity. MU ʾ M INA. I wasn’t trying to rise above you. We’ve been apart since the night we wed, and we’ve both been whirling in the circles of our own selves. You’ve been occupied with others, and so have I. There was no reason to feel jealous or miserable. There was nothing between us except a contract, a dwelling place, and those embraces suffocated beneath the weight of modesty, purity, and awe. No, my forgiveness was not out of generosity. It was a kind of indifference. Were I to make myself think of our marriage, I’d be unable to remember anything except silences, maintaining appearances, and those oily embraces. Yes, the events of today and our entry into this cell will speed up the pain of the new birth that awaits us all. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Was our marriage so bad? MU ʾ M INA. Our marriage was just a marriage, nothing more. ʿ A B D A LLA H . I’ll make amends for every moment that took place. MU ʾ M INA. I told you, there’s nothing for you to make amends for. I hold no grudge against you, nor do I blame you. Never, for one day, did I feel jealous. If you want the truth, I used to envy those prostitutes, not because they were with you, but because they were seductive. On our wedding day, I was made to sit on a pedestal and told to cast my glance shyly downward and frown. A dancer appeared among the group that was entertaining at the wedding. Her body was

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so unrestrained the spacious hall of your estate seemed to confine her. Her body flowed, stretched, bended, laughed, started to moan. She was free as the air. Her shining dress wished it could fall from her and allow her to gather up and illuminate the night. How I desired to rise from that pedestal, to tear to pieces that dress that bound and molded me. I wanted to leap up and seize the beat and join the dance. That night I could have danced until morning. I’m sure I would’ve barely touched the ground. I’d have remained suspended in the air, in the fresh night sky. I’d have been free, like her, free forever. I thought, then, perhaps I can do that tonight when I’m alone with him. The room would be small but I can make the walls move and have my body flow and multiply. (She looks disgusted) And you know the rest. Anyway, I didn’t risk coming to prison to reminisce about our marriage. Tell me, what were the two of you doing when the police took you by surprise? ʿ ABDA LLA H . Oh, God, you’re hurt and your wound is so deep. It’s definitely your wound that’s speaking. I don’t know if I can bear more shame. MU ʾ MINA. Don’t blame yourself, I’m not hurt. Answer me, what were the two of you doing? ʿ ABDA LLA H . Oh, God! Spare me this humiliation. Why do you want to know? MU ʾ M INA. So that the words and deeds match. Was she dancing? (He looks down shamefully) What was she dancing to? ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Hiding his face with his hands) I don’t remember. MU ʾ M INA. You must remember. Look! (She begins to sway and prepares to dance) Yes, I can dance too. I’m lacking in lightness and agility, but I’ll soon overcome that fault. Come on, you can keep a beat, we don’t need the drum. You can clap and keep time for me. ʿ ABDA LLA H . My God, what are you doing? You’re Muʾmina, my wife.

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MU ʾ M INA. I’m now a prostitute, the one you were caught with. Help me or the whole plan will collapse. Were you keeping the tune with the drum or the tambourine? ʿ ABDA LLAH. (Humiliated) With the drum. MU ʾ M INA. Alright, when you remember the beat, follow me. (She begins to dance. At first, her movements are confused and unpolished, but then they become lighter, more rhythmical and beautiful ) ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Looks at her in amazement) Oh God, oh God! Lights fade. Scene 6 In the house of the Wali, who looks as if he has been recently awakened and appears upset, are the Mufti, Hamid al-­ʿAjlouni, Ibrahim Daqqaq al-­Douda, and Safwat al-­ʿAbidi, who is the delegate of the Ashraf, the notables, in the city. W A L I . This is such an implausible story, Muhammad. I think about it and think about it, but my mind rejects it. While we’re waiting for the emissary to return, we need to summon the chief of police to explain his motive for doing what he did. MUFTI. No, venerable Wali, we won’t allow him in our presence. He’s our adversary, and he’s wronged and slandered us. As I said, he’s made our life more difficult. We no longer feel secure when we’re alone with our wives. How can we sit with him after such an insult? SAFW A T . We’re all of this opinion. I swear it. After such a violation of privacy, life in our city has become humiliating and unbearable. MU F T I . We don’t know how to appease the notables and the local men. They’re like gunpowder awaiting a spark. They gave me the keys to their houses and titles to their possessions and told us, “If the Wali tolerates our being disgraced like this, give them to him. The

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city is no longer a place we can live.” As you see, the keys and deeds are in your hands, venerable Wali. W A L I . You know I don’t like problems, and this talk of gunpowder does not please me. SAFW A T . How can they not be angry when they see the police have no respect for them? They barge in, shamelessly violating the privacy of the Naqib, the leader of the notables, with his wife, and drag them off to prison to the jeers of the masses. MU F T I. We know how concerned you are about stability in the city. We’ve done everything we can to keep things under control. But we can’t remain silent about what happened today. The only reason we came is to ask for justice and the return of our dignity. As for the slanderer, we leave him to your impartial judgment. H AM ID. To tell you the truth, a person as rash as ʿIzzat Beik is not qualified to be the chief of police. SAFW A T . Justice demands that he be thrown in prison in place of the Naqib, whom he slandered. W A L I. Do not tell me what I must do with the employees of my state. MU F T I . No one is telling you anything, revered Wali. We’re simply exchanging ideas. Could a man as judicious and honest as our Wali, may God keep him, allow this abominable folly to go unpunished? SAFWAT. We should also tell you frankly that people’s minds will not be put to rest until our slanderer is punished. W A L I. Fine. Let’s wait and see what the emissary says. This is such an implausible story, Muhammad. The Eunuch of the harem enters. EU NUCH . Sir.

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W A L I. What? Have you thoroughly investigated the matter? EU NUCH . Yes, I have. The woman imprisoned with the Naqib is his wife. W A L I. Are you positive? EU NUCH . There’s no doubt, Sir. W A L I. Fine. Leave. MU F T I . The truth has been revealed and falsehood defeated, revered Wali. W A L I. Yes. My God, what a mind-­boggling tale! S AFW A T . Do you blame us now for being so angry? IB R AH IM . The insult has touched the entire city. W AL I. Fine. I’ll right the wrong immediately. We’ll release him and apologize as well. You must all excuse me, but I refused to believe the story at first because the police chief, I thought, is a reasonable, reliable man. SAFW A T . It’s our right to demand that he be punished. W A L I. I’ll see. But I am counting on you to maintain calm and suppress any unrest. You know how I value stability. I don’t want my reign tarnished by disorder. MU F T I. I promise as long as we continue to cooperate and the ties of cordiality bind us, we’ll see that Damascus remains a tranquil pond on which not even a ripple appears. WALI. Thank you, our Mufti. God willing, as long as I’m the Wali of Damascus, we’ll be bound by cordiality. I’m extremely pleased the discord between you and the Naqib has ended. MU F T I. An offense inflicted by a stranger unites us and erases passing disagreements. W A L I. Are you trying to remind me that I’m a stranger?

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MU F T I. God forbid, you are our leader and have become one of us. May we be excused now, and forgive us for waking you in the middle of the night. We’ve tired you out by staying so late. W A L I . No, you had to come so I would know what was happening. Go and calm the locals down. I hope the city wakes tomorrow free from turmoil. The Naqib will be released before you’ve even reached your homes, and we’ll do our best to restore the dignity due to the notables and all the city’s aristocrats. Wait, you’ve forgotten the keys and deeds. SAFW A T . We’ll leave them in your care until you punish the one who has slandered us. W A L I. No, take them. MU F T I. We will take them. Rest assured the Wali will not disappoint us. They gesture respectfully and take their leave. W A L I . Snakes. You’re vipers, the whole lot of you. What were you thinking of, ʿIzzat, you stupid shit? Playing with fire on a powder keg in my province. Are you trying to undermine me? How did this happen right under my nose? I’ll deal with it in the morning. I’m going to bed. Lights fade. Scene 7 Two Policemen and a Prison Guard are in the prison. The Two Policemen are holding ʿIzzat by the arms. ʿIzzat is furious, foaming at the mouth. They are all standing in front of a prison cell. ʿ IZZA T . This is insane. On my mother’s grave, it’s absurd! You were with me. (Suddenly giving an order) Unhand me. Pre­sent arms! P OL ICEM AN #1. Don’t make our task harder than it is, ʿIzzat Beik.

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ʿ IZZA T . I’m your chief, and I’m the one who gives the orders. P OL I CEM AN #1. You used to be. P OL I CEM AN #2. The rank of Wali is higher than chief, and he ordered us to put you in prison. We can’t disobey an order from him. ʿ IZZAT. He’s rotten, this Wali. He’s manipulated by eunuchs and snitches. P OL ICEM AN #2. (To the other Policeman) Pretend you didn’t hear that. P OL ICEM AN #1. What did he say? I didn’t hear a thing. ʿ I Z Z A T . Don’t act smart, you sons of bitches. (Using the tone of an order. The Policemen reflexively follow his command and step back) Answer me, both of you. When we caught the Naqib of pimps last night, who was he with? P OL ICEM AN #1. We found a woman with him. ʿ IZZAT . I know it was a woman, but who was that woman? P OL ICEM AN #1. It turned out she was his wife. ʿ IZZA T . How could that be? Wasn’t she that prostitute Warda? P OL ICEM AN #2. We don’t know. You told us she was a prostitute and we believed you. You ordered us to arrest them and we did. What do we know? Women are all alike. Today we learned that the woman we caught him with was his wife. ʿ IZZA T . She wasn’t his wife. P OL ICEM AN #1. The Wali and everyone else insist she is. P OL ICEM AN #2. That shows she’s his wife beyond a shadow of a doubt. ʿ I Z Z A T . You and your Wali. Yesterday, everyone in Damascus saw them and no one said she was his wife. What happened today? Listen, Guard, you saw her. Tell me, was she his wife?

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PR ISON GUARD. I didn’t look at her, but when the Wali, may God preserve him, sent a delegation of his women and eunuchs, it turned out she was his wife. ʿ IZZA T . No one came to the prison before the women? PR ISON GUA RD. Nobody. ʿ IZZA T . Maybe you were negligent and left for some reason. PRISON GUARD. I’m not negligent, and I never leave the prison. ʿ IZZA T . Do you swear? PR ISON GUA RD. I swear on your mother’s grave that you have no right to make me swear. Had you been prudent and meticulous, you could have avoided this humiliating situation. ʿ I Z Z A T . This is insane. On my mother’s grave, it’s absurd! They’re trying to make me lose my mind. As if I didn’t know the city and everything that’s in it. As if I don’t know who Warda is and can’t recognize her. Officer, go get this girl, Warda. Look for her in the local brothels, and bring her to me at once. Come on, let’s get going. P OL ICEM AN #1. (To his colleague) What did he say? P OL ICEM AN #2. Did he say something? P O L I CEM A N #1. Come on, Abou Ibrahim, open up the cell and let’s get done with this. ʿ IZZA T . Have you lost all respect, you little rodents? Give me a second, I’ll solve this mystery and I’ll regain my position. How could this have happened? How does truth disappear in a single night? How does reality become an illusion and illusion reality? Has the Wali gone mad, the people, the entire city? P O L I CEM A N #1. Everyone is mad, and you’re the only sane person. ʿ IZZA T . (Screaming) She wasn’t his wife. You all know it. P OL ICEM AN #2. But she was.

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P OL ICEM AN #1. The Wali affirms it, we affirm it, and so does everyone else. P O L I CEM A N #2. We’re not going to spend all day arguing. What are you waiting for, Abou Ibrahim? PR ISON GUA RD . We have to change his clothes before we put him in prison. The law prohibits inmates from displaying rank or wearing official attire. P OL ICEM AN #1. Right. Didn’t the Wali say strip him of his rank and throw him in prison? PR ISON GUAR D . That’s right. Formal attire and signs of rank are sacred. P OL I CEM AN #2. What’s he going to wear? PR ISON GUA R D. Prison clothes. ʿ IZZA T . Why not a straitjacket? P OL I CEM AN #1. We can use one if you’re stubborn and keep rambling. Come on, help us and take off your clothes. ʿ IZZAT . The world’s unhinged and the truth has vanished. How could something so clear simply disappear? Policeman #1 removes ʿIzzat’s insignias and gives them to the Prison Guard. Policeman #2 unbuttons ʿIzzat’s suit. ʿ IZZA T . Nobody told me about it. I saw it, and so did they. They know the truth and they’re hiding it. They’re lying. (The Policeman pulls the suit from the arms of ʿIzzat, who remains in his undershirt) You’re lying. You’re hiding the truth. You’re trying to get to me, to make me look mad. (After the belt and buttons are undone, his pants fall off. ʿIzzat sees his near-naked body and becomes very angry) What have you done, you sons of bitches? (Policeman #2 slaps him violently. ʿIzzat looks at him dazed, with his hand on his face) You slapped me, how dare you?

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P OL ICEM AN #2. Who are you to curse the police? ʿ IZZA T . I’m ʿIzzat Beik. P O L I CEM A N #2. Shit. You’re nothing but a crazy prisoner. (ʿIzzat tries to hit him, but the Policeman grabs his hand) Calm down or I’ll crush you beneath my feet. Bring the gown, Abou Ibrahim. ʿ IZZA T . (While being dressed with the prison gown) Madness. On my mother’s grave, this is madness. Scales are out of balance, eyes have been blinded. The truth’s been buried under plots and schemes. Even if heaven and earth affirm it, she wasn’t his wife. After they’ve put the gown on ʿIzzat, the Prison Guard opens the prison cell. The Policemen push him in. The Prison Guard locks the door. ʿ IZZA T . (From behind the bars) She wasn’t his wife. I’ll solve this mystery and tell you what it is, you sons of bitches. P OL ICEM AN #1. You can shit as much as you want now. P OL ICEM AN #2. Let’s go. ʿ IZZAT . (Screaming) Wait, can I ask you one small favor, for old times’ sake? P OL ICEM AN #1. What do you want? ʿ IZZAT . Search for Warda and tell her to come see me in prison. P OL ICEM AN #1. Do you take us for madmen? P OL ICEM AN #2. Stop this stupidity. Don’t make the Wali angrier than he is. (The Policemen exit) ʿ IZZA T . I swear she wasn’t his wife. They’re trying to make me go mad. PR ISON GUARD. I have no time for you. What I know is the woman who left the prison was his wife. ʿAbdou enters.

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ʿ I Z Z A T . (Joyfully) Here you are, ʿAbdou. Where’s the Mufti? Look what they’ve done to me. ʿ ABDO U . (To the Prison Guard) May I talk to him? PR ISON GUAR D. Go ahead, ʿAbdou. ʿ ABDOU . (Facing ʿIzzat, who is behind bars) I bring the reproach and disappointment of my master, ʿIzzat Beik. ʿ IZZA T . Reproach? For what does he reproach me? ʿ ABDO U . You’ve added to his embarrassment. Why did you arrest the Naqib, who was alone with his wife? ʿ IZZAT. She wasn’t his wife. Tell the Mufti, and affirm to him she wasn’t. Believe me, something suspicious is going on. ʿ A B D O U . Listen, ʿIzzat Beik. She’s his wife. We checked and we’re certain. Everyone’s convinced you arrested him while he was alone with his wife. ʿ IZZA T . She was Warda, ʿAbdou. You know Warda, so does al-­ ʿAfsa. Please, tell the Mufti to summon her and ask her. ʿ ABDO U . I told you, we checked and we’re certain. The Naqib was with his wife. The matter’s over. I came to ask if you need anything. If you need help from the Mufti. ʿ IZZAT. All I need is the truth. Ask the Mufti to help me reveal it. ʿ ABDO U . Everyone pursued the truth, the Wali, the Mufti, the notables. Everyone’s certain he was with his wife. ʿ IZZA T . (Angrily) On my mother’s grave, that’s not the truth. ʿ ABDO U . Is it possible that everyone else is wrong, and you alone are right? Recklessness and anger have blinded you, ʿIzzat Beik. Don’t you want anything else? ʿ IZZA T . No, I don’t. I’m afraid that the poison that flows in my body and mind is from the Mufti’s bites. Madness, on my mother’s

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grave, this is madness. You want me to lose my mind, which I certainly will soon. Tell the Mufti to give his legal opinion on this matter. Is it enough for people to agree on something to decide it’s true? Can’t people be duped? Aren’t those who believe today she was his wife the same ones who hissed and whistled yesterday? Can the truth be hidden and simply made to appear in a way that suits people’s interests and desires? Can he give us his legal opinion on these things? I’m telling you, the truth remains the truth: the woman I caught wasn’t his wife. ʿ ABDO U . Food will be brought to you every day. ʿ IZZA T . Keep it, I don’t want it. I want nothing but the truth. My eyes didn’t fool me. What I saw was clear. ʿ ABDO U . I’ll come every once in a while. ʿ IZZA T . What about the Mufti, isn’t he coming? ʿ ABDO U . You’ve caused him enough embarrassment. He only sent me for the sake of friendship. ʿAbdou exits. ʿ IZZA T . Madness, on my mother’s grave, this is madness. What shall I do? Why does no one support me? How is it I’m the only one who saw what I saw? Did I really see it? By my mother’s grave, this is madness. Lights fade. Scene 8 In the house of ʿAbdallah. ʿAbdallah enters the guest room barefoot, moving backward. He greets his guest, the Mufti, who enters. He is indifferent to ʿAbdallah’s greeting. ʿ ABDA LLA H . If I’d known you were going to honor me with a visit, I’d have received you barefoot at the entrance to the neighborhood.

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MU F T I. When you came to visit me, I closed the door in your face so you wouldn’t think the animosity between us had disappeared. Today I come to see you, but the antipathy is the same. However, after the disgusting act you’ve committed, there’s a score that needs to be settled. ʿ ABDALLAH. Believe me, I’ve cleansed my heart of all animosity. MU F T I. I didn’t come to reconcile with you, ʿAbdallah. ʿ ABDALLAH. The place of honor in this house and the heart of its owner are yours even if you’ve come seeking their destruction. MU F T I. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? ʿ A B D A LLA H . Ashamed of myself ? Every time my feeling of shame subsides, I beat my face to revive the memory until I turn red with humiliation. My shame in front of you is nothing compared to the shame I feel in front of my Creator. MU F T I. Don’t feign flattery and remorse to the Creator. You’d be better off making amends by paying what’s due for your frivolous indiscretion. ʿ ABDA LLA H . I no longer have desires related to the passing matters of this world, Sheikh Qasim. I’ll immediately pay whatever retribution you think is just. MUFTI. You’ve sullied the name of Naqib, leader of the notables, and slandered it in the mouths of the populace! You’re unfit for this position and can’t be trusted to preserve its dignity and honor. ʿ ABDA LLA H . I told you, I’ve abandoned all the trappings of this world. Right now, before you, I forsake the position of Naqib. I’ll leave it to you and the notables to choose my replacement. MU F T I. Your decision is irrevocable, ʿAbdallah? ʿ ABDA LLA H . You have my word, Sheikh. If you want, we’ll get witnesses.

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MU F T I . Now you’re acting wisely and removing some of the reasons we became enemies. ʿ ABDA LLA H . By God’s will, all enmity will disappear. My heart has become pure, and I hope yours does too. MU F T I. I have a candidate for the position of Naqib, and I want you to support him. ʿ ABDA LLA H . If you allow me, I’d prefer not to get involved. If you insist, I’ll repay your generosity by supporting your candidate. MU F T I. I want my candidate for Naqib. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Then I’ll support him in every way I can. MU F T I. There’s one more thing. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Yes, there’s a vile deed weighing so much on my conscience I cannot sleep. I’m thinking of going to the Wali and telling him the truth to save that poor victim of treachery. MU F T I. Who do you mean? ʿ ABDA LLA H . The chief of police. MU F T I. No, let him stay in prison so his successor learns to respect the elite and not treat them so frivolously. If you tell the Wali the truth, you’ll put us in an awkward position. We’ll look like perjurers. No, forget about the chief of police. He exceeded his authority and deserves whatever happens to him. I was referring to something else, which I’m embarrassed to mention, but I made a promise and promises must be kept. like.

ʿ ABDALLAH. Don’t be embarrassed, Sheikh. Ask whatever you’d MU F T I. You have to divorce your wife, ʿAbdallah. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Divorce my wife? Why? MU F T I. That was her condition for agreeing to go to the prison.

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ʿ ABDA LLAH. I know she was angry and hurt, but I want to restore my life and make up for the pain I’ve caused her and the frivolity of my past. MU F T I I believe the situation’s more difficult than that. She neither blames you nor is angry. Of course, you know your woman better than I, but the only way I could convince her was to promise. ʿ ABDA LLA H . And you promised? MU F T I. That was her wish. I had no other recourse. Had it not been for the dire circumstances I wouldn’t have allowed myself to meddle in your family affairs. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Is this another sign, Lord? Is this the smaller divorce you’re afflicting on me so I can endure the larger? MU F T I. I had to, ʿAbdallah, and a promise is a promise. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Am I to understand you’re ordering me to grant a divorce? MU F T I. It’s not for me to order. It was she who made the condition. She refused to talk about mending matters in your household. She was definite. The way she spoke was strange. You know your womenfolk. If you wish to give it a try, I can give you time. ʿ ABDA LLA H . You’re right. I noticed she’d changed. I asked for her forgiveness and she didn’t care. When I tried to talk about our future, she wouldn’t listen, she turned away. Since that night we wander about, each in a separate world of solitude and silence. Help me, my God. Is this a sign, which I must answer? ʿAbdallah falls into a chair, with a vacant worried look. MU F T I. (Looking for a long moment, at once perplexed and triumphant) So, what’s your response? ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Murmuring, with the same vacant expression) It’s a sign. It must be.

318 Plays

MU F T I. What’s wrong with you? Are you waiting for a revelation from heaven? This is part of the price you must pay, ʿAbdallah. ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Startled) Yes, it is a sign. From this moment on, I am divorced from her, Sheikh. MU F T I. God bless you. You’ve paid everything that’s due and now we can turn enmity into peace and friendship. The Mufti approaches ʿAbdallah with open arms. ʿAbdallah ignores him, rises, and walks about as if possessed. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Oh, God, have mercy on my weakness and frailty. Teach me, Lord, how to differentiate between your signs and my hallucinations. Lord help me endure my state, to struggle and overcome it. ʿAbdallah falls to the ground and opens his arms in supplication. He raises his head and looks up. The Mufti watches him, shaking his head in pity. He exits. ʿAbdallah remains still for several moments murmuring barely audible supplications. Harim, the male servant, enters and stands waiting, looking at him as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. H AR IM . (Whispering) Sir . . . Sir. (He walks hesitantly toward ʿAbdallah, raising his voice) Sir. ʿ ABDA LLA H . (As if suddenly awakened) What? Oh, Harim. You startled me. H AR IM . Sir, I was afraid you’d forgotten my wedding is tonight. As I explained to you, I promised that cursed woman I’d marry her as soon as you returned home safely. I’ve barely been able to appease her for a week. If I postpone or try to weasel out of it, she’ll cause a scandal. ʿ ABDA LLA H . You’re marrying her tonight, Harim? H A R I M . Has something happened, sir? You gave me your approval when I set the date.

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ʿ ABDA LLAH. Yes . . . I remember. Go. Get married. H AR I M . Will my master not bless the wedding? ʿ ABDALLAH. No, I’ve divorced this worldly existence thrice, and its celebrations are forbidden to me now. Leave me alone. H AR IM . You don’t want me to remain in your service, sir? ʿ ABDA LLA H . I no longer need servants, Harim. H AR IM . You’re firing me, sir? ʿ ABDA LLA H . How could someone who’s dismissed himself dismiss another? H AR IM . I don’t understand. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Does anyone? Go answer the call of worldly existence and be wed. H AR IM . Sir. (ʿAbdallah gestures for him to leave. Harim begins to leave, confused) I can’t put it off. She’d kill me. I was hoping you’d honor us with your presence. (Whispering) Her mistress, Warda, has generously offered to dance at our wedding. I don’t know what to do. I can’t put it off. Harim waits at the door. When he sees that ʿAbdallah is absorbed in inarticulate mumbling, he exits. After a short while the Guide, the ghost of a Sufi holy man, appears wearing a white shroud and hiding his face. He moves slowly and speaks with a soothing voice. He is surrounded by light from an unseen source. GU IDE . The path is long, provisions few. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Is it my father speaking? GU IDE . Your father will guide you. I was ordered to choose you as a disciple. ʿ ABDA LLA H . I’ve divorced my wife. I’m in a state of confusion. GU IDE . What you’ve divorced are lust and anxiety. The best Sufis have no attachments. Leave marriage to others.

320 Plays

ʿ ABDA LLAH. When I think of my sordid state, my base deeds, my vile nature, my soul constricts and I lose all hope of God’s mercy. GU IDE . Don’t be impatient. Remember, everything has a beginning. ʿ ABDA LLA H . That’s the problem. Where to begin, and how? GU IDE . You begin with a naked body and empty stomach. Rend your clothing and cover yourself with a frock filled with patches. ʿAbdallah rises. He takes a patched frock out of a drawer and attempts to tear his opulent clothes then appears to hesitate. GU IDE . Tear doubt and hesitation from your heart. Don’t forget that your father purified the womb of your mother when he wed her, before she bore you. He didn’t approach or touch her for forty nights until he knew that in her there was no trace of food from her father’s house for fear she’d eaten or drunk something impure. Rip your clothes. They’re only a shell to be tossed away. ʿAbdallah begins to tear his clothes and puts on the patched frock while the Guide whirls around, repeating “God.” ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Wearing the frock) What do I do next? GU IDE . Now the hardships and toil begin. You must shed your base self like a snake sheds its skin. ʿ ABDA LLA H . How? GU IDE . I showed you the beginning. Begin. The Guide disappears. ʿAbdallah waits a moment and then begins to whirl around repeating “God.” He moves slowly at first then gradually moves faster as lights fade.

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Act II: Outcomes

Scene 1 The Mufti and ʿAbdou are at the Mufti’s house. ʿ A B D O U . He won’t eat the food we sent him. Should I keep taking it to him? MU F T I. How is he? ʿ ABDO U . I think he’s gone mad. All he says is, “On my mother’s grave, it’s insane. She wasn’t his wife. Was she really not his wife?” He’s awaiting your pronouncements on the questions he’s raised. MU F T I. Didn’t you tell him that truth lies in consensus? ʿ ABDO U . Do you think he has a clue what’s said to him? MU F T I. Then let him continue to wander about in his madness. Don’t take him food anymore. ʿ ABDO U . Yes, sir. My master should turn the page on this filthy episode. You have every right to feel content. The city has returned to calm, and its notables are now in the palm of your hand seeking only your satisfaction. MU F T I. Yes, these squabbles were tying my hands and undermining my prestige. We can now remove the stains that cling to this position. People need to realize their happiness lies in obedience, and the rank of Mufti has sublimity and power. ʿ A B D O U . Aren’t you going to issue the decree you were planning, which all respectable people of Damascus desire? MU F T I. Which decree? ʿ ABDO U . The one that makes fornication illegal and allows the killing of prostitutes. MUFTI. Ah, that decree. I think we need to wait a bit then tighten gradually. There’s something I need you to take care of personally.

322 Plays

ʿ ABDO U . All the Sheikh has to do is give the order. MU F T I. I want you to follow up on the Naqib’s wife, what she’s up to, where she goes after she’s divorced. Be discreet. Make sure no one is aware of what you’re doing. ʿ ABDO U . Don’t worry. For you, I’ll find out what she eats and when she sleeps. Call to sunset prayer is heard. MU F T I. God is great. ʿ ABDO U . There is no God but God. Do you want anything else, sir? Do you desire assistance with your ablutions? MU F T I. God bless you. I don’t need a thing. ʿAbdou exits. MU F T I . I take refuge in God Almighty. Lord, the desire for prayer has subsided in my soul. I don’t know why, my Lord. Do not withhold Your blessings from me. Don’t make me into an infidel. Through Your inspiration I was able to devise, and by Your Grace I received what I desired. You helped me rise in rank, You troubled the hearts of my enemies and those who envied me, and they removed themselves from my path. My Lord, You are the most Beneficent. You’ve covered me with blessings and given me the glory my soul desired. Only a few steps more remain and I’ll be the Mufti of the Sultanate, in its center and capital. Lord, You’ve given me all of this, why are You denying me satisfaction? Has Satan led me astray? I feel emptiness in my soul and distress in my heart. Could that woman have been a trap, a tool of Satan? Why am I not filled with satisfaction? Why does gratitude not flow from my wings? My body and soul have become listless. I no longer feel joy in victory, and glory has no taste. Have I eliminated my enemies only to face an enemy from inside myself ? Her words haunt my memory, her image is fastened to my mind. What a woman! Lord, give me strength to pray and remove

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this stain from my heart, to purge the ruses of Satan from my spirit. I want to perform my ablutions and pray. (He raises his voice to the servant offstage) Bring me the basin and jug. (Resumes praying) Lord, help me regain my fervor. Lights fade. Scene 2 Warda and Muʾmina are at Warda’s house. W A R D A . (Embarrassed and worried) My God, your presence lights up this house. I’ve washed the cloak and scented it with musk. You should’ve sent your maid. To have someone of your position visit my house is an honor I don’t deserve. Warda picks up the neatly folded cloak and pre­sents it to Muʾmina. MU ʾ M INA. I didn’t come to retrieve the cloak. W A R DA. (Even more embarrassed) Fine. Have a seat. (Muʾmina attempts to sit on one of the cushions that are laid out, but Warda takes Muʾmina by the hand) No . . . this is more comfortable. They sit. Warda purposely sits in a lower position. Muʾmina looks intently about the room with eager eyes. W A R DA. Are you comfortable? MU ʾ M INA. Don’t worry. I’m quite comfortable. You have a nice place. W A R DA. I decorated it as best I could within my limited means. MU ʾ M INA. It’s like a nest, warm and colorful. W A R DA. You’re too kind. (Warda claps her hands several times. Basma, the female servant, appears) Where’s the fare we serve our honored guests? Bring something appropriate. Don’t make me look bad in front of the First Lady of the notables.

324 Plays

MU ʾ M INA. I don’t want anything. W A R DA. You wouldn’t deprive me of the pleasure. Go, Basma. (Basma exits. There is silence. Warda avoids Muʾmina’s eyes) If you wish to ask . . . I don’t know . . . I’m embarrassed. Do you want to ask . . . about me and . . . the Naqib? MU ʾ M INA. I have nothing to ask about your relationship with the Naqib. W A R DA. It’s over anyway. It was one of those fleeting things men do. I’m sure your position in his heart hasn’t changed at all. MU ʾ M INA. That’s no concern of mine. I’m divorced now. What existed between me and ʿAbdallah has ended forever. W A R DA. Divorced . . . Because of me? May God take my soul and burn me in His fire if I was the reason for it. MU ʾ M INA. It wasn’t because of you. The opportunity appeared, and things happened as they were supposed to. I don’t blame you for a thing. I’m actually grateful to you. W AR DA. Grateful to me? For what? MU ʾ M INA. Because perhaps you provided the opportunity for things to happen as they did. W A R DA. Do you hate him? MU ʾ M INA. No, I don’t. W A R DA. ʿAbdallah is a captivating man. MU ʾ M INA. Do you miss him? W A R DA. What good would that do? I’ve learned to have no regrets. When a story ends, I turn and move on. Why are we talking about this? You’ll excuse me, I don’t yet know why you’ve honored me with this visit. MU ʾ M INA. I’ve come hoping you’ll lend me your hand. I want to join you and become one of the city’s prostitutes.

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Warda stands abruptly as if stung by a scorpion. She looks at Muʾmina with a startled and angry look. Muʾmina continues looking at Warda without looking down. W A R DA. What did you say? MU ʾ M INA. I want to become a prostitute like you. W AR DA. Have you come here to mock me, to insult me? Am I destined to be humiliated by your household my entire life? Who trained me and made me take this path? Do you remember? Or perhaps you don’t want to remember. I was a servant in your house. It was your father, the venerable Sheikh, who showed me the steps down to debauchery before I’d even entered puberty, who abused me in turn with his son and later threw me out on the street under the pretext that I was of an evil race that had already exhibited a precocious perversion. I kept the secret hidden inside me. I felt bitter, insulted, and miserable and wouldn’t dare expose it. Here you are after all these years. You come to me in all your loftiness to open up the old wound and spit in my face in my own home. MU ʾ M I N A . (She rises, surprised, as if talking to herself ) So, you’re one of them. One of the long line of girls who took turns in my father’s lap. The venerable Sheikh’s lust was insatiable. Basma enters carrying a tray with coffee, nuts, and dried fruits on it. BAS M A. Where should I put the tray, Madame? W A R DA. Put it wherever you like. Basma realizes the situation is tense. She puts down the tray and stands, waiting. W A R DA. (Angrily, to Basma) What are you waiting for? Leave. Basma exits. The two women avoid looking at one another. The atmosphere is tense, uneasy, laden with anger and astonishment. MU ʾ M I N A . This is a distressing coincidence. But nothing you say about that house stained with lust and treachery can surprise me.

326 Plays

W A R DA. So you know my story? MU ʾ M INA. I may not have heard of you specifically, but I know of many stories that took place in the darkness of that house. Believe me, I never intended to insult you or to open up old wounds. W A R DA. Don’t try to deceive me. Tell me the God’s truth. What hidden intentions are there behind your visit? MU ʾ M INA. I told you the God’s truth. I want you to help me become a prostitute. W A R DA. Are you trying to spite ʿAbdallah? May God preserve us from the malice of nobles. MU ʾ M INA. You have to believe me. I can’t do things in a roundabout way. I’m no good at devising ruses. I mean what I say. My only motive is what I desire. W A R DA. Are you serious? MU ʾ M INA. Dead serious. W A R DA. (Raising her voice and clapping) My God, come listen to this, girls. Listen to this. The First Lady of the notables wants to become a prostitute. She envies our good life and wants to compete with us for it. Do you think our profession is a house with its doors wide open to any woman who has breasts and a vagina? MU ʾ M INA. That’s why I’m seeking your help. W A R DA. Why should I help you? MU ʾ M INA. Because I see kindness in you, and I won’t disappoint you. I promise, Warda, I’ll be a grateful companion. W A R DA. Listen, my lady, women like us engage in this demeaning profession because we’re forced to. A woman who has everything and whose only motive is her lust, her whims, humiliates us all and undermines the suffering we’ve had to endure. I could’ve walked outside and shouted in the streets, “The First Lady of the notables wants

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to become a whore.” I could’ve created a scandal, taken revenge for everything that’s happened to me. Can you imagine? I never dared dream the daughter of the man who tossed me into this profession would come begging to join it. There is justice in this world. No, my lady. Take your cloak. In spite of everything, I don’t have the heart for revenge. You must rid yourself of these Satanic temptations. MU ʾ M I N A . You have every right to take pleasure and revenge at this turn of events, but my decision is final. I sense a secret tenderness in you. Don’t let me down. If you refuse to help me, I’ll find another madam. W A R DA. You’re such a strange woman. Where do you get this determination from? MU ʾ M I N A . It’s difficult to explain. Let’s simply say, I’m extremely resolute, and when I put my mind to something, I do it. W A R DA. What happened between you and ʿAbdallah can still be fixed. MU ʾ M INA. ʿAbdallah and I are divorced, and he has nothing to do with this. W A R DA. Take some time. You might change your mind. You’ve no idea what a sordid business you’re throwing yourself into. Do you think the life of a prostitute is full of bliss and opulence? It’s drenched in anxiety and dread and depravity. We live in fear of those who protect us and those who lust after us. We’re afraid of the future. What are you thinking of ? Your rank and beauty protect you. There are many men who’ll want to marry you. Unless what you’re after is a passing fling, what you’re doing is sheer madness. MU ʾ M INA. I’m not after a fling. So spare me your advice. I considered everything before I came. W A R DA. There’s no way to convince you? MU ʾ M INA. No way. I’ve thought things over. I’ve made up my mind.

328 Plays

WARDA. And you want me to be your madam? To be your guide? MU ʾ M INA. If that’s what you want. W A R D A . You’d be my daughter, and you’d have to be faithful and obedient to me. My God, who’d have believed it! That one day I’d become the madam of the First Lady of the notables. That the daughter of the revered Sheikh would become my daughter in the profession. Am I dreaming? MU ʾ M INA. You’re not dreaming. W A R DA. All right, let’s begin. MU ʾ M INA. Let’s begin with the name, my mistress. W A R DA. Yes, we should choose a name for you that’s as radiant as a lamp. (Basma enters) Call the girls, Basma, and bring the drinks. MU ʾ M INA. Could you call me Najma? W A R DA. Star. It’s a pretty name. Let me think. I’m looking for a name whose sound and meaning shine. Yaquta, the sapphire. No, it sounds dull. Almasa, yes, that sparkles, the diamond. What do you think? Do you like it? MU ʾ M INA. Yes, it sparkles. Why not? My name is now Almasa. Basma enters. Three Pleasure Girls walk behind her, shoving each other. W A R D A . Girls, we’re going to have a robing ceremony. This young woman is named Almasa. She wants to join our profession and learn its arts. We won’t ask about her story, and we’re not going to dig up her past. She’s Almasa, and I think she’ll be a kind and proficient girl. We’ll drink to her and celebrate her robing. (To Basma) Bring the seduction robe, Basma. Basma appears disoriented and perplexed. W A R DA. What’s the matter? Are you deaf? BAS M A. (As if awakening from a nightmare) What?

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W A R DA. Bring the seduction robe. The Girls surround Almasa and begin to undress her as they sing. G I RL S. (Singing along with Warda, who leads them in singing and dancing) God bless you, comely lady, like a rose in a garden Roses and carnations cover us, beautiful maiden Arise, untie your long lovely hair, flaunt your string of pearls Let people speak and say “Sweetness and honey” Arise and flaunt the pearls and diamonds protecting your breasts God protect you from what people say, sweetness and honey Basma enters carrying the distinctive robe that Warda wears for purposes of seduction. Almasa is almost naked. She has only some undergarments on. The Girls have let down her hair and combed it. Warda applies makeup to Almasa’s face. When Almasa is ready, they all sing and put the seduction robe on her. G I RL S Graceful coquette, you glide like a gazelle You shed one garb and cover yourself with another, Something beneath it dazzled me Graceful coquette, you glide like a gazelle You shed one garb and cover yourself with another, Something beneath it dazzled me The robing is complete. W A R DA. Let me look. Turn around. God protect you from the envy of others. You’re a crescent moon that’s become full. Look at yourself in the mirror, Almasa. Almasa looks at herself in the mirror with curiosity and enchantment. Warda approaches her. W A R DA. Do I see regret in your eyes?

330 Plays

A LM ASA. No, no regrets. I’m astonished. It’s like magic. W AR DA. Bring glasses and real drink, Basma. With wine we’ll help her step over the threshold. We’ll bless her name and our sisterhood. We’ll multiply our swaying and our joy. Come on, girls. (Begins to sing) Oh, delectable sweet, dusted with sugar, look at her, the light of my eye. Warda begins to dance. The girls accompany her, singing and clapping. After a few turns, Warda takes Almasa by the hand, making her take Warda’s place. After some hesitation, Almasa begins to dance. The clapping becomes more intense. Warda accompanies Almasa, teaching her to improve her performance. Lights fade. Scene 3 ʿAbbas is alone onstage. Al-­ʿAfsa enters, having shaved off his moustache and with a clean-­shaven face. He intentionally moves and speaks in an effeminate manner. ʿ ABBAS. (Staring at al-­ʿAfsa, baffled, showing distaste) May God strike you dead. What have you done to yourself? Al- ­ʿ AFSA. I thought I’d give you a gift, light of my eye. ʿ ABBAS. What demon has possessed you? Al- ­ʿ AFSA. Nothing but your love has possessed me. ʿ ABBAS. You’ve changed yourself into this because of your love for me? Al- ­ʿ AFSA. Don’t make me cry. I wanted to be beautiful in your eyes. I could see your passion for me was waning, you were becoming distant. I was absolutely terrified. I thought, how can I please my beloved? I decided to give you the most precious thing I have, that which most distinguishes me in the eyes of people. (Al-­ʿAfsa takes a neatly tied handkerchief out of his pocket and pre­sents it to ʿAbbas) Here, Abou al-­Fahd, this is my gift to you.

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ʿ ABBAS. What is it? A L -­ʿ AFSA. Open it and see. ʿ ABBAS. (He unties the handkerchief, revealing what is inside) Your moustache? A L - ʿ­ A F S A . Yes. You can announce it to the entire city: ʿAfsa’s moustache, all of ʿAfsa, belongs to me. ʿ ABBAS. God deliver me. What has happened to you, man? AL -­ʿ AFSA. I was afraid you’d desert me after I exposed my soul to you, after you gave me the pleasure I was seeking my whole life. I couldn’t stand that you were becoming more distant. You don’t know what you’ve done to me. You’ve turned me inside out. dal?

ʿ ABBAS. Didn’t you want discretion? Weren’t you afraid of scan-

AL - ­ʿ AFSA. I didn’t know the power of love could make you mad. Discretion? Can a person in love be discreet? I no longer care for anything. One harsh gesture from you is worse than losing my name, my dignity, and my position in people’s eyes. I don’t care about anyone. I care only for you and I want you to desire me, to find me soft and beautiful in your arms. I’ve removed the hair from my hands and legs, my whole body is smooth. If you want to tear my flesh out, go ahead. ʿ ABBAS. God deliver me. Do you think you please me by becoming a swish? AL - ­ʿ AFSA. Then what pleases you? Don’t you prefer me soft and smooth? ʿ ABBAS. You disgust me. You’re nothing but a lecherous leech who’s attached himself to me. A L - ­ʿ AFSA. I am attached to you. I wanted you to know that I’ve transformed myself, that I have the courage to announce my transformation to other people. Tell me, how do you want me?

332 Plays

ʿ ABBAS. I wanted you to remain a man, by my side and in my hands. A L -­ʿ AFSA. I don’t care what I am. I’m in your hands. ʿ ABBAS. I’m ashamed of having someone who’s so blatantly effeminate by my side. I’d be ashamed to have people know I have anything to do with you. The way you look now, you’re nothing but another Simsim. AL -­ʿ AFSA. Don’t kill me, Abou al-­Fahd. I only did this for you. You know how much this cost me. In this city, it’s like death, worse than death. You’re just pretending to be angry and disgusted because you’re looking for an excuse to sever what’s between us. (Al-­ʿAfsa chokes and begins to cry) I can’t bear your deserting me like this. I can’t bear your tossing me out after I’ve transformed my entire being. I’ve become pure and clear like water. From any angle you look, I appear the same, my inner and outer selves are one. Didn’t you say you despised those whose appearance was different from their reality? All I’ve done is display my hidden truth. I no longer have anything to hide. I wanted to strengthen the ties of affection between us. I wanted to declare openly and directly that I’m totally enamored with you. This love made me dare to face myself and others. It gave me courage and life. ʿ A B B A S . What’s this nonsense you’re pouring into my ears? You’re talking like a frustrated whore oozing passion like pus from a sore. A L - ­ʿ AFSA. I’m talking like someone in love. ʿ ABBAS. You’re talking love and you’re talking shit. There’s no love between men. A L - ­ʿ AFSA. What was between us then? ʿ ABBAS. Do you want the truth? A L - ­ʿ AFSA. Yes, it’s time for truth even if it kills me.

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ʿ ABBAS. What was between us was lust that fades when satisfied. It gives me pleasure to mount someone so strong, to see his body break between my thighs. But what pleasure can I get now from mounting a shameless swish? AL -­ʿ AFSA. You know, Abou al-­Fahd, that doing this to myself, facing what I did, takes more courage than facing every strong man in town. ʿ ABBAS. Stop boasting. Is it courageous to turn yourself into a freak, to bring shame upon everyone close to you? AL -­ʿ AFSA. I gave up everything that belonged to me so I could belong to you, so everyone would know I’m yours. Is my devotion so shameful you’re rejecting it? If you loved me in return you’d appreciate what I did for you. ʿ ABBAS. The more you speak about love the less I think of you. AL -­ʿ AFSA. You think less of me because you want to end what’s between us. I know what’s going on. You’ve treated me coldly ever since the high-­class whore Almasa asked you to be her bodyguard. I’m not embarrassed that you’ve become her protector. I’m in your hands. I’ll be your servant and back you up. But don’t cut off what’s between us. I don’t know what I’d do with my life if our relationship ended. ʿ ABBAS. You disgust me. Having anything to do with you soils my reputation. AL -­ʿ AFSA. Wait, please. ʿ ABBAS. That’s my decision. Don’t demean yourself even more. A L - ­ʿ A F S A . Could it be I was deceived, ʿAbbas? Did you have nothing but this appearance you cling to as if it were your entire being? I won’t debase myself further, but I do have one small wish before we part. ʿ ABBAS. What? A L - ­ʿ AFSA. I want you to arm-­wrestle with me.

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ʿ ABBAS. You wish to test the strength of my arm? A L -­ʿ AFSA. I know how strong your arm is, but I wonder if I have any strength left in mine. ʿ ABBAS. Spare yourself this humiliation. A L - ʿ­ A F S A . This humiliation is my last wish. Don’t disap‑ point me. ʿ ABBAS. I’ll crush you. AL -­ʿ AFSA. You’ve crushed something more important than my arm. This can’t hurt more than that. They sit at the table. They clutch each other’s hands, each trying to bend the other’s arm. They remain in this position for a long time. ʿAbbas is unable to bend al-­ʿAfsa’s arm, and his jugular veins turn red. ʿAbbas is furious. AL -­ʿ AFSA. Shall we continue? ʿ ABBAS. No. That’s enough. A L -­ʿ AFSA. (Before he lets go, he bends his head down gently and kisses ʿAbbas’s hand) Now it’s goodbye, ʿAbbas. ʿ ABBAS. (He picks up the handkerchief with al-­ʿAfsa’s moustache in it) Take your gift before you go. AL -­ʿ AFSA. It’s yours. I don’t care what you do with it. Al-­ʿAfsa exits. ʿ ABBAS. What’s happened to me? Where did he get this strength from? The swish almost bent my arm to the table. Damn him, he put me in a bad mood. ʿAbbas throws the moustache to the ground and angrily tramples on it. He tramples it more and more violently as his anger increases. Lights fade.

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Scene 4 In the home of ʿAbdallah. A Sufi circle of devotees at the peak of its intensity is invoking God. ʿAbdallah is in the middle of the circle, turning, swaying, repeating “God, God.” His eyes have a distant look. After a little while, he falls to the floor. His body begins to shake uncontrollably. When he stops shaking, the devotees in the circle slowly exit. ʿAbdallah remains alone on the floor. The Sufi guide enters. GU IDE . What point have you reached? ʿ ABDA LLA H . (He lifts his head, in a quavering voice) Nothing. Weak body, blurred vision. GU IDE . You’re at the beginning of the path, and the path is long. ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Sits up straight) My yearning is profound. Ardor lifts my wings. Sometimes I feel I’m coming closer. That a glimmer will appear, and light will overwhelm me. Then everything is drowned in darkness, and I return to my deprivation. GU IDE . We do not arrive at the light except through luminous grace. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Which way must one take to receive this grace? GU IDE . Some remain in the same place for years. ʿ A B D A LLA H . Don’t weaken my resolve. My ardor’s already turned to a sorrow that afflicts my heart. I eat nothing but a morsel of food each day. I perform three hundred prostrations and say thirty thousand prayers. GU IDE . You’re not doing God a favor, ʿAbdallah. ʿ ABDA LLA H . God forbid, but I feel there’s a thick veil between Him and me that barely diminishes. That pains my heart and fills my soul with despair.

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GU ID E . Your own soul is that veil. The soul is the most difficult thing a devotee must mend. ʿ ABDA LLAH. I invoked Him as the only source of hope to rid me of despair. He didn’t notice the sincerity of my prayer and the desperation of my soul. GU IDE . The invocation of a prisoner is not without egotism and impurity. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Is there no book or epistle I can consult? GU IDE . Good doesn’t come from books. Only if you starve yourself and do nightly vigils like the Sufis can you see what they’ve seen. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Can’t you advise me? GU I D E . Neglect your body until filth piles up on it, and soil your face and frock until you’re despised by anyone who looks at you. Don’t clip a nail or cut your hair. Let lice spread all over your face and clothes. Then enter your own neighborhood, where you’re highly esteemed. Let your brethren see you and censure you so you lose your place of honor, and children follow you, heaping scorn upon you. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Is there no other way? GUIDE. Begin in this manner so that you lose your status and disgrace yourself. Then return to your sanctuary, lightened, not owning anything or being owned by anything. Continue your supplications. ʿ ABDA LLA H . If I do this, it will help me? GU I D E . When you leave your base self behind, you will find Him in front of you. ʿ ABDA LLA H . I’ll do it then, because ardent love is killing me. GU I D E . People who exalt you lead you away from Him, ʿAb­ dallah. This worldly existence is a poisoned morsel. A true lover is not concerned with people’s condemnation. Don’t forget that there were lovers before you who would urinate blood at the very mention

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of God’s name. Happy is he who rises up along the mystical stations and reaches Him and is obliterated in Him. The Guide disappears. ʿ ABDA LLA H . How intense is my yearning. Give me drink, entrusted ones. Distill the drink and give it to me. Make me drunk so I lose my sight and see with the eye of my soul. God . . . God . . . God . . . God. Lights fade. Scene 5 In the house of the Mufti are Almasa and the Mufti. Sheikh Muhammad Rasmi al-­Khazzar, Muʾmina’s—now Almasa’s—father, has just arrived. MU F T I . You honor me with your visit, Sheikh Muhammad, though I wish it had been under different circumstances. (Indicating Almasa) Here is your daughter. I pray to God you’ll guide her onto the right path and return her to her home and family. S HEI KH MUH AMMA D. I appreciate your effort, Sheikh Qasim. A LM A S A . Do you never tire of schemes and double-­dealings, Mufti? MU F T I . One who acts with benevolence is beyond reproach, Muʾmina. ALM ASA. My name is Almasa. What puzzles me about your benevolence is that it’s so crooked and cunning. S HEI KH MUH A MMA D. Your dissidence really knows no limits. You don’t even have the right to speak in my presence. Will you be so kind as to give us some privacy, Sheikh Qasim. MU F T I. Of course. The house is yours. I bid you, my daughter, to give your father the respect and obedience due him.

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The Mufti exits, leaving the Sheikh and his daughter, Muʾmina/ Almasa, alone. ALM ASA. Did you seek the Mufti’s mediation to meet with me? S HEI KH MUH AMM A D. There was no other way. ALM ASA. Why didn’t you ask me to come to the house to meet you? SHEIKH MUHAMMAD. You, come to the house? Don’t you realize you bring disgrace on our house and those in it? I’m grateful the Mufti has even allowed you to enter his. What’s happened to you? How could Satan have gotten hold of you and led you blindly into vice? I don’t know where to hide my face. What am I supposed to say to people? The abomination you’ve committed is beyond belief. We’ve become the talk of the town, tidbits of gossip chewed in the mouths of the lowly. ALM ASA. What I do is no one’s business but my own. S HEI KH MUH A MMA D. You dare to look me in the eye? Where did you learn this reckless disdain? In this city of ours, a woman’s reputation belongs to her family before it belongs to her. If it’s soiled, it’s a calamity for her father, brother, husband, entire family. Is this how I raised you? Is this the education I gave you, which the daughters of others did not receive? What happened to you? The only explanation for acting in this abominable way is that you’re insane, you’re possessed. ALM ASA. Yes, pious man. I am possessed. I’m possessed by the ghosts swept under the rug in our house, possessed by the smell of lust that filled it. As a child, I learned to recognize those smells, which I became addicted to when I grew up. Yes, I’m possessed by silenced whispers and strangled scandals. You talk to me about my upbringing, pious Sheikh? Do you know what branded my body and made it mature before its time? The fire of your unquenchable lust, and the

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lust of your first-­born son whom you’re so proud of. The fire of my mother’s despairing tears and agonized silence, the fire of your eyes that followed me through the house, in the bathroom, in the bedroom, and in my solitude. SHEIKH MUHAMMAD. Shut up! May God cut your tongue out! You’re not the daughter I know. Satan has taken possession of you and speaks through your mouth. ALMASA. Was it Satan who taught the maids the various stages of debauchery, who deflowered them before they’d menstruated, then left it to my mother to clean up the mess and shrivel away trying to stifle the scandals? Do you know that the prostitute who stole the Naqib’s heart was also a maid in our house? You were her first teacher in the art of pleasure and debauchery. S HE I KH MUH A MM A D . (He slaps her violently, shaking with anger) Goddamn you! Shut up! Have you no manners, no shame? ALM ASA. You have only yourself to blame, father. You were the one who tore my shame to shreds and planted desire in me. Yes, you taught me words, but what good are words when I saw how you put them into practice, how you stole ecstasy from their opposites? You made me memorize the Qurʾan and at the same time taught me how the words I recited could be turned to debauchery. I’m your daughter, my desires are the fruit of your actions. What I’m doing now was fermented in the sweltering smell that came out of the darkness and filled our house. SHEIKH MUHAMMAD. You’re damned until Judgment Day. Do you think you’re my equal? If it weren’t for the memory of your late mother, I’d say you weren’t my flesh and blood. A LM A S A . I am your flesh and blood, father. I didn’t mention these things to blame or condemn you. I wanted our confrontation to be out in the open, to have a frank conversation not disguised by hypocrisy and lies. You taught me how to touch my body and discover

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the source of its life. Though you may disapprove, I consider what I learned from you a great favor, a valuable treasure. S HEI KH MUH A MMA D. It’s as if you’re bragging about your obstinance and whoredom. Listen, you either repent and spare my old age this disgrace or you die. ALM ASA. Don’t threaten me, father. S HEI KH MUH AMMA D. I’m giving you the choice. Were it not for the calm that comes with age I wouldn’t have waited so long. ALM ASA. Don’t forget, father, the veils concealing scandal are quite delicate. If anything were to happen to me, Warda would tear off the veils and announce the scandal to the entire city. You would have not one ordeal to face but many. S HE I KH MUH A MM A D . This is the way you respond to your father? ALMASA. Your threat dictated my response. You’ve been shielded in this long life you’ve led. You were good at covering up your acts and diverting suspicion from yourself. I think you can paper over my indiscretions and keep your sweet-­smelling reputation removed from me. In the end, we all know that no one carries the sins of another, and every soul will earn the reward or punishment for its own deeds. S HEI KH MUHA MM A D. Your mother must be groaning in her grave. ALM ASA. Don’t mention my mother. You, who kept her groaning all her life, have no right to cry over her now. S HE I KH MUH A MM A D . When did I cause this hatred and ingratitude in your heart? Do you want to punish me, to punish us all because your husband was seduced by folly and wronged you? ALM ASA. I’m not seeking revenge, father, and my husband did nothing wrong to me.

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S HE I KH MUH A MM A D. Then you must be the victim of sorcery. Someone has blinded you. Come back to your senses, daughter, and protect your father in his old age. We’ll say you were touched by madness. We’ll cure it with prayers and votive offerings and erase this story from people’s memories. A LM A S A . This is my destiny, it’s what I’ve become. I’ll be touched by madness if I deny it. S HEI KH MUH AMMA D. God deliver me. This is the haughtiness of Satan. ALM ASA. Wasn’t Satan living among us? Didn’t he accompany us during my youth? S HEI KH MUH AMM A D. I don’t recognize my daughter in you. You’re a bastard. May God’s damnation fall upon you. I wash my hands of you before God. I have no daughter and you have no father. We’ll see what end you come to. He spits on her and leaves. A LM A S A . (Wiping the spit off her face) You poor old Sheikh, it’s your own seed that has grown and seen the light. What are you angry about? The Mufti enters, agitated. MU F T I. You’ve made your father angry? A LM A S A . We couldn’t avoid anger. Why did you arrange this meeting? MU F T I . Because your father wanted it and because we’re all shocked and dismayed. How could you fall so low? You astonish me. ALM ASA. Why are you astonished? Didn’t you know? MU F T I. Don’t hold me responsible for this atrocious act. A LM A S A . I’m not holding you responsible for anything, but I believe I explained to you at length about the seduction of the abyss.

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MU F T I. You said words I didn’t understand, and I don’t understand you now. I don’t understand you, woman, how you think or why you act as you do. ALM ASA. There’s no need to tire yourself trying. MU F T I. But I need to understand you. You’re . . . ALM ASA. (After he stops trying to correct himself ) I’m . . . ? MU F T I. (Embarrassed) I don’t know. If my scheme created this fate for you, I’m ready to correct it. I don’t want my conscience to be burdened by sin. A LM ASA. And how do you propose to fix it? MU FT I. I’m asking you to marry me. ALM ASA. Marry a whore, Sheikh Qasim? MU FT I. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re of noble origin and what happened was a mistake we can overlook. ALM ASA. This is a generous offer, which I don’t think I deserve. MU FT I. You are most deserving of it. I’ll forget everything and make you the most cherished of my women. ALM ASA. You’ll do all this to clear your conscience? MU FT I. Rather to . . . well, why not. I want to have a clear conscience. ALM ASA. Don’t burden it with sin. I was waiting for an opportunity to follow my desires. What I’m doing is what I choose to. MU F T I. Regardless, I’m still asking you to marry me. A LM A S A . I didn’t divorce my husband so I could marry his double. MU F T I. Are you refusing my offer? ALM ASA. My position doesn’t allow me to deserve or accept it.

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MU F T I. What are you, woman? What do you want? What are you looking for? A LM ASA. I’m looking for something a man with a tranquil soul such as yours can’t understand. MU F T I. Who said I have a tranquil soul? A LM ASA. Didn’t you say you had a clear inner self and nothing to hide or be ashamed of? MU F T I. Maybe I did. I no longer have a peaceful soul. Tell me, what do you want, what are you looking for? A LM ASA. This will sound vague. It’s difficult to explain. As I sway on the edge and the abyss calls me, I imagine that, at the moment I fall, colored feathers will grow out of my pores. Feathers will sprout from the roots of my soul, blossoming into perfection. I’ll fly like birds fly, like the breeze and the rays of the sun. I want to cut these harsh ropes digging into my flesh and suppressing my body. Ropes woven out of horror, modesty, and chastity, feelings of being sullied and filthy, out of evocations of the Almighty, warnings, parables, and the counsel of our ancestors. Slab upon slab, under which the body withers and fades away. I want to liberate my body, Sheikh Qasim, to untie these ropes that suck the life out of it and repress it. I want it to be free and return to the orbit for which it was born—like roses and leaves, like the moon and grass, like gazelles and springs trickling down slopes, like the light and all that is living in this universe. I dream of reaching my inner self and becoming as clear as glass, having the eye see my inner being. My heart burns with passion and fervent desires. I have difficulty finding words fit to explain it. MU F T I. Your situation is strange, Muʾmina. ALM ASA. I told you my name is Almasa, and I’m very keen on protecting my name. MU F T I. Your situation is strange, woman. What you say is un-

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fathomable to any reasonable person. What do you mean? Are you trying to dress up immorality? Do you think you’ll find in prostitution what you’re searching for? What a strange and deviant notion. Tell me it’s no more than a whim. ALM ASA. A whim? One doesn’t overturn one’s fate on a whim. According to your norms what I’m doing must seem deviant and strange. MU F T I. It’s not just my norms, it’s everyone’s. ALM ASA. You’re right, and the first station on my journey is to put your norms behind me. I must free myself from your judgments, labels, and admonitions in order to attain my true self. I must overcome the danger of being violated in order to become acquainted with my body. You made me and all women into defective, vulnerable beings susceptible to violation by a word, a look, a glance. You made it your business to incessantly abuse this imperfection until we all turned into reptiles tearing at one another in a swamp of shackles, appearances, and lies. I have decided to leave this fetid swamp, Sheikh Qasim, and become a sea that can’t be polluted. I’ll rid myself of defectiveness. I’ll exist beyond the limits of fear and violation. I doubt you’ll understand me, though it’s no longer important if anyone understands me. MU F T I. You make me dizzy, Almasa. Your determination, the tone of your voice, give me shivers. You grasp at sin with a recklessness no woman in this city has ever matched. I know there are violent desires inside you, but can I really let you continue along this path? A woman with your determination and power can corrupt a sultanate of women. You’re undoing our lives, our system, our future. No, I can’t allow it. ALM ASA. What do you want to do? MU F T I. A religious decree is a powerful weapon. ALM ASA. Are you declaring war?

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MU F T I. It’s a war I neither want nor desire. Listen, there isn’t a single person who in solitude doesn’t have desires and passions. Who among us in a heedless moment doesn’t hear the temptations of Satan? ALM ASA. Are you admitting you have desires and temptations? MU F T I. (Angrily) Yes, but I control and suppress them. I care about you, and despite these admissions I still want you. ALM ASA. You’ll make me think I’m one of your temptations. MU F T I . I don’t know if it’s a temptation or madness. From the moment I met you, your image has been following me. You’ve troubled my spirit and perturbed my heart. I don’t know what to say. Please, be reasonable and accept my offer. ALM ASA. Is it love, our Mufti? MU F T I. I don’t know what it is. Don’t ask me. Do you accept my proposal of marriage or not? ALM ASA. Our paths are different and my desires can’t be satisfied by marriage. MU F T I. Don’t answer too quickly, I beg you. Take your time and think it over. I . . . I want you. ALM ASA. This confession would make any woman proud, but what can I do? I already told my father my fate has been decided. I can’t hide from it or deny it. MU F T I. If that’s the case, it’s you who has declared war. ALM ASA. If war breaks out, it too will be part of my fate. When one goes beyond the edge and swims in the vast sky it’s impossible to go back. It’s goodbye for now, Mufti. MU F T I. There’s nothing beyond the edge but the abyss. ALM ASA. (As she exits) That possibility has never left my mind. MU F T I. Lord, what kind of woman is this? Where am I sliding

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toward? How do I calm this agitation in my soul? Lord, I’m possessed. I’m in love. There’s no happiness left in this heart, only temptation and sorrow. Lights fade. Scene 6 At the souk. Ibrahim Daqqaq al-­Douda and Hamid al-­ʿAjlouni are in front of their stores. There are passersby on the street. A Young Man is unseen, inside the store. H AM ID. (Yells at the door of his store) Hurry up with the tea, young man. YO U N G M AN. (Answers from inside) I’ll bring it right away. I B R A H I M . Have you noticed the bizarre events taking place around here? H AM ID. My God, these foibles take your breath away. This sort of thing simply didn’t happen to our fathers and grandfathers. Do you think we brought this on ourselves by being so self-­satisfied about living in a city distinguished by its calm? IB R AH IM . Would you believe it, I can’t even sleep. Every time I think about al-­K hazzar’s daughter Muʾmina opening a brothel and calling herself Almasa, I’m overwhelmed. I think we’re on the edge of chaos and madness. H AM ID. The madness has already begun, my friend. Perfumers have started naming their best perfumes Almasa. Goldsmiths won’t craft jewelry unless it resembles that which Almasa wears. I was told that silk called “Almasa” will soon be on the market. People have lost their minds. They’re under the spell of some kind of black magic. I B R A H I M . What about the Mufti? Why doesn’t he do something? Put an end to this madness?

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H AM ID. We have to discuss this with him. It seems clear his solitude hides some secret. (Whispering) They say the magic of Almasa has robbed even the Wali of his senses. The Young Man enters carrying a tray and a small stool. He places the stool in front of them and pours out the tea. YO U N G M AN. Almasa tea, sir. H AM ID. Where are your manners, boy? What sort of talk is this? YO U N G M AN. Everything of high quality is called Almasa these days, sir. Look, this is real Ukruk ʿAjam8 tea. H AM ID. (Slapping the Young Man) Get out of my sight. (The Young Man disappears into the store, laughing) See, she’s even on the lips of children, who utter her name with alacrity. It’s a catastrophe. It’s madness. IB R AH IM . It’s the influence of foreigners. Chaos reigns and no one knows how it all will end. H AM ID. You’re right. Something about this disaster smells fishy. Simsim appears in the street, walking seductively. P ASS ER BY. How’s work, Simsim? SIM SI M . Go doll your ass up with henna. (He stops near Hamid and Ibrahim) I ask you, my brethren, is this just? With so many stores opening, I’ve had to close mine. I had only a small business, about the size of this ample behind (He strikes his own behind). Then everyone began to envy me. The strong men opened their behinds while the upper class opened their fronts. Tell me, good people, isn’t an oversupply of merchandise bad for business? I B R A H I M . Has competition become that intense in the sex trade? 8. High-­quality tea originally named after a famed Persian tea merchant in Syria.

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SI M SI M . It’s like a fever. If a nobleman like you won’t help me, spiders will weave their web in my shop and in my heart. H AM ID. God’s wrath upon you. Get out of here. SI M SI M . There’s no good in you, Mr. Hamid. Had it not been for carrots, God knows what trouble you’d have had with your wives. H AM ID. (Rises angrily, preparing to spit) Ta-­foo on you and your upbringing too. Get out of here. SIM SI M . No problem, Mr. Hamid. Can’t you take a little joke? You have no pity. Do you want to hear the story of al-­ʿAfsa? H A M I D . We don’t want to hear anything. Get out of here, S ­ imsim. SI M SI M . Listen, just one second. Dozens, rather hundreds are now preparing to go into this business. Al-­ʿAfsa and the noble woman Almasa have left no means of livelihood for the professionals. Since they’re the ones who’ve made the market tight, it’s only right that God should make theirs tight too. (He walks off ) H AM ID. How is it we never did anything about someone of that ilk? Didn’t it use to be legal to shed the blood of people like that? IB R AH IM . That was before their like started filling the palaces of sultans and powerful people. H AM ID. We must visit the Mufti tonight. IB R AH IM . As you wish. The sound of an uproar made by a Group of Children rises gradually. ʿAbdallah appears with a sack hung around his neck, which is filled with walnuts. The Children walk behind him, shoving one another. CH I L D RE N . (Singing and clapping) ʿAbdallah, you’re a nut. Slap my face and take the nut. ʿ ABDA LLA H . (To one of the Children) It’s your turn. (The Child, a boy, hesitates) Come, here’s the walnut. Yes, on the cheek. Don’t be

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afraid. Hit it hard. (The Boy slaps ʿAbdallah on the cheek) And here’s the nut. Look to see if it’s empty. I’ll exchange it for another. CH I L DRE N. ʿAbdallah, you’re a nut. Slap my face and take the nut. Hamid and Ibrahim rush toward the Children. They scold them and try to scatter them. ʿ A B D A LLA H . (To Hamid and Ibrahim) Leave them alone, they’re untying my shackles and saving me. H AM ID. Saving you from what, sir? What are you doing to yourself ? ʿ ABDA LLA H . I called upon Him for aid. “My Lord,” I prayed to Him, “You’re all I have.” And He saw the despair within me. In response, He said, “Cast your self behind and come.” When I’d cast my self behind, I looked at humanity and saw that everyone had died, and I said four funeral orations over them. H AM ID. This isn’t right, Sir ʿAbdallah. You’re diminishing your position. ʿ ABDA LLA H . I wish God had made this world with its adornments and positions no more than a morsel I cast to a dog so that no one’s deceived by it. IB R AH IM . Fine. Let’s go inside the store and talk. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Get away from me. One who knows God becomes perplexed and speechless. H AM ID. Sir ʿAbdallah. ʿ ABDA LLA H . Get away from me. (To the Children) Come, my beloved. For me, you are mercy. Come free me from the base, reproachful self that imprisons me. He continues on his way, shaking the sack of nuts before the eyes of the Children. After a brief moment of hesitation, the Children follow him, clapping and chanting.

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CH I L D RE N . ʿAbdallah, you are a nut. Slap my face and take the nut. IB R AH IM . There is no power save in God. How did we get to this point? H AM ID. There’s no doubt. We’re victims of an evil eye. I B R A H I M . It’s as if an earthquake had destroyed this tranquil city and revealed the evil in its entrails. The future I see holds nothing good. H AM ID. This very night, we must meet with the Mufti and ask him to intervene before we’re swept away in this cataclysm. IB R AH IM . Yes, it’s time for the Mufti. Lights fade. Scene 7 Al-­ʿAfsa sits in his house looking crushed, miserable. In his hands he has a rope knotted into a noose at the end. He appears lost in thought and rubs the rope with a piece of soap to make it softer and more slippery. AL -­ʿ AFSA. There’s no hope anymore. Oh, if only I could speak well, but what good is talk when there’s no one to listen. In the eyes of the world, I’m nothing. I revealed my secret for the love of someone who discarded me, who said I was scum. What is there left for me? It’s an inevitable step, and I must take it. This world, how strange it is. If you suppress and conceal, you live well, you’re revered. If you’re true to yourself, if you reveal who you are, you become an outcast, you’re shunned. I didn’t know how to express to him that . . . I have more courage than he does. When I was a lie, an appearance, he loved me. Then when I came to him as pure as crystal, devoid of illusions and artifice, he loathed me, and tossed me aside. He’s nothing but cowardice and lies. He didn’t understand how much courage I needed

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to do what I did, nor the struggle I endured to be one with myself. It’s too late for regrets. I can’t go back, and there’s no going forward. Every door is slammed in my face. What a wicked world this is in which only forgers and liars thrive. (He goes to a corner at the side of the stage. He ties the rope to the ceiling, the noose dangling. He places a stool under the rope and stands on it. He puts the noose around his neck) God, I’m ashamed to call out to You. I don’t know how I can possibly face You. Lord, You are just and merciful. Strengthen my heart and give solace to my mother. Forgive me. He pushes the stool from underneath himself. The noose tightens around his neck. The rattling sound of suffocation in his throat can be heard, which is followed by profound silence. Lights fade. Scene 8 The house of Sheikh Muhammad al-­Khazzar. Sheikh Muhammad is with his two sons, the elder, ʿAbdalrahman, and the younger, Safwan. SAFW AN . (Agitated) Why should we avoid talking about it? The time has come for our father to say the word. The stench is all around us. This whore has sullied our family and our name. S HEI KH MUH AMMA D. Shut up. Don’t speak unless I give you permission. SAFW AN. All we do is brood. Can’t you see that we’re prisoners, father. We won’t be able to face the world as long as she’s alive. S HE I KH MUH A MM A D . I don’t like empty talk, Safwan. (To ʿAbdalrahman) Have you reconciled with your wife, ʿAbdalrahman? ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . I did as you ordered me to, father. S HEI KH MUH AMMA D. May God be content with you, my son. I chose her for you and I swore to her family she’d be well treated. I hope you keep my promise and remain on good terms with her.

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ʿ ABDA LRAHM AN. It was a passing disagreement. I promise you, father, it won’t happen again. S HE I KH MUH A MM A D . I want to remain the master of my household until it’s time to meet my Maker. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. You are the master, father. S A F W A N . Master of rooms and bricks, or master of people in the household? SHEIKH MUHAMMAD. You’re tiring me, boy. I saw it in a dream, ʿAbdalrahman, that when I’m taken the rain will come, and a luminous hand will remove the clouds from the face of the sky, and a gentle blackbird will sing to the glory of God as I’m laid in my grave. It’s as if I can see it now flying about, singing praises to the Lord. Could it be a sign? ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. Yes, father, it is a sign, an omen, after a long life, one that, God willing, still lacks many years before it’s over. S HE I KH MUH A MM A D . My life has been a difficult struggle. God created me, and within me created my own enemy. I spent many years opposing my destiny, fighting a war with myself, a ghastly war of nothing but charges and retreats. When it vanquished me, I succumbed to it, sharing its frivolousness, and when I defeated it, it succumbed to me, sharing my prayers and humility. My life was a horrible trial, an unending torment. Then God gave me the insight that both I and my enemy were His creations, and I should give up war in favor of coexistence and companionship. My soul finally found rest and contentment. Each of us still answers the call of the other obligingly and with love. I’ve overcome the trial, and I feel light in the presence of my Lord. Now that I’m preparing to meet Him I don’t want to weigh myself down with blood. What do you say, ʿAbdalrahman? SAFW AN. What about me? Why don’t you even acknowledge me?

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S HE I KH MUH A MM A D. Shut up! SAFW AN. Why should I shut up? S HEI KH MUH A MMA D. Because you say such ridiculous things. You can’t handle anything. Your mother spoiled you. SAFW AN. Why don’t you try me? Why don’t you give me something to handle? S HEI KH MUH AMMA D. I’m not going to, and you’re not going to do anything. What do you think, ʿAbdalrahman? ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . I think it’s up to you, father. S HEI KH MUHA MMA D. Do you want to have her blood on your hands? ʿ ABDA LR AHMAN . If you order me to, I’ll do it. SAFW AN. I’m ready too. SHEI KH MUH A MMA D. I’m afraid she’ll cause us a greater scandal in death than she has in life. I’m at the edge of my grave, and I don’t want to carry sin and blood with me in my burial shroud. It’s enough to leave her to her own recklessness, to ostracize her. SAFW AN. And how are we supposed to face people? I’m tired of living in this prison. She can come and go as she wishes, while I stay secluded in this house in shame? S HEI KH MUH A MMA D. Do you agree with me, ʿAbdalrahman? ʿ ABDALRAHMAN. It’s the right decision. Why add to the scandal to no purpose? People will know we’ve ostracized her and don’t want to soil our hands with her blood. S HEI KH MUH A MMA D. The dream was a sign. He wants my soul to be light when I meet Him. SAFW AN. This is a decision that will cause us to be cursed by every tongue until our grandchildren have grandchildren. No, her blood must be shed.

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S HE I KH MUH A MM A D. I know you very well, Safwan. You’ve always been a little fart. Don’t swagger in front of me. S A F W A N . I know you hate me because mother preferred me and adored me. S HEI KH MUH AMM A D. I don’t hate you, son, but I don’t like it when you prattle in my presence. And I find your disobedience intolerable. SAFW AN. You’ve decided we’re to be disgraced, and you order us to accept it. S HEI KH MUH AMMA D. Watch your manners, boy. When your elders speak, you listen. ʿ A B D A LR A HM A N . How dare you question your father’s decision, Safwan? S HEI KH MUH A MMA D. Who are you to oppose me? Have you forgotten you faint when you see blood dripping from a wound or a chicken slaughtered, boy? Your mother didn’t teach you any manners. Get out of here. I don’t want to see you. SAFW AN . (Leaving) You’ll see, father. You’ll hear about me. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. I’m afraid he’s going to do something rash. SHEIKH MUHAMMAD. Don’t worry. He’s nothing but talk. Your mother, God bless her, spoiled him. I don’t think he’ll ever be a real man. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. He’s still young. He’ll mature with time. Let me try to calm him down, give him some attention. S HEI KH MUH AMMA D. Fine, but teach him to watch his manners around me. It’s time to pray. Let’s go. ʿ ABDA LR AHMA N. (Helps his father to rise) God help us. Lights fade.

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Scene 9 The Mufti, Hamid al-­ʿAjlouni, and Ibrahim Daqqaq al-­Douda are at the house of the Mufti. H A M I D . The city’s been turned into a cesspool, Sheikh. The stench is everywhere. IB R AH IM . We no longer recognize the Damascus we knew, the Damascus of love and compassion. A calamity has befallen us, which has turned decency into depravity and peace into madness. Haven’t you heard what this Almasa’s been doing to the men? We don’t know where this insanity is coming from. It began with the business of the Naqib. It’s as if an earthquake’s struck and turned the whole city upside down. H AM ID. Prostitution has now expanded to men. You see male hustlers prancing about openly, and no one interferes or objects. We must be under the spell of black magic or an evil eye. MU F T I. I think I understand clearly what’s going on. I B R A H I M . Nothing will save the city except the kind of firm hand we’ve come to count on from you. H AM ID. Have you delayed taking action on purpose? MU F T I. Yes, and why might I be delaying? Perhaps I’m waiting for evil to show all its faces. H AM ID. Our point is . . . it’s already shown all its faces. It’s not hiding anything. IB R AH IM . The time has come for you to act. You’re the only one who can prevent this situation from deteriorating further. MU F T I. It’s true. The time may have come to suppress this corruption. That woman has poisoned our lives, disrupted our sleep, and touched our minds with madness. She’s a body inhabited by Satan. The city won’t return to its previous peaceful state unless we destroy

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Satan and purify the city. People, cast Satan away. Chase and stone him. I take refuge in God and ask for His forgiveness. (He collapses in his seat) IB R AH IM . This is the Mufti we know. This is the man who will confront chaos. H AM ID. What’s the matter with you, Sheikh? Are you ill? MU F T I. This talk of Satan has worn me out. I’m exhausted. IB R AH IM . May God bring you health. It’s because of your zeal and deep concern. Had God not graced us with a man like you, we’d be unable to manage our affairs. MU F T I. (Tired) Are you asking me to issue a legal decree? IB R AH IM . You know better than we, but I think this madness will only be cured by a firm decree. MU F T I. Then it will be a terrifying decree, one that will make the shedding of blood permissible, and, oh, what a quantity of blood! (Shuddering as he speaks absentmindedly) We’ll submerge ourselves in it. The battle with Satan is frightening because he has so many ruses. And each one of us has within him a bit of Satan. Every person will be at war with himself, slaughtering himself, shedding his own blood. I have a fever that won’t leave me day or night. H AM ID. May God give you health. Should we come back another time? MU F T I. No. Tonight the Mufti has to make up his mind. Am I not your refuge? Am I not your Mufti? I must pick up the pieces of myself, overcome my weakness, and declare my war. Yes, a war that will purify us and return what’s been shaken by this earthquake to its proper place. (In a firm voice) The Mufti of the Damascene Lands . . . (He pauses) I’m in great need of prayer. I B R A H I M . (Glances at Hamid with a confused look, then addresses the Mufti) Has our Sheikh missed the evening prayer?

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MUFTI. I’m speaking of supererogatory9 prayers. I’m required to immerse myself in prayer as one immerses one’s self in a warm sea. When I’m certain my soul has become pure . . . No . . . The Mufti won’t hesitate. He won’t leave the work of today for tomorrow. Write this down. H AM ID. (Searches in his pockets and takes out a small notebook) This is a business ledger. It’s not for writing legal decrees. MU F T I. (He picks up a piece of paper and gives it to Hamid) Take this then and write. The Mufti of the Damascene Lands decrees that it’s permissible to shed the blood of prostitutes, whether men or women, especially the prostitute Almasa, because she has overstepped all bounds and promoted an atmosphere of vice that has corrupted the hearts of men and led them from virtue into the mire of debauchery. The Mufti forbids any woman to dress or make herself up like Almasa. The Mufti prohibits any merchandise from carrying her name, and any such merchandise that is discovered must be destroyed. H AM ID. Sheikh? MU F T I . (Signals to Hamid to be silent) The Mufti prohibits people from reading nonreligious books. Anyone who has them must either burn them or hand them in to the Mufti. One of the causes of corruption is the reading of these Satanic books. The Mufti prohibits singing and dancing and any sort of licentiousness or anything that might lead to it. The Mufti orders Muslims to attack distilleries and destroy all the wines and spirits they produce. He also orders that anyone who drinks alcohol should be arrested and dragged to the court of religious law in order to receive legal punishment. I believe that will do for now.

9. Having to do with religious activities, prayers beyond those prescribed as obligatory.

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HAMID. (Confused) I’m afraid you’re going too far, Sheikh. Merchants have businesses, and people can’t do without some singing and innocent entertainment. Besides, the issue of alcohol isn’t urgent at the moment. MU F T I. Do you want us to confront some of the evil or all of it? IB R AH IM . He’s right. We need to face evil in all its forms. H AM ID. But, I mean . . . if we went about it gradually . . . MU F T I. It’s too late for that. There’s no retreating now. These are legal decrees and you can spread the word about them to everyone, starting tonight. H AM ID. Shouldn’t the Wali give his consent to them? MU F T I. The Wali has nothing to do with this. Religious decrees are my responsibility and no believer has the right to contest what I say. I B R A H I M . Who would dare disobey orders given by . . . the Mufti of the Damascene Lands? H AM ID. Should we go? MU F T I. Just a minute . . . Give me the paper. (Hamid gives the paper to the Mufti, who hesitates and then hands it back) No, I don’t want it. These are the decrees. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired. H A M I D . (Rising) May God give you strength and grant you health, Sheikh. I B R A H I M . I swear on my soul, Sheikh, you’ve lifted a heavy load off my shoulders. I was despondent about what tomorrow might bring, but now the clouds have cleared and my mind is at peace. God bless you. They kiss the Mufti’s hand and exit. MU F T I . (Alone) Finally, I have overcome Satan’s temptation and taken back the reins of my soul. The city will tremble in fear at

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my name tomorrow. I warned her there would be war, and now it’s begun. How could I have been so weak and feeble, I, who was so clever in opposing my enemies, so cunning at confronting those who envied me? How could I allow an illusion of love to outwit me and lead me astray? (To himself ) What business do you have with love and its madness? Love is for young and foolish people. Do you have the right to dress in the garb of illusion, to become enchanted by love? I’ve awakened from my reckless stupor. But my heart still aches, and my soul is moaning. I won’t listen to the moans, I’ll ignore the aching heart. This story is over. Yes, I’m ending it, tonight. He takes the prayer rug and lays it out on the floor. He stands looking confused, then becomes agitated and falls into his chair. He stares listlessly in front of him. Lights fade. Scene 10 The Wali and the Eunuch are at the Wali’s palace. The Wali is very agitated and upset. W A L I. He’s created real trouble for himself, this Mufti. Has he gone mad? How could he have issued these decrees? Is he trying to turn my province into a graveyard? Is there anything he hasn’t prohibited? EU NUCH . He’s even prohibited the drink that calms your evenings and increases your pleasure. W A L I. He’s not forbidding me anything. He’s dug his grave with his own hands, and I’m going to bury him in it. What does he want? How could he have so haughtily overstepped me? EU NUCH . He must be planning something. He may have secret communications with the Sublime Porte. This man’s quite cunning. Before ʿAbdallah came to us and revealed the ploy of the prison so he could clear his conscience before God, I’d already thought that

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very night that something was suspicious and it was the Mufti himself who’d devised the whole scheme. W A L I. Why didn’t you say anything then? EU NUCH . I could see you wanted to get rid of the police chief. W A L I. After what we did to him, we can’t trust him anymore. EU NUCH . Look how the Mufti’s tossing us into his whirlpool of ruses and trying to use us to achieve his goals. I think he only issued these decrees after he discovered you were infatuated with Almasa. W A L I. You’re right. I almost forgot, how is Almasa getting along these days? We have to make arrangements to ensure her protection. You must go to her and put her mind at ease. I’ll send policemen to guard her house. EU NUCH . No, don’t fall into the trap he’s set for you. W AL I. What do you want me to do? I’m not going to allow the riffraff to attack her. EU NUCH . The people are agitated today. They must be furious. If you resist one decree and ignore the rest, you’ll seem biased and motivated strictly by self-­interest. That will enrage people even more, which is the Mufti’s goal. W A L I. What’s the need for all these headaches and roundabout strategies? I’ll simply issue a decree that nullifies these decrees all at once. EUNUCH. And people will see you as someone who sanctions sin and debauchery and objects to the implementation of religious law. W A L I. (Angrily) I’ll admit it, I have neither your clarity nor your cold-­bloodedness. You make me envy the loss of your testicles. You’re the only person who’s at peace in all this turmoil, neither troubled by love nor blinded by a woman. Tell me, how do we go about this and how should we protect Almasa?

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EU N UCH . I believe you should support the decrees and praise them. W A L I. You want me to succumb to this scoundrel? If I endorse the decrees people will be even more enraged. Events will flare up, and we’ll have no idea how to control them. EU NUCH . You didn’t let me finish my thought. You endorse the decrees and then announce they can’t be implemented until they’re approved by the religious legal authorities in the capital of the Sultanate. W A L I. We’ll give this win to him and raise his status. EU NUCH . Let him rise and win now. What matters most is who wins last. Take some time and turn opinion at the Sublime Porte against him. W A L I. That’s quite a distance off. It would be easier and more secure to cancel the decrees because I fear unrest if we wait. EU N UCH . Cancelling them means confrontation, and with people as enraged as they are, that will lead to greater unrest. W A L I. Almasa is in danger. EU NUCH . If you endorse the measures and suggest a delay in their implementation you can use the police without giving people a motive for unrest. W A L I. You think that’s the right thing to do? EU N UCH . Yes, and that way you can protect Almasa’s house without raising concerns or causing an uproar. W A L I. You know, ʿIzzat’s courage and rashness would have been quite helpful to us in a situation like this. EU NUCH . Poor man. He’s no longer good for anything. The ruse has caused him to lose his mind.

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W A L I. I don’t trust him anyway. Go to Almasa and put her mind at ease. Don’t forget to take the gift with you. EU NUCH . As for you, Pasha, issue orders for the police to disseminate to everyone in the city, and then call the notables to the palace. Thank the Mufti and effusively evoke God’s blessings upon him. Praise the decrees and ask the noblemen to delay them. W A L I. So be it. Lights fade. Scene 11 In prison. A prison guard lets ʿAbdallah into the cell in which ʿIzzat, the chief of police, is held. ʿ IZZA T . What’s this? Who are you? I’m waiting for the Mufti. I don’t want to see anyone else. ʿ ABDA LLA H . I want your forgiveness, ʿIzzat Beik. Allow me to kiss your hands, your feet. ʿ IZZA T . What is this? Who are you? ʿ ABDA LLA H . I’m . . . ʿAbdallah. ʿ IZZAT . ʿAbdallah who? What do you want? ʿ ABDA LLA H . I don’t know who ʿAbdallah is any more than you do, but I’ve come to lift a weighty sin from my shoulders. An invisible caller came to me in the night and awakened me. ʿ IZZA T . Invisible caller? What sort of nonsense are you talking about? ʿ A B D A LLA H . I swear to God, ʿIzzat Beik, a frightening caller awakened me and said, “How can you sleep when a wronged man is suffering in prison because of you?” At sunrise I went to the Wali and revealed your innocence to him and tried to make him free you and put me in prison in your stead. But he didn’t take me seriously. He thought I was crazy.

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ʿ IZZA T . I swear on my mother’s grave, you are crazy. Yes. No. She was his wife. Yes. No. She wasn’t his wife. She is. She’s not her. ʿ ABDA LLAH. I’ll reveal the truth to you. ʿ IZZA T . (Suddenly rises and moves back as if he were stung) The truth? No, don’t say “the truth.” Where’s the truth? What’s that? ʿ ABDA LLAH. You captured the Naqib of the notables frolicking with a prostitute, not his wife. ʿ I Z Z A T . What use is this talk? On my mother’s grave, no one would believe you even if you were the Naqib himself. ʿ ABDA LLA H . I was the Naqib himself until God saved me from perdition and illuminated my heart with His light. ʿ IZZA T . Who let you in? Are you agreeing with me in order to string me along? What value does this truth you approach me with have? If all people declare that she was his wife, then what becomes of this nonsense you’re jabbering on about? It’s mendacity and double-­ talk. Or it’s madness. Are you mad? Go, man, and leave me be. Wait, can you keep a secret? ʿ ABDA LLA H . One who knows his own secret finds all other secrets petty. ʿ IZZA T . Don’t you want to know the secret? ʿ ABDA LLA H . Friendship is sharing confidences. Speak. ʿ IZZA T . The truth is that which agrees with the desires of those in charge and which the masses follow blindly. Everything else is falsehood and supposition. ʿ ABDA LLA H . You’re referring to the deceptions and nonsense of this worldly existence. Has the value of truth been so diminished that words can be its medium? If truth were to manifest itself to any man, he would perish in the face of its beauty, perfection, and benevolence. Beside its luminosity, any light would be like darkness.

364 Plays

ʿ IZZA T . What truth is this, man? ʿ ABDA LLAH. To know His face and be annihilated by love for Him. ʿ IZZA T . What sort of drivel is this? Why have you come? Has the Mufti sent you to lead me onto the path of his Satan? ʿ ABDA LLAH. No. I was sent by an invisible caller who awakened me and ordered me to do what I could to free you from the injustice that has befallen you. When the sun rose, the fakir who stands before you went to the Wali. He did his utmost to reveal the injustice of which you were a victim, but the Wali couldn’t have cared less, so I came to ask your forgiveness and clear my conscience about what happened to you. ʿ I Z Z A T . How wonderful! You put me in prison and now you ask for my forgiveness. I’m in prison, can’t you see that? This prison used to tremble at the sound of my footsteps. Now I’ve turned into a prisoner here, ridiculed by the prison guard, the police, and the prisoners. What sort of trick was this? How did I fall like a fly into the trap? She’s his wife. She’s not his wife, while I’m rotting in this place with my mind dripping away drop by drop. ʿ A B D A LLA H . Don’t lament your fate, my friend. Prison is no different from any other place. In this very prison I learned of spiritual yearning, I received the sign. The real prison is that of the soul. When you see its darkness and depravity, you will see prison as a garden or a palace. ʿ IZZA T . Don’t I have enough trouble as it is? Have you come to add to my ordeal? ʿ ABDA LLA H . When my master and teacher experienced no trial or tribulation he would say, “My Lord, you’ve given me my bread, but You haven’t given me my tribulation to eat it with.” He’d say, “To the friends of God, tribulation is like a golden flame. It’s the nourishment of men who seek communion and connection.”

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ʿ IZZA T . Are you possessed? ʿ ABDA LLAH. How I wish I were possessed . . . by God! ʿ IZZA T . Have the possessed achieved lofty status in my absence? ʿ ABDA LLAH. When a servant achieves Godliness and reaches certitude and becomes possessed, his individual self fades away, his attributes disappear, and he ceases to see God as something separate. Flashes of truth appear upon him. He sees everything as belonging to the Lord, and he loses himself in God. There’s naught but Him. This is the first station. ʿ IZZA T . What is this? Have you come here to add to my madness? Who needs your devotions and delusions? One man fornicated with a whore and the Mufti exchanged the whore with the wife. I was caught between these two men, and I was destroyed. With God as my witness, I’ll teach these scoundrels a lesson by what I do to you. Here’s my answer (ʿIzzat begins to beat and kick ʿAbdallah. ʿAbdallah does not move) This one’s for the Mufti. This one’s for the Naqib, the Naqib’s wife, the Wali. I’ll crush you all. (ʿIzzat becomes more agitated as he beats ʿAbdallah. ʿAbdallah succumbs euphorically to the beating) ʿ ABDA LLA H . (Muttering) The Lord is sufficient, not those over whom he lords. The Creator is sufficient, not those he has created; the Protector, not those he protects; the Creator, not those he has created. He who is my Sufficiency suffices. ʿ I Z Z A T . (Reaches the height of his anger. His voice begins to sound like the lowing of a cow) Damn you, don’t you have a fiber of manhood in you? Are you a stone, a tree, a corpse? ʿ A B D A LLA H . One who takes refuge in God becomes like a corpse in the hands of the washer, and is turned in whatever position the washer wishes. Lord Almighty, in your glory, if you should hack me to pieces and pour suffering upon me, I would only love You more.

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ʿ IZZA T . (Jumps up and down out of frustration. He kicks ʿAbdallah and knocks him over, throwing him against the door) People, who is this crazy man you’ve brought in here? A Prison Guard enters hurriedly. PR I S O N GUA R D . What’s all the noise? Shame on you. What have you done to Sharif ʿAbdallah? And you, Sir ʿAbdallah, how could you take a chance like this, entering the place of a madman? ʿ IZZA T . Who is he? PR I S O N GUA R D . Apparently you’ve rented out your upper floor. He’s Sir ʿAbdallah, the Naqib of the notables. ʿ ABDALLAH. (Rises, dazed and possessed) I’ve attained what I’m seeking. Your light dazzles me. I’m melting away like a slender candle, disappearing into You. Drape me in Your light and hide me from all else. After union, a lover desires naught but to be annihilated. I’m waning, waning. I’m passing away. (He leaves the prison cell. ʿIzzat and the prison guard watch him, perplexed) ʿ IZZAT . They’re all pimps and scoundrels. They tossed me into this catastrophe and then disappeared. And this one has gone mad. What happiness, what good fortune. Madness. It’s all madness. I swear on my mother’s grave, madness will prevail. PR ISON GUARD. (While shutting the door) Shut your mouth! You, talking about madness? Why don’t you worry about your own madness? ʿ IZZA T . She isn’t her. I’m the only sane one around here. The Prison Guard makes an offensive gesture toward ʿIzzat and leaves. PR ISON GUA RD. There’s no power save in God. What caused this change in the Naqib? Where has he disappeared to? ʿ ABDA LLA H . (His voice comes from afar) Bless this prison. It was here that I received the sign, and here I was illuminated by the vision.

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After union the lover desires only to disappear. How sweet it is to be annihilated in You! How sweet! His voice fades. Lights fade. Scene 12 Hamid al-­ʿAjlouni and Ibrahim Daqqaq al-­Douda are in the souk. Hamid carries a notebook and waves it at Ibrahim. IB R AH IM . What have you written about our situation? H AM ID. I’ll read you what I’ve written. (He opens his notebook) Tumultuous events to which we’re unaccustomed and which in the past were utterly unknown have struck Damascus one after another. Al-­ʿAfsa hanged himself in his home a few days ago after God revealed his secret. He turned out to be a leech who’d been sodomized; he only had the appearance of a manly man. The strangest part is he was a strong-­arm who had a reputation as the toughest of men. His funeral was a disgrace, unlike anything that ever happened before. Contemptible and depraved people gathered behind the procession of the dead man and sang lewd and impudent songs and showed no reverence for the sanctity of death. This humble author says, “It is necessary to maintain reverence when one dies, even if the soul of the dead does not deserve to be blessed.” When this defamation ended, al-­ʿAfsa was tossed into a pit. No prayers were said, and no one shed a tear except his poor mother, who stayed inside her house wailing. Sir ʿAbdallah, who used to be the Naqib of the notables, has become gravely possessed and now robes himself in a worthless patched frock. He began to roam the streets asking to be disparaged and rebuked. They say he followed a Sufi path unknown among the Sufis themselves, without the benefit of a guiding Sheikh. When his brothers spoke to him about his property, he told them, “Would you like to divide tribulations and places in the eternal fire among you? Take whatever you want and leave me alone. One who has come to know

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Him will concern himself with nothing but Him.” In this moment, debauchery has also spread so widely that people no longer disdain it, especially since the noblewoman, wife of the Naqib, followed the path of women of pleasure and in so doing achieved fame and became a glamorous figure. We don’t know where these events would have led had the Mufti, may God honor him, not set things right for us by issuing religious legal decrees. These decrees, which call for the eradication of licentiousness and the extraction of evil by its roots, have caused a great upheaval among the people of Damascus. Some supported them excessively while others emphatically denounced them. Strife was on the verge of erupting when the Wali met with the nobles of the city. He asked them to delay the implementation of the decrees even though he approved of them. What was most intriguing to all those present was the Mufti’s absence from the meeting. We know of no reason for his absence, except that it may be related to the symptoms of a malady we perceived the day we met with him. May God give him health. This humble author says, “These decrees, as necessary as they are, have slightly exceeded the bounds of temperance.” IB R AH IM . You must add, “We are still in this situation waiting to discover what the future brings.” H AM ID. You know, I was expecting her to be killed last night. IB R AH IM . Do you think killing her’s that easy? The Wali and a squad of his men are now backing her. H AM ID. Swear to me, Ibrahim, aren’t you tempted to visit her sometimes? IB R AH IM . (Suddenly shaken) Shut up, Hamid. H AM ID. I’m asking you to swear, to tell me the truth. IB R AH IM . What should I say? By God, she gives me sleepless nights. Her seductive powers unnerve me and fill my heart with dread. I’m afraid of myself.

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H AM ID. My situation’s the same, Ibrahim. There are all sorts of wondrous stories about her. IB R AH IM . Are you afraid of yourself too? H AM ID. I’m drenched in temptation. When I imagine her, my blood races, I become short of breath. IB R AH IM . What a baffling existence this is! How fragile is man’s fate! Where’s the tea? H A M I D . (Yelling toward inside) Where’s the tea, you little cripple? A Young Man appears carrying the tea. YO U N G M AN. Here it is, sir. Almasa fermented, perfumed tea. H AM ID. Shut up, boy! Y OU N G M AN. Yes, Sir. It’s such amazing tea. Lights fade. Scene 13 At the house of Almasa, in a room furnished tastefully, with elegant rugs, mats, and cushions, two sofas, and a low wooden table with mother-­of-­pearl inlays. Almasa is radiant and elegant, wearing a marvelous dress that reveals the contours of her body without being vulgar. Warda is unkempt and appears aggressive. ʿAbbas holds Warda and tries to calm her down. ʿ ABBAS. This isn’t the right time, Warda. W A R DA. Is there ever a right time, ass-­wiper? ʿ ABBAS. Watch your step, or I’ll throw you out. W A R DA. You’re going to rough me up? Thicker moustaches than yours have brushed against this belly. What business is this of yours? I’m not leaving until I settle my score with you, Almasa.

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A LM ASA. Calm down, Abou al-­Fahd. What score do you want to settle, Warda? W A R D A . You don’t know? Are all of you going to follow me around like a curse until the day I die? What have I done to you? What are you trying to avenge? I’d barely rid myself of your family when you appeared like a sudden blow. Stupid me, I fell into your trap. Have you forgotten that I’m your madam, and you’re supposed to obey me? A LM A S A . I don’t remember doing anything that would merit this. What’s making you so angry? W A R DA. Listen to this, people. She doesn’t know what’s making me angry. You took my place of prestige and completely overshadowed me . . . You’re the reason it’s now legal to murder me, and you still feign the innocence of Joseph and ask why I’m angry? ALM ASA. What can I do? The blade’s above my neck too. W A R D A . You’re a complete catastrophe. You sabotaged our business and turned everyone against us. Now it’s legal to shed our blood. I curse the moment I met you. Who’d have believed the gentle woman who came pleading to me for help had within her the art and impudence of a thousand whores. I’d barely begun to train you when the light started shining on you and mine began to fade. ʿ ABBAS. Just say it. You’ve been devoured by jealousy. W A R D A . Yes, jealousy is tearing me apart. Is it fair that they should maintain their grandeur even in whoredom? This noble lady was struck by a whim and wanted to compete with us in our business. She doesn’t start practicing the profession because she’s in misery. Instead, she enters with a parade that makes the city quake and undoes the minds of its inhabitants. You ruined our lives and spoiled any semblance of bliss we enjoyed. What should I do now? Where should I go? How should I save myself? Tell me, Lady of the notables. Advise us, what should we do?

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ʿ ABBAS. We’re expecting guests, Warda. W A R DA. Why don’t you stop pimping right this second. I know you have a lot of customers, but our lives are more important than the pleasure of your client. A LM ASA. Listen, Warda. Blame and anger won’t do us any good. The blade’s above both our necks, and I can’t do anything about it. What do you want me to do? W A R DA. I want you to leave. Shut down this house and go back to your family, your husband, whatever, but leave us alone. If you get out of the business, the storm will pass and the danger to us will disappear. ʿ ABBAS. Should I sweep her out? W A R DA. Go sweep out your mother’s ass. ʿ A B B A S . Show some manners, woman, or I’ll knead you into dough. ALM ASA. Stop it, both of you. W A R DA. Remember? You promised to remain reverent to your madam and to obey her. A LM A S A . I’m showing reverence, Warda. It never occurred to me to compete with you or cause you harm. You do remember I wanted you to stay with me. W A R D A . What can a faint candle do in the face of a glowing lantern? Even my maid was dazzled by your light and followed you. I chose to keep my distance so I wouldn’t fade away for good. ALM ASA. Was that my fault? W A R D A . You’ve stirred up a disaster this city can’t withstand. So I, along with all the other girls, am asking you to quit the business. ALM ASA. What you’re asking’s impossible. I can’t retreat.

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W A R DA. Would you put all the girls at risk of having their throats slit for the sake of your whim? A LM ASA. I’m putting myself at risk. My head is wanted before yours. W A R DA. Were it not for you, there’d be no decree. Quit the profession until the uproar subsides and we’re reestablished. A LM A S A . There’s no way out. The decree has united us in a single fate. It would be better if we stuck together instead of fighting one another. W A R DA. We don’t want you among us. You’re a disaster. You’re death. We don’t want to die for the sake of your whims. If you don’t depart we’ll unite against you. ʿ ABBAS. Now you’re threatening her, you daughter of a snake? W A R DA. Yes, I’m threatening her. We won’t allow our blood to be shed for her sake. ALM ASA. Threats are appearing all around us, Abou al-­Fahd. Basma, the maid, enters hurriedly. BASM A. Madame! The Mufti has arrived. W A R DA. (Surprised and terrified) The Mufti? ALMASA. Let him in. Let go of this foolishness and anger, Warda. We’ll continue our talk tomorrow. ʿ ABBAS. Shouldn’t I stay? I’m afraid. ALM ASA. No, I don’t want anyone to stay. I’ll receive the Mufti alone. ʿAbbas pushes Warda in front of him as she stumbles along, amazed. The Mufti enters. His face is pale; he appears ill. Warda rushes to him, takes his hand, and kisses it. W A R DA. Have mercy upon me, Sheikh. I repent. I want to repent. I swear to God, I repent.

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A LM ASA. Go now, Warda. ʿ ABBAS. (He drags Warda out of the room) Come on, move. A LM ASA. You honor and illuminate this place, Sheikh. MU F T I. I’ve decreed the shedding of your blood, Almasa. A LM ASA. Have you come to execute your decree with your own hands? MU F T I. Execute my decree? Far from it. I discovered I’d killed myself when my tongue dared to kill you. A LM ASA. Do you want to console me? MU F T I . I’m speaking from the bottom of my heart. I can no longer hide the fire raging in my chest. It’s something I’ve never experienced before. It’s a disease that afflicts the body like no other. I don’t know how to say it, how to explain it. ALM ASA. How strange. You issue a decree to have me killed then caress me with talk about illness and fire raging in the chest. What do you want? What are you looking for? MU F T I. Have compassion, Almasa. I’ve been taken ill. I’m on the verge of being consumed. You’re the most difficult trial I’ve ever confronted. There is no other trial . . . except death. I don’t know how fate deceived me, where this fire and ardor were lurking. I’ve been trying to escape it ever since we met, but can one escape the beating of his heart and the shiver of his spirit? My body has weakened. The struggle with my soul has made me sick. I confess to you . . . that I only issued the decree to subdue this soul and regain my debilitated will. I never knew the agitation of love or the passion of youth. I’d never experienced love before, and I thought I never would. ALM ASA. At this age and you’ve never known love? MU F T I. I used to believe love was a corruption devised by the idle and impudent. ALM ASA. You never had desires?

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MU F T I. I spent my life achieving power, attaining my position. Those were the desires that fed my will. A LM ASA. And now, don’t you think what you feel is superfluous, nothing but imagination? MU F T I . I wish it were imagination. I’m ill, I’m consumed by love and longing. My sanity and willpower have waned. All that remains is this love that burns in me and estranges me from myself. I don’t know the language of love, I never practiced it. I love you, Almasa. I’m your captive. You can do with me whatever you wish. ALM ASA. What about the decree? MUFTI. I’ll rescind it. I’ll pick up what’s left of my willpower and issue a last decree that nullifies all the others. ALM ASA. You have the courage to revoke it and face the people? MU F T I. After I found the courage to face myself, nothing can frighten me or undermine my resolve. When I was overcome by love, I made the decision to come to you. I burned all the bridges behind me. I possess the power and despair of a lover. ALM ASA. Here we are, meeting in the abyss and beyond it. (She lays the Sheikh on the mats and arranges the cushions for him) Relax, calm yourself, Sheikh. You’ve completed a difficult journey. You’ve crossed a desert full of pitfalls. How could temptation have penetrated you? What turned your peace into anguish? MU F T I. Who knows how fate deceives us, how we deceive ourselves. What I believed to be peace was a veil that covered suppressed passion and contained desires. Inside the tightly tamped bottle, love was bubbling and fermenting. When your light shone and the veil was lifted, love and desire flowed like a mighty river liberated after being blocked. I’ve been transformed into a weakling, Almasa, throbbing and swept away amid the torrents of this great river. ALMASA. Who would’ve thought stepping outside society’s strictures could create such chaos? How should I answer you, Qasim?

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MUFTI. Does a master seek the opinion of his servant? My desire is great, but I’ll be content with whatever you’ll grant me. Proximity to you, a glance, your shadow will suffice. This thirst that burns inside me will not be satiated until the end of time. ALM ASA. Will you accept what I give you no matter how small? MU F T I. I’m in your hands. I have no choice. ALM ASA. I’m still in the midst of my trial, Qasim. I don’t want to weaken or retreat. I know I’ll lose. My approach to love is impossible in a place where everyone’s either a slave or a prisoner. Even so, I still desire to be a sea, not a brackish pond. I don’t want to own or be owned by anyone. Everyone wants to place a brand on me, but I want to be free, to live without a brand. Around me I see nothing but trivialities. I’ve lost. It’s possible I was unable to differentiate among my desires, but I won’t retreat. I’ll continue to follow this dream of being a sea that can’t be polluted or contained. MU F T I. How distant you are! The more distant you become, the more I love you with a love that requires no recompense. A glance is excessive, a smile generosity itself. Being this close to you is a gift. I require nothing beyond it. Consider me one of those who has dedicated himself to you. Turn what’s left of my life around in your hands in any way you’d like. Can’t the sea endure a drowning person in its midst, knocked about by its waves? ALM ASA. Yes. The sea will not let you drown before you taste its pleasures, and possibly its tenderness. Rid yourself of your reservations, remove what’s weighing you down. Don’t you want to become light and float? MU F T I. What should I take off? A LM A S A . This turban and this garment. (The Mufti hesitates. Almasa helps him take off his clothes) Yes, take them off. Look at your body. It’s like a grave that buries the incandescence of life and the explosion of desire. Lift the slabs and dig up this grave. Tonight

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we’ll celebrate and resurrect life from the grave. (She claps her hands. Basma enters. To Basma) Bring the instruments of pleasure. BAS M A. Yes, Madame. ALM ASA. Tonight I’ll dance for you. I’ll let my body open up and flow. I’ll show you how the body flies, expands, and flows until it becomes a sea. MU F T I. My body and its members are melting away. My heart’s on the verge of bursting from my chest. This is annihilation. I’m being annihilated in you and born anew in my annihilation. A Lute Player enters carrying a lute. She takes her place and begins to tune her instrument. Basma follows her carrying a tray with food and drink on it. The strokes of the lute become more rhythmical. Almasa rises and prepares to dance. Lights fade. Scene 14 Harim, the male servant, and Basma, the female servant, are in a humble room. Harim sits on a mattress that’s laid out on the floor. Basma is occupied with setting up an incense burner. BAS M A. The Mufti kept his promise. He revoked the decree. H A R I M . Poor man. Does he still have the power to issue and cancel decrees? BAS M A. If you could only see him. He’s like a dead man in her hands. His mind’s gone, he’s been robbed of all self-­control. I’d always heard that love was deadly, but I never believed it until I saw the state the Mufti’s in. H AR IM . No matter how deep it is, his love’s nothing beside that of Sir ʿAbdallah, who cries and pleads so much I sometimes fear he’ll pass away. BAS M A. But the love of Sir ʿAbdallah has an element of lunacy to it.

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H AR I M . Maybe it’s the lunacy of the friends of God. He’s been taken by his Lord. He calls upon Him like a lover does upon a beloved who’s so beautiful that he blinds the viewer. If he feels shunned by his lover, he looks like he’ll die of desolation and his tears begin to flow. If he feels accepted, his face lights up and he’s overcome with joy. In either state, he doesn’t even know he’s in this world. BAS M A. The Mufti’s in the same condition. His love for Almasa is that of a worshipper. He converses with her as one communes with his Lord. He speaks to her with words that would turn rocks to dust. Why don’t you speak the sweet talk of love to me? H AR IM . (He strikes her behind) We’re living love, what do we need talk for? Why are you burning incense? BAS M A. A fortune-­teller passed by today. She said the city was haunted and that the strange events that are happening are the doings of an evil jinni. She said blood will be shed and yellow fever will arrive before the blood has even dried. H AR IM . God deliver us from cursed Satan. In the name of God, the All Merciful, All Benevolent. B A S M A . She advised us to burn incense in our homes every e­ vening. H AR IM . (Rising) I ask Almighty God for forgiveness. Let’s put incense all through the house together. (They walk around the room, spreading incense in corners and around furnishings) I used to know an incantation. (Trying to remember) Yes, yes. “In the name of God, the All Merciful, All Benevolent, I seek refuge in God from cursed Satan. Jinnis, if you are believers, the house is yours. If you’re infidels, may God diminish you and keep you away.” B A S M A . Say, “I seek refuge in the Lord of daybreak from the evil He created.”10 10. Qur’an, 113:1.

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H A R I M . “I seek refuge in the Lord from the evil he created.” Cleanse me with incense. (She walks around him with the censer) Now, give it to me so I can cleanse you with incense. (He walks around her with the censer then lifts her dress up and brings the censer near her thighs) Let it penetrate your whole body. BAS M A. Enough. The fumes are making me dizzy. He puts the censer aside and the two of them fall upon the mattress. H AR IM . Do you want me to speak of love? BAS M A. Do you know how to? H AR IM . Listen. My flesh loves your flesh, and my blood loves your blood. I’m your other half, and you are mine. That’s all I can say. BAS M A. I ask for no more. I’m your half, you are mine. H AR IM . Isn’t this love? BAS M A. It is, as long as it satisfies us and makes us happy. Lights fade. Scene 15 ʿAbdou and ʿAbbas are in a corner of the souk. ʿ ABDO U . Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Abou al-­Fahd? ʿ ABBAS. Ashamed of what? You better watch your . . . ʿ ABDO U . I’m not trying to insult you, but is it appropriate for the manliest of men to be doing what you’re doing for a living? ʿ ABBAS. What about it? Why don’t you concern yourself with your own master? Don’t you know, the Mufti himself has come crawling beneath her feet? ʿ ABDO U . Don’t talk to me about him. The simple mention of his name infuriates and disgusts me. The Mufti means nothing to me now.

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ʿ ABBAS. Has he let you go? ʿ ABDO U . Him, let me go? It was I who left him. I can’t stand to look at him after this farce. ʿ ABBAS. What is it you want then? ʿ A B D O U . Listen, ʿAbbas. The nobles of the city have become corrupt and their position is undermined. They achieved their status by climbing upon our shoulders. Our fists and strong arms supported them in their positions and offered the obedience they required. We, their men and strong-­arms, were the pillars upon which the entire structure rested. Now that the stench of the nobles’ corruption has spread far and wide, no one but us can protect our values and keep the system intact. ʿ ABBAS. I beg your pardon. What you’re saying is strange. What’s your point? ʿ ABDO U . My point is clear. If we don’t prevent this breakdown, the city will slide into chaos. It will be destroyed. No position will merit respect; manliness will no longer be honored. The entire structure will collapse upon us all. ʿ ABBAS . What you’re saying is dangerous. ʿ ABDO U . Because the situation is dangerous, Abou al-­Fahd. ʿ ABBAS. What are you suggesting? ʿ ABDO U . I’m suggesting we create a brotherhood of men who will keep peace and order, who’ll apply the decrees of the Mufti before he slid into depravity. ʿ ABBAS. What about the nobles? ʿ ABDO U . We’ll reveal their secrets and turn them into powerless façades. The city needs the toughness of men like us now. We need to end this corruption and restore reverence for the system. I’m sure the Wali won’t object, and the Sultanate itself may bless our move.

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ʿ ABBAS. Have you talked to others about this? ʿ ABDO U . You know how much I admire you. I’m counting on you to lead this movement with me. ʿ ABBAS. You’ve taken me by surprise. I need to think about it. Don’t forget, I pledged my loyalty to Almasa. I don’t want her to be harmed. ʿ ABDOU . Forget about the details, Abou al-­Fahd, we’re drowning in inaction. We must return manhood to its rightful place of respect and importance. ʿ ABBAS . I’ll think about it. ʿ ABDOU. Think about it, but don’t turn me down. There’s no one else who’ll defend our values and protect the system. ʿ ABBAS. Maybe we’ll meet again soon. ʿ ABDO U . Do I need to ask you to keep this conversation confidential? ʿ ABBAS. Are you insulting me? ʿ ABDO U . God forbid. Consider it a slip of the tongue. ʿ ABBAS. Don’t worry then. ʿ ABDO U . Shall we meet tomorrow? ʿ ABBAS. I don’t know. Give me some time. I’ll find you when I’ve made my decision. ʿ ABDO U . Don’t think about it too long. Remember, I’m waiting. They depart. Lights fade. Scene 16 In Almasa’s house. Almasa, looking absentminded, sits beside her maid, Basma. BAS M A. Abou al-­Fahd’s late, isn’t he?

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A LM ASA. So? BASM A. When he’s not here, I’m overwhelmed with fear. A LM ASA. Are you afraid for me? BAS M A. I’d give my life for you. I don’t know why . . . I have premonitions when he’s not here. A LM A S A . Let’s not talk about premonitions and fear. Tell me about you. BAS M A. What shall I tell you, Madame? ALM ASA. Are you happy with your husband? B ASM A. I don’t quite know how to say it, Madame. My heart can’t bear any more happiness. Of course, had it not been for your generosity . . . ALM ASA. (Interrupting) Do you love him? B ASM A. And he loves me. He doesn’t know how to embellish his words, but when he tells me “I’m your other half, and you’re mine,” I feel like the whole world isn’t big enough to hold me. I want to remain in his arms forever. ALM ASA. I envy you. BAS M A. My mistress envies me? Safwan violently knocks the door open and barges in. ALM ASA. Who . . . SAFW AN. Don’t you want to see me, sister? ALM ASA. Safwan? SAFW AN. Yes, your brother, the son of your mother, Safwan. BAS M A. Should I look for Abou al-­Fahd, Madame? ALM ASA. No, leave me with my brother. BAS M A. I’ll stay by your side.

382 Plays

A LM ASA. No, no, leave us. (Basma exits) What gracious thought has brought you to us, Safwan? SAFW AN. Zeal about our good name has brought me, sister. A LM ASA. Was it our father who sent you? SAFW AN. No, he doesn’t think I’m worthy of this task. Rage and the weight of dishonor have brought me here. (He pulls a dagger out of his pocket and raises it in the air) A LM ASA. Do you want to kill me, Safwan? SAFW AN. This dishonor will only be cleansed by blood. A LM ASA. I know you’re sensitive, and I know you have an aversion to shedding blood. SAFW AN . Now you’ll see the part of me that will shed blood. ALM ASA. I wish you’d spare yourself the trouble, Safwan. You can’t kill me. SAFW AN. (Enraged) You’re talking like my father. I sharpened my resolve for a long time. I watched this house for days. I’ll show you I can do it. ALM ASA. That’s not what I mean. SAFW AN. What do you mean? ALM ASA. I’m a tale, Safwan, and a tale can’t be killed. I’m an insinuation, a desire, a temptation. Those are things daggers can’t kill. SAFW AN . (He approaches her. Almasa stands her ground. Safwan hesitates for a few moments) No. Don’t let talk dilute your determination. Plunge your dagger. Take this, sister. (Safwan plunges the dagger into Almasa’s chest. They look at one another with strange expressions) ALM ASA. (Falling) Oh, my brother, you haven’t done a thing. My tale will blossom now like gardens after a rainy winter. Almasa

Rituals of Signs and Transformations 383

grows and spreads. She spreads with thoughts, insinuations, and tales . . . tales . . . ta . . . SAFW AN. (Recovering from his perplexity) I killed her. With this dagger I killed her. I’m a man. I’m a man. Look, father. I’m the man among us. I’m the real man. (He leaves the house dazed, repeating the phrase) I’m the man among us. I’m the real man. Basma enters. She sees Almasa and screams with horror. BAS M A. (Wailing) They killed Almasa. Lights fade. Scene 17 Hamid and Ibrahim are in the souk. HAMID. When the news spread, the city was enraged. People became despondent. They worried that bad things would befall them. The Mufti, who was relieved, or relieved himself, of his post, tore his garments and shrieked with grief. He remained in his house and swore not to eat or drink until God took him away. Peace has evaporated, we live now in disarray, and no one knows what the future will bring. Are you crying, Ibrahim? IB R AH IM . I’m crying. I don’t know why. H AM ID. The story’s over now. I BR AH IM . Or rather, one might say, it’s just begun. ʿAbdallah enters, crossing the souk. ʿ ABDA LLA H . I am He, and He is I. He covered me with His light and shielded me from all creatures. Then He asked me, “What do you want?” I said, “I want not to want.” He said, “It is granted to you.” I am He and He is I. Glory unto me, how great I am. God . . . God . . . He disappears, repeating “God.” Lights slowly fade.

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THIRST FOR DIALOGUE

The International Theater Institute of UNESCO asked me to write “The World Theater Address for the Year 1996.” I wrote the following address, which was translated into many languages and read in theaters around the world. Had it been customary to celebrate World Theater Day with a title that is strongly linked, even if only on a symbolic level, to the function of theater, I would have chosen for our celebration today the title “The Thirst for Dialogue,” dialogue which is multifaceted, complex, and comprehensive, dialogue among individuals and societies. It is self-­evident that universal democracy is a prerequisite for such dialogue, as are pluralism and the reining in of the tendency of nations and individuals to act aggressively. When I experience this thirst for dialogue and recognize how urgent and necessary it is, I always imagine that it will begin in the theater, rippling outward as it grows and expands and ultimately pervades the varied peoples and cultures of the world. I believe that the theater, despite all technological revolutions, will remain the exemplary place where humans can ponder their historical and existential conditions. The distinctive characteristic of theater, which makes it a unique space, is that it is the place in which the spectators break out of their shells so that they can contemplate the human condition in a communal context Delivered in Arabic as “al-­Juʿ ila al-­Hiwar” on World Theatre Day, March 27, 1996 in al-­Hamra Theatre, Damascus. Published in Saʿdallah Wannous, al-­Aʿmal al-­ Kamila (Complete works), vol. 1 (Beirut: Dar al-­Adab, 2004).

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388 Speeches, Essays, and Interviews

that arouses their sense of belonging to the community. It teaches the spectator the breadth and multiplicity of dialogue. There is dialogue within the dramatic performance itself and a more implicit dialogue between performance and spectator. A third dialogue exists among the spectators themselves. On an additional level, there is dialogue between the theatrical celebration “as performance and audience” on the one hand and the city where such a celebration takes place on the other. At each of these levels we free ourselves from our loneliness and depression and develop a sense and then a more profound awareness of our relationship with our society. As such, theater is not merely a manifestation of civil society, it is one of the elements that is a requirement for the emergence of society in this sense, something necessary so that it can flourish and grow. But what sort of theater am I talking about? Am I dreaming or evoking nostalgia for a time when theater was actually an event that caused outbursts of pleasure and dialogue within societies? We should not fool ourselves: theater is now in retreat. Wherever I look I find cities rejecting their theaters, forcing them to coil up into their shells in the dark and neglected peripheries, while glittering lights, colored screens, and conveyor-­belt trivialities arise and multiply in the spaces of these cities. I know of no other period during which the theater was so impoverished financially and morally. Subsidies that used to sustain it are diminishing year after year. The patronage it once enjoyed is now replaced by neglect that verges on contempt and that usually hides behind disingenuously supportive rhetoric. Since we have decided not to delude ourselves, we must admit that theater in our world today is far from being that civic celebration that grants us a space to contemplate, engage in dialogue, and be aware of a profound belonging to our humanity. The crisis of theater is at once specific to it and part of a more general crisis of culture. I do not believe there is any need to prove that culture is in a crisis and that it too is under siege and suffering from systematic marginalization. It is strangely ironic that this

Thirst for Dialogue 389

should happen at a time when a wealth of new forms of knowledge, information, marketing, and communication has become available. Such wealth has transformed the world into a single village, making globalization a reality that is crystallizing and becoming more embedded by the day. Given these transformations and accumulation of wealth, one might have hoped that the utopia humans had always dreamed of, the utopia of living in a single interconnected world whose peoples are able to partake of its wealth without being duped, and in which humanity can flourish without injustice or aggression, would have come to fruition. But, to our disappointment, the shape globalization is taking as it becomes firmly entrenched at the end of the twentieth century is in almost complete opposition to the utopia that was proposed by philosophers and which has nourished human thought for centuries. Globalization accentuates unjust divisions of wealth and widens the gap between extremely rich countries and peoples who are destitute. It also mercilessly destroys all forms of cohesion within societies, breaking them up and replacing them with lonely, debilitated individuals. Since there is no vision of the future and since, perhaps for the first time in history, people no longer dare to dream, the human condition at the turn of this century appears grim and disheartening. The significance of the marginalization of culture becomes clearer when we understand that at a time when the conditions for a revolution have become difficult, culture now constitutes the principal means of resisting an egocentric globalization that is devoid of any human dimension. It is through culture that critical positions can evolve so as to unmask events and reveal their internal mechanisms. Culture is what allows people to regain their humanity, and it offers them the thoughts and ideals that can make them free, aware, and whole. Within such a framework, theater can play an essential role in both the critical and creative missions of culture. Theater will teach us through example and participation how to repair the fissures and mend the factionalisms that have torn apart the body of our commu-

390 Speeches, Essays, and Interviews

nity. It will enliven dialogue, which we all miss. I believe that commencing with a comprehensive and serious dialogue is the first step we must take as we confront the disheartening set of circumstances encompassing our world at the end of this century. We are sentenced to hope that what is happening today is not the end of history. For four years, I have been battling cancer. Writing, and specifically writing for the theater, has been one of the most important means I have had to fight it. The many plays I have written during these four years have been written in a frenzy. Someone asked one day, in an almost accusatory tone, why I insisted on writing plays at a time when theater is in the process of disappearing from our lives. The question took me by surprise. I was even more startled to discover that the question itself provoked such anger in me. It is, of course, difficult for me to explain to this interlocutor the depth of my long friendship with the theater, to demonstrate to him that to abandon writing for the theater, as I stand at the outer limits of my life, would be an act of ingratitude and betrayal that my spirit could not bear and that would only hasten my departure. If I were to offer a reply, I would also respond that I am determined to go on writing for the theater to defend it and to do everything in my power to keep it alive. At the risk of repeating myself, I would add that theater is more than simply an art. It is a complex cultural phenomenon without which the world would become lonelier, uglier, and poorer. No matter how besieged we may appear or how frustrating our current situation may be, I am nevertheless certain that universal good faith will defend culture and restore to theater its status and its brilliance. We are sentenced to hope that what is happening today is not the end of history.

THE DREAM FALLS APART

Beginning sometime in the mid-­1960s a problematic relationship developed between me and language, but at that time I was unable to perceive it clearly. I would occasionally sense this difficulty intuitively, but it was only when our sand-­like structure collapsed that morning of the fifth of June that this problematic relationship began to emerge more clearly, revealing itself under a fierce and penetrating light. I would now define this relationship in terms of a determined resolve to find in words—in writing, that is—a testimony, a means of articulating the collapse of our reality and of describing the action of the direct struggle that must be undertaken to alter this reality. More precisely, I am striving to bring “the word as action” into being so that the dream and act of revolution are able to attach themselves to and ultimately incorporate themselves into the words that comprise the syntax I use. For me, the role of witness was insufficient because it did not hold within it “action,” which is what I was seeking. Instead I desired to be a fighter, but ultimately I am a writer, and action for a writer must ultimately lie in words. This was the essence of my dilemma. I tried to resolve it by finding a language in whose syntax both roles, witness and fighter, could be actualized. I began my search at exactly the moment I had the feeling that writing was an impossibility. I asked myself that morning in June: “Why do we write?” Asking myself that question made me feel as if I were swallowing Published in Arabic as “al-­Hulm yatadaʿa” in Saʿdallah Wannous, Bayanat li-­ Masrah ʿArabi Jadid (Beirut: Dar al-­Fikr al-­Jadid, 1988).

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392 Speeches, Essays, and Interviews

a handful of razor blades. It was a harmful, excruciating question for which there was no answer. Words were defeated and language had collapsed. One might say that, in one sense, there had never been a defeat in which words played such a large role as they had in the June defeat. I felt that words had become traps into which we would fall. Words had become ruses or decomposing bodies whose fumes were then transformed into terrified shame and icy disgrace within us. I remember the speeches, radio broadcasts, declarations, announcements, slogans, boastful statements, and vituperations and then language falling apart as if it were composed solely of sand and foam. When I started writing An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June, I wanted to express how impossible it was to write, how empty words were. What good are words in fact when what we need is “action,” which cleanses us of the humbug of words and of their decaying stench that is dispersed in the searing heat of defeat? What good are words if action is not assimilated into them so that it forms them? As I advanced in the process of writing, my dilemma appeared clearly to me. I no longer believed it was sufficient to simply be an efficient witness to falsehood and deceit. I also wanted the efficacy that comes with materially struggling against falsehood and deceit on a daily basis. As a result, I began a search for “the word as action,” a dense, unadorned word that simultaneously exposes reality and changes it. But, delusions and dreams aside, can a word actually constitute action? I thought such a thing was possible for a while. As I was writing An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June I felt a profound sense of equilibrium. I did not give a thought to the fundamentals of drama or the requirements of a specific literary genre. Questions related to criticism never entered my mind. I merely pictured myself, generally in a state of actual, intense emotion, presenting the stark fact of defeat nakedly and tearing the masks off those who caused the

The Dream Falls Apart 393

defeat within the context of a popular uprising that begins by being confused and improvised but then grows until it harmoniously comes together so that it includes us all in the eruption of real action, of a demonstration, of a real popular uprising. The tempo began to rise, the lie began to collapse, and definite action began to materialize. One can, therefore, imagine how baffled I was to become aware of the direction of conversations that ensued concerning the form of the play, its content, its artistic merit, the complexity of the relationship between actor and spectator, and other issues that concern purely literary works. These were not aspects of concern to a writer who aspires to writing as action. The first person to startle me was Adonis, who wrote to me about the play that “it is amazing . . . specifically on a technical level.” What technique was he talking about? I had not been concerned with technique or a new form. The problem I had faced while writing was not of an artistic nature. Besides, how could form in this work be seen as anything other than content itself ? The rising tempo, for example, is motion as effective action. It is both form and content. Before I had even gathered myself together in the face of my perplexity, other opinions began to follow, and they were all of the same nature. An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June was being characterized as a piece of art, nothing more, only writing, a mere structure of words. The moment these characterizations occurred, my dream collapsed. The blazing images that had kindled my mind while I was writing turned to ashes. I had braced myself for disappointment even before the play was performed because it had been censored for a substantial period. Nevertheless, I felt a renewed sense of bitterness the evening of every performance. After the play ended, people would applaud and then leave the theater as they always had after any other performance. They would whisper, laugh, or express amazement. But then what? Nothing. Nothing at all. The audience did not erupt in demonstration.

394 Speeches, Essays, and Interviews

Those who came up the stairs of the theater and were grabbed by the cold evening wind in which defeat nests and breeds had no intention of doing anything. The word is a word, and theater is theater. A word is not action and theater is not an arena for an uprising. Such a conclusion was bitter and disappointing. The dream was being transformed into an illusion, disappearing into a mirage. Yes, the dream dissolved, then vanished. As for the dilemma, it continued to confront me, to trouble me, and to propel me forward on a new journey of discovery. How can I form “the word as action”? How can I achieve in writing a double aspiration or, perhaps, a contradictory aspiration? Or is it that the attempt itself is impossible and always destined to fail?

ON THE PERFORMANCE OF THE ADVENTURE OF

THE HEAD OF MAMLOUK JABIR IN MOSCOW

Nasir Wannous: Your play The Adventure of the Head of Mamlouk Jabir played in Moscow recently and you were there to watch the performance. Can you tell us about the response to the play by the audience in Moscow? Saʿdallah Wannous: I do not know how profoundly I can judge the reception of the Russian audience to the play since I do not understand Russian. I saw that it was well attended—there have been about sixty-­four performances in Moscow and other Russian cities—and I was told by the theater director that the audience in one of the cities in the north had asked that a second play that was scheduled to be performed alongside Mamlouk be cancelled and Mamlouk be shown instead. Russian friends who have seen the play said it was relevant to their current situation. I remember, for example, at the end of the performance I saw, I greeted the audience and then returned with the director Akram Khuzam to the auditorium. There were two elderly women waiting for us and carrying bouquets of roses. One of them said, “We are here on behalf of the audience. We want to thank you both for the performance you have offered us. This play is about now. Saʿdallah Wannous traveled to Moscow at the end of 1990 after receiving an invitation from the Writers’ League to attend the opening performance of The Adventure of the Head of Mamlouk Jabir at the Vakhtangov Theater. He was interviewed by Nasir Wannous after his return. The interview was commissioned by the Palestinian magazine al-­Hadaf (The Objective). Published in Arabic as “Hawl ʿArd Mughamarat Ra’s al-­Mamlouk Jabir fi Moscow” in Saʿdallah Wannous, al-­Aʿmal al-­Kamila (Complete works), vol. 3 (Beirut: Dar al-­Adab, 2004).

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We saw in the play and the performance echoes of our own day-­to-­ day difficulties and struggles, which is the essence of theater.” These manifestations make me trust that the Russian audience appreciated the play not as an alien novelty that speaks about the land of The Thousand and One Nights but as a serious play that reflects their own concerns, a play in which they see light shed upon social conditions that relate to them in the same way these conditions relate to us. What most disconcerted me when I learned that Akram Khuzam was going to pre­sent Mamlouk in Moscow was that the play might be seen as an exotic object. I feared that such exoticism might have been the source of the appeal to the director and to the audience. However, my concerns were allayed after I met with Akram and after I read what our Russian friends thought based on the letters they had sent to me. In fact, the performance strictly avoided any element of exotic entertainment. It was focused on creating a connection with the environment in which it was performed and on investigating the concerns and aesthetic sensitivities of that environment. In a critical essay with the inspiring title “Mamlouk Jabir, Brother of Turandot”— as many are aware, Turandot is an upbeat play that has been part of the repertoire of the Vakhtangov Theater for many decades—the author, L. Aryentchiva, says: A clamorous group of actors roamed about, rushing to fill the stage and aisles of the Taganaka Theater: dancers, clowns and magicians. They presented the first performances exuding joie de vivre, and one of them even offered advice to audience members for only a ruble. As part of his play, the Syrian playwright used an old tale in which the caliph and his vizier fought to gain control of Baghdad and to rule its people, who were cowed in fear and willing to praise whomever won. As they wrestled to obtain bread, the people would repeatedly say, “We can do nothing but pray, persevere and wait until the feud ends.” Throughout the performance we could not avoid the feeling that this tale

The Performance of Mamlouk Jabir in Moscow 397

was about us and about the hardships we have to endure. That is why the first question that we asked the director, Akram Khuzam, was whether changes were made to the play to make it more contemporary and to suit the circumstances of our country. He said, “We omitted a few parts to increase the dynamism but we did not change a single word of the text.” That means that there are many things in common in the history of different nations and that situations repeat themselves in various stages of the development of societies. I believe that this passage of the critical essay reveals, in a certain sense, how the Russian audience received the performance of Mamlouk. Nasir Wannous: What did the Soviet performance contribute to your dramatic experience and investigation? Saʿdallah Wannous: The contributions may not have been direct and tangible. However, the Moscow performance made me very happy to have made a connection and to have expressed something, as modest as it may have been, that was of interest to people who live in other circumstances and speak other languages. This play was previously performed at the end of 1973 in German at the Weimar National Theater, which was one of the most important theaters in the German Democratic Republic. Despite the performance’s obvious success and the warm response it received from officials there, I was not elated. I did not feel there was a connection between the work and the environment despite people assuring me that there was. The performance was skillful but fossilized. I could tell intuitively that the play did not create the circumstances for dialogue I had aspired to. In Moscow, however, the situation was completely different. The play’s performance reinforced two beliefs I have embraced and defended throughout my stumbling experience in theater. The first is that the deeper and more sensitively literature, and specifically theater, delves into its own environment, the more capable it is of penetrating other

398 Speeches, Essays, and Interviews

environments and becoming universal. The second belief is that any directorial approach that cannot conceive of a means to relate to the current circumstances and the historical moment in which the play operates cannot create an artistically significant performance. Theatrical performance must speak to the elements of its time and place to realize a new creative moment in the life of its dramatic text. I am assuming here that direction is a creative component that adds to the text. With every novel direction the text radiates anew. Creativity here does not mean that a director should contradict the text or distort its main premise, but that he or she should embrace this premise and develop it in new geographical and historical dimensions. I was pleased with Akram Khuzam’s direction in that respect despite the fact that he employed a reading that is almost diametrically opposed to the play’s genre. In place of its tragic and grim ambience, he explored an amusing improvised performance. How pleasurable it was to see the performers play with their delivery of dialogue and the tragic situations, a sort of beautiful and well-thought-­out distancing effect that was intelligently executed and novel to the traditions of Soviet theater, which has become ossified in recent decades. Nasir Wannous: Can the theater continue to pro­gress if it continues to marginalize the text? Does this phenomenon reflect a struggle between playwright and director? Saʿdallah Wannous: I do not think any theater movement that marginalizes the text can continue unless it changes the very concept of theater and what is essential in its structure. After all, theater, simply defined, is a kind of live dialogue between a performance that delivers and an audience that questions. Such a dialogue is what makes our human freedom manifest and pre­sents our existential condition in all its complexity. Assuming that this perspective of theater as dialogue is correct, theater cannot continue if it marginalizes text and establishes itself strictly on the basis of spectacle. But, in regard to the current situation of theater to which your question refers, a question that is in-

The Performance of Mamlouk Jabir in Moscow 399

creasingly being asked, it is not so important to point to the variance between the experiences of playwrights and directors. Instead, what is important is that we try to understand this tension between text and performance and understand how it can benefit our overall theatrical experience. When despotism becomes more intense, director-­based theater becomes more common. In such an era political movements are defeated, which means that the energy and imagination of playwrights and artists are undermined. In periods such as these, it is only natural for artists to feel isolated, to search for ways to break out of the siege surrounding them. They look for some means of expression which, at this stage, is likely to be an exploration of aesthetics that constitutes a break with prevailing norms. Though it may appear that these artists are escaping the problems that are around them, they are, on a deeper level, simply expressing a suppressed objection to reality. It is important to remember the periods in which the trends of pure art have flourished since the Romantics rebelled against the emptiness and rigidity of the victorious bourgeoisie. “Art for art’s sake” appeared in the aftermath of the 1848 and 1870 revolutions in France and of the 1905 revolution in Russia. During those periods pure art was a means of coping with a frustrating reality, an attempt by artists to escape a sense of alienation and of being under siege. Even though theatrical productions that forgo text may not provide us with the intellectual participation that we expect of theater, we should not judge them too harshly. We should instead pay attention to the aesthetic contribution they make, which enriches the theater. I am certain that the trend of doing without text will not continue for long; theater practitioners will self-­correct. Theater will benefit artistically from this process, which will lead theater back to its original inspiration: the creation of a time and space in which the performance speaks and the audience questions. Nasir Wannous: This discussion of The Adventure of the Head of Mamlouk Jabir raises the question of creating an authentic Arab

400 Speeches, Essays, and Interviews

theater with its own identity. On the aesthetic level, in this play you benefited from the form of the hakawati, or storyteller, as spectacle, but you have recently criticized the fixation of some on heritage as a means of generalizing about the elements of Arab theater. Saʿdallah Wannous: I did not criticize reliance on our heritage. To the contrary, I consider it natural to profit from its stories, situations, spectacle, and forms of communication. What I did criticize was simplifying the conceptions of particularity and authenticity and thinking that they can be achieved by simply borrowing a story or situation from our history or heritage. I have repeatedly said that there would be no need to pose the question had the matter been as simple as you state because the particularity of Arab theater in this narrow sense was achieved by its pioneer, Maroun al-­Naqqash, who derived his plays from folk tales and the stories of The Thousand and One Nights. The same approach was employed by all Arab dramatists who came after him, such as Ibrahim Ramzi, Farah Antoun, Tawfiq al-­Hakim, and even Alfred Faraj. These dramatists, specifically the pioneers among them, did not merely benefit from tales and stories but also from the forms of various popular folk spectacles that were prevalent in their societies at the time they were writing. That being said, Arab theater has, since its inception, been authentic. There was no need for us to continue arguing about this issue for so many years, and there is no reason to raise it in the future. This sort of discussion about Arab theater is simplistic, and I object to it. What guarantees particularity and identity in Arab theater are not cosmetic or prepackaged forms but its content and the engagement with the real world from which this theater emerges. I have an additional objection to this discussion about heritage and theater. Those who reach for heritage as casually as they do for a rosary and see heritage as something magical that encompasses and answers all questions hardly bother to consider how complex and ill-­ defined the concept of heritage is. These people generally fail to offer a definite vision of what heritage is, although it is precisely this sort of

The Performance of Mamlouk Jabir in Moscow 401

vision that gives heritage its context and identity. There are currently two visions of heritage, which are clearly contradictory and which are the subject of open, fierce, and broad-­based discussion in a number of intellectual arenas. The first vision, which I call theological, is held by those who see heritage as a comprehensive treasure chest that contains all answers and can offer assistance to all eras. I call this vision “theological” because it does not see any historical dimension to heritage and detaches it from the process that produced it and, as a result, deprives it of the main characteristic that gives it life, which is its connection to time. In this case, heritage is transformed into exalted thought and a timeless culture that contains the underlying essence of our present and future. All fundamentalists look toward the past to provide us with their ready remedies while they stand still as time moves forward. What they deeply care about is standing still and arresting development. Strangely, none of those who adhere to this vision know what our heritage is or are able to identify its chronology. When does it begin or end, and what does it include? Which of its accomplishments should we consider, and what sources should we use? Should all that our ancestors left us be considered as constituting part of heritage? Should we give Qarmatians and al-­Ashʿari the same consideration, or should we consider the tradition of Averroes to have the same weight and appropriateness as that of al-­Ghazali? Of course, fundamentalists do not consider heritage to be the sum of all that was accomplished in the past. They generally base their vision on a selective attitude and choose what best suits their strict theological idea and ignore the rest. For them heritage in all cases is a talisman or a magic spell that they believe is adequate to answer all questions regardless of the relativity, time, and place of their answers and themselves. I sometimes feel that dramatists who speak excessively of heritage and who have not given it any deep thought see it as a source of inspiration. They unconsciously act with the assumption that our heritage, which did not have theater, has within it all the complex

402 Speeches, Essays, and Interviews

and necessary components to bring a particularly Arab and authentic theater to life. The second vision, which I adopt, sees heritage as the result of a historical process, meaning that it is an Arabo-­Islamic history, which has accumulated over many centuries, during which there were accomplishments as well as failures, brilliant moments for humanity and dark and miserable ones. Such a historical process in its totality of contradictions and massacres is our history and heritage, whether we like it or not. The deep connection we have with this historical heritage is that it gives us a sense of belonging, but, more important, it gives us a critical position from which we can evaluate our history, because heritage is neither pure nor objective. As far as our dramatic work is concerned, we need to be aware that the kinds of content and form with which our heritage provides us have a problematic and historical nature. It is not a pure or objective source in which one can invest indiscriminately regardless of the content or vision we wish to explore. Throughout their history, Arabs have had various forms of folk spectacle. These forms have psychological and intellectual qualities that are inseparable from the times and historical conditions that produced them. Zar and Sufi practices, for example, have otherworldly conceptions that are obviously opposed to dramatic works that call for progressive and rational conceptions. Therefore, when I look for inspiration in heritage I see it as the result of a historical process, within a relative context and subject to criticism and revision. As such, when I utilize heritage for inspiration, I do so critically and with a deep understanding of its problematic nature, its symbols, and its meanings. I connect it to my dramatic experience on an integral level so as to ensure that it is employed in an appropriate and unambiguous way.

THEATER AS MIRROR

Introduction to scene: The most useful thing for us to do at the present moment is to ignore the metaphor in the phrase “theater as mirror.” In lieu of the illusion of a mirror placed upon the stage, an actual mirror the size of the curtain should be placed onstage. We should then set it up in front of the respectable audience that generally attends our few theaters. I clearly imagine this audience to be composed mostly of the bourgeoisie and petit bourgeoisie. This is precisely the audience that provokes me to put my chaotic mind in order, to attempt to find within theater my mind’s most ferocious and elevated potential. I imagine the mirror to be wide and spotless, lying in wait before those who enter the light-­filled auditorium. Their hands are holding tickets, which I hope are expensive, and their eyes look confusedly about for someone to lead them to their seats. The mirror, which is calm and confident, grabs them with a soft, velvety grip the moment they enter. They are now in its grasp, unable to escape or return to the place from which they came, wondering “Why?” At the beginning, as they sink into their seats, it may seem amusing to the audience to hastily search in the mirror and then to be subtly relieved as they encounter their own faces. But relief quickly turns to anxiety as they discover that other eyes are constantly catching theirs. They look away, but it is difficult to escape because the mirror, as expansive as a curtain, continues to face them. It throws their movements and Published in Arabic as “al-­Masrah Mir’at” in Saʿdallah Wannous, Bayanat li-­Masrah ʿArabi Jadid (Beirut: Dar al-­Fikr al-­Jadid, 1988).

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the color of their clothes back at them. All movements are exposed, glances are surreptitious. Eyes meet then scatter in confusion. The spectators feel as if they were shining nakedness seized by winds that carry with them pupils, eyeballs, and lashes. They return to staring at their own faces, disturbed. Time passes slowly and lights pour prodigiously upon them. The mirror remains calm and sits there like a trap. The audience members, who are respectable, will certainly begin to feel restless. How is this game, which is equally confusing and dull, going to end? It will not end; instead, the game will go on and on. The more they try to avoid the mirror or neglect it, the more definite it is about luring them back and drawing them into their exposed features. In this instance, theater, which is tired of deception and lies, wants itself to go through a catharsis rather than to make others experience one. It has forsaken all means and tools it has except for a mirror and light. It leaves its spectators with only one possible option, which is to look back and forth repeatedly, seeing the reflection of their faces more and more frequently until they reach the point of impatience and shame. One can imagine that in a situation like this comments will be made and objections voiced, and they may be an effective means of diminishing the pressure of the confusion and coldness of the mirror. But these very same remarks will soon fade, and the situation will for some become extremely exhausting. At this point some audience members will leave the theater angry and frustrated, terrified at the thought that the mirror is behind them watching them escape. Of course, this does not mean that everyone will have the same reaction. It is possible for someone to comb his or her hair and not feel anything alarming in the mirror. In this case the mirror must be more resolute and remain there longer until the face of that spectator fades away or, disturbed and frightened, screams.

IT ALL BEGINS WITH THE AUDIENCE

The most appropriate and important point of entry for discussing theater in relation to its formation and the resolution of its problematic aspects is the audience. What I am trying to do in this way is to invert what has been the traditional course of study of the problems of Arab theater and what is referred to as “the difficult birth or crisis of theater.” Here, I am driven essentially by two motives. The first is that the means by which theater is studied generally begin from a static understanding of the theatrical phenomenon and a limited and narrow definition of it. The second is that these methodologies have led us in a circle resembling the question of which comes first, the chicken or the egg. Such methodologies have only had, at best, the capacity to propel theater toward sporadic and limited improvement. In other words, they have failed to discover a dependable path that will lead to a theatrical “movement” or “direction.” The only improvement one sees, which is nothing more than scattered gleams of light, appears in texts, direction, or, in rare cases, in the theatrical performance of an actor. However, even these fade out or stumble instead of steadily expanding into a clear and firmly established direction. As someone who followed the theater movement that became active and organized itself into government troupes and national theaters in the early fifties and which continued to grow in the sixties, I can say, without exaggeration, that its problems remain the same. These issues—identity, authorship, poor texts, the language used, and Published in Arabic as “al-­Bad’ min al-­Jumhour” in Saʿdallah Wannous, Bayanat li-­Masrah ʿArabi Jadid (Beirut: Dar al-­Fikr al-­Jadid, 1988).

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the material capabilities for making theater—continue to come up in every critical discussion, conference on theater, and panel. Recently and belatedly other issues such as political engagement and problems related to the social milieu have also emerged. With the exception of some solutions that were reached through trial and individual experiment, these problems continue to persist and are raised in almost the same form as they were before by those who work in the field of theater despite the fact that a number of recommendations related to them have been made at nearly every conference on the theater. That is why I would like to invert the methodologies mentioned above. These approaches are limited to the stage and do not transcend it by also treating the audience because the audience is seen as nothing more than a secondary problem. This helps to explain the relatively inadequate solutions offered to the question of the audience. Moreover, our theater has the problem of being detached from the broad base of the public.1 Theater is distinguished from other cultural activities in that it is essentially a social event. That was its nature at its inception, and it continues to be (even though this nature did diminish with the rise of bourgeois theater in Italy). Consequently, reducing the phenomenon of theater to the study of texts or to aes1. While on a panel that was held in connection with the Second Damascus Festival for Theatrical Arts in 1970, Mr. ʿAli ʿAqla ʿUrsan said that we have no audience crisis that requires any attention. His evidence was UNESCO’s statistics that confirmed that the number of people who go to the theater in culturally advanced countries such as Britain does not exceed 3 percent. Mr. ‘Ursan, however, overlooked the fact that those who are involved in cultural production in Britain, by virtue of their society’s class structure, care little about the theater reaching out to an audience from the wider public. He also missed the fact that the percentage of our audience should be higher than that of Britain because widespread illiteracy makes it necessary for theater to be a very important educational tool. Our need for theater is much more urgent than other countries’ that can satisfy their cultural needs via a variety of means. If we add to that a socialist conception of culture, we realize that we do have an audience crisis. The crisis will not be diminished by stating that the percentage of spectators in Britain does not exceed 3 percent of the population.

It All Begins with the Audience 407

thetic values or elements related to performance betrays ignorance of the nature of theater as a social phenomenon and further conceals its social content and distorts the role it should play in our lives. The phenomenon of theater is in its origin and simplest form a spectator and an actor who either unite in a celebration or face one another. Theater actually begins, however, when an actor and the spectators participate in the “game” played by the actor. Without this interaction, there will be no theatrical phenomenon, whereas the absence of other elements that were gradually added as theater developed such as text, direction, special effects, etc. will not undermine the theatrical phenomenon in a basic sense. This perception may seem extreme since it overlooks a long history of theater development and discards a rich body of texts and experimentation in performance. We apparently need to emphasize this fact to people, however, because such a point of view suggests a coherent approach for escaping the confusion into which our contemporary theater movements have fallen. Moreover, this approach can constitute a means for reengaging with the original dramatic experiment, which is what we are seeking. Beginning our analysis with theater will help to eliminate confusion and change the kinds of questions we ask about the Arab theater. Dubious questions will collapse; extraneous and misleading questions will be transcended. Beginning with the audience will reveal what is essential in theater and provide positive solutions for theater’s problems, solutions which, instead of being final, will continuously be modified. The questions can be condensed as follows: First, since theater is a social event that is meaningless in the absence of an audience, it is necessary first to ask who that audience is. Defining the type of audience we want to develop is the first question we must face. Defining the identity of the audience, its social structure, cultural circumstances, problems, and sensibility will determine the ground from which we work and the limits within which we can maneuver. It is the first step in finding the kind of performance

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that is suitable for this audience, which can no longer be viewed as a group of ghosts in a dark auditorium whose faces can be seen but whose forms and inner struggles remain hidden. Second, after we define our audience and discern its social and cultural makeup we are faced with another question: “What do we want to tell our audience?” The answer relates to the first question because identifying our audience will include our stance toward it, what we must offer our audience based on our understanding of its needs and our knowledge of the theater’s capability to actualize change. Our choice of audience is an intellectual and social position that dictates the content of our work and the dynamism of the ideas we are to ­present. Third, a question that unites both issues discussed above in a single theatrical relationship is the stylistic means by which we connect with the audience. What means should we use to ensure the interaction between the audience and the performance, what form is consistent with the requirements of the desired kind of audience and the content, and what form tightly knits together all elements into a complex whole? These elements constitute a healthy theatrical foundation and offer a solid critical apparatus for judging the works and the experiments that we see in the theater. By using the approach described above, resolutions to most other problems that face our theater movement can be found.2 Once we have defined our audience, we have taken a social stand that will be reflected in the way we conceptualize theatrical works. This perspective must be profound, not presumptu2. To come up with solutions to the problems of our theater movement also means articulating what they are. Up to now, the popular formulations of these problems made them seem as if they were issues of aesthetics requiring aesthetic solutions. Such formulations are disconnected from the social origins and specific environment of these problems, two elements that many who work in the theater overlook. Geography and time should be the origins and foci of any theatrical experiment.

It All Begins with the Audience 409

ous. It will not do for one to claim he is following the general trend and is addressing the destitute classes and then pre­sent an absurd work about the metaphysical dilemma of man’s existence in a closed space in front of fifty or a hundred members of the elite. “Identifying the audience” is not a term intended for consumption, and it cannot be just a slogan used to engage in arrogant social and political deceit. It is a course of action by which we can truly know what kind of audience we are addressing. When one chooses one’s audience, that choice necessarily entails choosing the problems and aspirations of that audience and taking a stand in relation to them. One can then find one’s own means of expressing that position. Other positions ensue and are integrated so that they form a “theatrical phenomenon” that will be valuable and effective. By following this method, a clear, functional foundation will be created for judging the theatrical works around us. We will have multiple means for critiquing a work and for discovering how sincere or pretentious it is by considering the kind of audience it is addressing, how relevant its content is to this audience, and the extent to which its form of expression is consonant with its content and with the audience’s cultural horizon. Such a critique will be a functional one, based on sociopolitical and aesthetic criteria, not on theoretical abstractions. If there is a dramatist who is unconcerned with these questions and is instead concerned only with presenting “elevated theater” in a well-­equipped theater to an audience that does not eat pumpkin seeds or cause a commotion, we will direct our questions to him and the questions will disturb him. The intellectual ideals he has adopted and the final tally of the value of his work will be revealed within the context of its relevance to the cultural expectations of his people. It will not matter how much he screams that his theater is dedicated to the people, that it fulfills an obligation to instruct them, that it has a social role. His claims that it has common currency will have no bearing whatsoever. How then can a theatrical movement be born and developed

410 Speeches, Essays, and Interviews

based on the propositions outlined here? How can these propositions lead us in practical terms to satisfactory solutions to the chronic problems impeding the development of our current Arab theater? We should start at the very beginning, start by leaving aside all ready-­made forms of theater, all of its schools and trends, so that we avoid falling into the quagmire of final and absolute approaches3 because such approaches require that we engage in experimentation based on a foundation whose requirements we neither recognize nor understand. We should start by asking who exactly is this audience among us for whom we are establishing a theater. The straightforward answer is that we want theater for the people, for the working class. Although this answer may seem simple and clichéd, its context cannot be understood in a straightforward way, and such an answer does not offer us the unencumbered privilege of simply giving lip service to this slogan. The only way that such an answer can have value, that it can be fully realized, is through a profound study and analysis of this class, its living conditions, and its problems so as to achieve systematic knowledge that is grounded in real life and a proper analysis without resort to clichés and ready-­made perceptions. This kind of knowledge, if we employ it in lieu of easy and convenient theatrical modes, means that the creation of theatrical experiences will become a complex process because it will be a daily exchange with the public on all levels—the political, the social, the intellectual, and the artistic. Such an exchange will be a dialectic one that forces theatrical 3. Mr. Nabil al-­Alfi expressed this situation perfectly on a panel held as part of the Second Damascus Festival for Theatrical Arts of 1970. He said: “International theater is now divided into three trends, traditional, boulevard, and experimental theaters.” Notice this formal division, which fails to include any means of measuring the social dimension of theater. He adds: “I believe that we should leave the door open to all Arab dramatists to experiment with any form they wish and to choose whatever trend they wish to follow. I do not believe it is necessary for us to close doors.” Notice again the haphazard, formalistic gauge used to define the choices of theatrical form and means of theatrical experimentation that should predominate.

It All Begins with the Audience 411

experimentation and self-­correction. Theater emanates from a base, which is people’s actual lives. Such theater provides pleasure and, more important, it aims to create for the people theatrical expressions that will increase their awareness and deepen their understanding of their problems, of their common lot, and of their social fate. To do so we must reject ready-­made forms and return to the origins of theater since theatrical form is unimportant. We do not create theater solely to prove that we can clutch the heels of civilization and claim we have theater like that of other nations. If these are our only motives, they’re not worth the effort. Instead, we create theater because we want to change attitudes so that they will pro­gress and improve, because we want to deepen our communal awareness of our historical destiny. I state my aim in this factual tone knowing perfectly well that many do not subscribe to such a conception of theater. But, if this is to be our aim, then we need to begin with the people we work with and for the people among whom we stand when we speak our words. From such a starting place, we will not only begin to pre­sent works that touch people and create impressions they can relate to, we will also become more aware of our own ignorance, misconceptions, and preconceived ideas, which build a partition in our minds that obstructs our view of reality. Through a process of coexistence and immediate contact, we can demolish this obstruction and start to understand what people think and what their actual needs are. A renewed dialogue will be born that will generate forms and attitudes that engender a genuine experiment in popular theater that is united with people, that arises out of their conditions, and, above all, that is effective. Through this form of experimentation what needs to be said in theater will emerge naturally and be appropriately manifested. Although this process is obviously neither mechanical nor mathematical, it can lead to a new level of experience that will undoubtedly lead to another approach. The talent, sincerity, zeal, and cultural complexity and sophistication we already have will be calibrated

412 Speeches, Essays, and Interviews

and enriched through the process of exchange envisioned here. We will gradually find ourselves embarking on a theatrical movement that has a solid foundation, that is firmly rooted in our real world— a world with a real audience for various kinds of theater—and a theatrical movement with extraordinary characteristics that will ensure its growth and a continuing direct dialogue between theater and audience. Once this movement has abandoned preconceived theatrical forms, it can return to addressing questions concerning form and critically study them with a more profound understanding so that approaches to theater used elsewhere in the world are not indiscriminately adopted, placed on an equal footing, or treated with ritualistic reverence, cultural subservience, or academic seriousness. By being aware of its foundations, its current status, and its conception of culture, such a movement can ensure that it does not become confused by the various forms and schools of theater. Proponents of this movement will also not view these schools in terms of their being “trendy” and will not choose among them based on uncritical preference, because to do so would betray the realistic approach which was the basis of its conception. They will be aware that schools of theater are at the same time schools of thought and that their forms are expressions of specific political and social opinions. The whirlwind in which our Arab theater is lost will cease, because contemporary Arab theater is like a bewildered child who stands in front of a display case full of “models” of various colors and shapes, not knowing which to choose, thinking, “Should I take this model or that, this game or that?”4 Anyone who follows the connections among various cultural trends in the world, especially the European ones, with their reflections upon our environment and cultural development, will realize 4. It is certain that the confused and contradictory choices are not always a reflection of naive thought or unclear vision. In many cases they express a clear intellectual stand that hides itself behind liberal eclecticism, which claims that all theater trends are equally important and as such all choices are also of equal value.

It All Begins with the Audience 413

the extent to which we are profoundly and disturbingly lost and in need of a harmonious critical position concerning these trends.5 By taking a position we will have resolved one of the principal issues related to our theater, i.e., which trend to choose. Since this movement arises from the audience’s reality and wishes to achieve the highest degree of communication with the audience, it is thus compelled to undergo serious and daily study about its own theatrical expression—about style, language, and form. It might try known forms but it will certainly create new ones that are its own. In either case, the decision will be reached through a dynamic process and will be the result of daily interaction with the audience—with its educational level, ways of thinking, and the manner in which it responds. Failure must be studied, and so must success, so that we achieve appropriate, advanced forms for creating an effective public theater. Such a movement will select from and experiment with a wide range of styles. Moreover, it will have a rich heritage of forms and modes of folk expression from which it can benefit. It will certainly utilize them in a much more useful and appropriate manner than those who have attempted to add culture to folklore or to make up for cultural or civilizational deficiencies by simply slapping folk culture onto an existing work. Likewise, driven by nothing more than an artificial desire for innovation, they simply experiment with forms.6 Folklore in our movement will have a different value and function. We can profit from it and invest in it to the extent that it coheres with a certain sort of content and better serves to convey that content to the spectators’ minds. Finding inspiration in folklore for formalistic and artificial purposes is unacceptable. 5. I hope this idea is not associated with another idea prevalent in some circles. This idea would have the effect of isolating us from the world and rejecting any relationship with culture from outside. 6. Let us remember here Dr. Rashad Rushdi’s play, Oh, My Country, in which he employed the people’s folk culture to pre­sent an idea opposed to interests of the people.

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It is now clear that a serious search for an original and useful form to communicate with the audience that begins with the audience is certain to relieve theater of the burden of many questions that are generally asked only abstractly or partially concerning language, form, and the use of folk culture. By engaging in such a search, these issues will necessarily find appropriate solutions. Language will no longer be discussed at roundtables or on panels broadcast on television. These issues will be examined through daily experimentation, and the difficult questions they raise will be solved in this manner. The same is true of other issues, including the structure of theater space itself. The final characteristic of a theatrical movement such as the one I am promoting is that it is based on a continual process of interaction between theater and audience. The two spheres learn from one another. Through this dialectical relationship the content of theater will become richer and its limits will be expanded daily. We will be returning to the phenomenon of theater and its primary inspiration and strength, which is celebration. More important, we will be giving it back its social aspect, its initial effectiveness, and its originality. A theatrical movement with these characteristics is the only one capable of clarifying the confusion of the Arab theater. It is the only movement that can resolve actual problems and transcend imagined ones. It emerges from its audience, takes from it, and gives back to it. It has a dialogue with the audience, becomes enriched by it, and enriches it. When that happens, real theater will be born. Wherever theater produced by this movement appears it will invigorate society, enrich dialogue, and increase popular awareness of the present and the future.

FOR THE FIRST TIME WRITING IS A FORM OF FREEDOM, FOR THE FIRST TIME WRITING IS A PLEASURE

This interview clearly demonstrates Wannous’s conviction that the world is witnessing the systematic marginalization of culture in general and of theater specifically. Wannous admits that after recent political transformations in the world he is no longer certain that theater will be able to play an effective role in society. Despite his realization that theater has receded in importance while other means of communication have become widespread, and despite the changes that have occurred in our social and cultural lives that have shunted us toward solitude and private spectacles that preclude dialogue, he still writes, as he says, for the theater. From another perspective, the texts that Wannous has written during this period (which began with The Rape and include Historical Miniatures and Rituals of Signs and Transformations), which can be considered the third phase of his life as a playwright, are problematic texts. After two clear phases, the phase of beginnings (most of its texts are short) and the second phase (characterized by dramatic commitment and immediate political engagement in the dramatic work), it is now obvious that his new dramatic works constitute a break on many levels with what we have come to expect in his works. It is clear that the process of going from one phase to another has been An interview conducted by Mary Ilyas with Saʿdallah Wannous about his “new writing” in the last phase of his life, published in Arabic as “li-­Awwal Marra Ashʿur bi-­ al-­Kitaba ka-­Hurriyya, li-­Awwal Marra Ashʿur Anna al-­Kitaba Mutʿa,” al-­Tariq, no. 1, January-­February 1996. This is one of several interviews with Wannous conducted by Mary Ilyas and published in al-­Tariq.

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a natural and spontaneous development that has not resulted in a sudden change or a rupture with what has come before. This most recent approach can be described as a kind of fluctuation between the writer as “man,” who contemplates the world and himself, and “man of the theater,” who dreams of changing the world through theater. This approach, however, does appear to invalidate several dicta that had previously governed the writings of Wannous. These include a belief in theater and a commitment to it as an essential form of expression, an intense concern about writing with social and political dimensions and with locating the self within these dimensions, and a continuous process on both the theoretical and practical levels of searching and experimentation. There are general characteristics in his writing during this phase that compelled me to question Wannous about his return to writing with such fervor and his divergence from structures that define the form and themes of writing itself. His recent writing stretches these limits and frees itself of form and clichés. Despite the fact that he still calls what he writes “plays,” the dramatist in him is no longer concerned about “performance.” It is obvious that the narrative form is prevalent in works of this last phase (since The Rape) and that the topics addressed in the plays of this period are more varied and universal. They uncover and combine links between the private and public. It is worth noting that the importance of the individual appears for the first time in the theater of Wannous (the regular “small person,” I am borrowing Brecht’s terminology here), in which the character has a personal human constitution. Such a character, who represents the regular human being, acquires an obvious resonance in the dramatic structure and even affects the direction of the unfolding events (Mary and Ghada in Wretched Dreams, Farouq in A Day of Our Time, and Almasa in Rituals of Signs and Transformations). In addition to the importance of the makeup and concerns of these characters, their presence allows their creator to pre­ sent an important problematic issue, which is the “ability to act” and the question of how effective action is. In other words, are we able to change our lives? Are we able to change the world? Despite the persistently nihilistic stance in these works, the mere attempt to “act” appears to be more important than the consequence of action, which is generally destined to fail. Another important trait related to the as-

For the First Time Writing Is a Form of Freedom 417

pects of Wannous’s recent work outlined above is that, for the first time in the theater of Wannous, we see the psychological condition of characters as inseparable from the general milieu in which they live. This is a common characteristic of most plays of the last phase, whether they are dramatic, epic, or narrative. In addition to the psychological makeup of these characters, their importance lies in the fact that they do not symbolize simplistic social relations, nor do they offer answers so much as raise questions. The aspect of Wannous’s plays from this later phase that is of interest to author and readers alike is posing questions. The plays themselves from this period (Miniatures, Rituals) take the form of questions rather than answers, and the questions are complex and presented as part of a nexus of very complicated relations. As such, issues that may seem secondary intertwine with those that are generally considered essential. Discovering the complexity of relationships between multiple issues is what is new and important in these plays. Mary Ilyas

Mary Ilyas: It is clear that your more recent plays, specifically since The Rape, show great development in your style of writing. You appear to have reached a stage of questioning many subjects, including your position concerning the world and writing for theater itself. How did you come to this stage? Saʿdallah Wannous: This transformation was the result of contemplation on many levels and experimentation in various modes and forms of writing. Of course this process cannot provide complete answers. It is not merely a matter of maturity; it is a process of contemplating whether my writing has matured in relation to the conditions of a certain moment in time and, in my opinion, of the state of our world and of theater in relation to it. If we assume that the works that preceded The Rape are various manifestations of a single experience that perhaps have similarities . . . I say this with reservations because points of similarity are much less than what is apparent on the surface: each trial (i.e., play) was a form of experimentation for me, and similarities between past works can be summed up by describing one

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general feature: my hope and my having the certainty of effectiveness. I had the belief that we could intervene in the events and the history of this region. There was also a situation that allowed for such hope and certainty, which I call “a historical area of ambiguity” that is found in almost all countries of the Third World when authority has not turned into a fully structured and holistic form of “state.” Moreover, social and political forces had not lost hope and were not fully marginalized; in other words, we were still within a historical process in which debate was possible. That environment greatly affected my writing for the theater in the previous stage, specifically the writing of An Evening’s Entertainment for the Fifth of June, The King’s Elephant, The Adventure of the Head of Mamlouk Jabir, and even An Evening with Abou Khalil al-­Qabbani. All these works assumed that dialogue within society was possible, that debate was still open in society and had not yet come to a conclusion, that it was still possible to widen the space for democracy. In the next stage hopes diminished and authority, or the state, had taken a very clear and strong form. At the same time society was marginalized and political bodies appeared fragile and incapable of resisting and creating new, creative, and effective forms of resistance. Illusions that we had about struggle, heroism, the people, martyrdom, and organizations all fell apart after the Gulf War. We reached a point of complete emptiness. In this new state of writing, which was preceded by years of questioning and contemplation, I discovered that the problem is much deeper and more complex than an authority-­society relationship. There is a three-­tiered dynamic that we need to investigate more profoundly: severely underdeveloped social structures alongside social structures that appear modern only on the surface level, and the absence of harmony between authority and society and of a plan for creating a modern state in which authority and society are not at odds with one another. As authority marginalizes society, the latter is

For the First Time Writing Is a Form of Freedom 419

forced to return to its traditional and morally outmoded structures as a defense mechanism. In this sense, one may say there is something new in my most recent plays. Mary Ilyas: I feel that what is new in your writing transcends this general level of responsiveness to a new dimension formed in the shape of questions. For example, despite the fact that you say that freedom has disappeared on the general level, there is an important process of individual emancipation in these plays, which drives me to make the distinction and the connection between what is private and what is public. Is there a kind of emancipation on the personal level? Saʿdallah Wannous: Precisely. Mary Ilyas: That is why I connect the private with the public, but in your answer you did not draw the connection. Saʿdallah Wannous: I’ll say it briefly, on the personal level I have been purged of delusions. Mary Ilyas: What kind of delusions? Are they on the level of political authority and social structures or are they delusions on a much smaller level? Saʿdallah Wannous: On a smaller level, of course. Mary Ilyas: A basic human level? Saʿdallah Wannous: Of course. Mary Ilyas: Does that mean the introduction of new themes in the works of this phase? Saʿdallah Wannous: A number of new themes have been introduced. Mary Ilyas: There was some simplicity in your early works. Has your search for the self and the fact that you have been purged of delusions produced a theater that is more complex? The “I” of the author that entered the works of this last stage in various ways is vividly evident in The Rape. Saʿdallah Wannous: Of course, there was some simplicity in past works. There was a solid conviction that it was enough to change rul­ ing authority to achieve progress and effect change in society. I now

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think that the matter is not as simple as that. We have constantly changed authority, which was in every case an artificial coup d’état. The one difficult thing we have not yet tried is to change society. It is more difficult to disrupt a society that is immobile, tranquil, and drowning in superstition. Mary Ilyas: How are the new themes, which are more human and individual, that you have introduced into your works related to the process of evaluation you have mentioned? Can you specify what is new in your experience? Saʿdallah Wannous: I had delusions on so many levels, delusions on the level of humanity. For the first time I feel that writing is a form of freedom. I used to exercise a kind of self-­censorship in my writing, an internal censorship that rested on the idea, or delusion, that what is secondary should be set aside for the sake of what I believed to be important causes. For the first time I feel writing is a pleasure. I used to feel that individual strife or personal idiosyncrasies were inessential, shallow bourgeois matters that should be set aside. I was exclusively focused on the comprehension of history, so I mistakenly believed that my consideration of the process of history must transcend individual considerations and the traps of bourgeois writing. That is why I felt as if I were not in my own skin when I wrote for the theater. Mary Ilyas: Do you still believe theater has a role amidst the difficult transformations taking place around us? Saʿdallah Wannous: We must clearly admit that there is systematic marginalization of culture, and specifically of theater. Such marginalization is a universal phenomenon, which has become clearly manifest as a result of the new world order. Mary Ilyas: You used to firmly believe that literature and theater could play a role in changing society and you presented the idea of politicization through theater. Is that role still possible? Saʿdallah Wannous: Cultural marginalization in a country such as ours has graver consequences than in France, for example, because

For the First Time Writing Is a Form of Freedom 421

culture is needed to play an important and conclusive role in developing our society. Theater continues to be a real indication of the presence of civil society. People join together in a specific location for a performance. This process is itself symbolic of dialogue within society. I am no longer certain that theater will be able to perform such a role in our society, especially since the means of communication that are now pervasive have spawned forms of individualized spectacle that preclude dialogue and leave people completely isolated. I am certainly less hopeful now about theater than I was twenty years ago, but I still believe it is the most effective vehicle, even more effective than literature itself, in engendering civic dialogue. However, the current situation appears to be a vicious circle. Mary Ilyas: How is that? Saʿdallah Wannous: For civic dialogue to flourish theater must be flourishing, but for theater to flourish there needs to be a civil society that is not quashed through coercion or eliminated by tyranny. So we find ourselves in what seems to be a vicious circle. Mary Ilyas: What is the solution in your opinion? Saʿdallah Wannous: Theater must become humble. The solution proposed by [French director Jean] Vilar about popular theater that infiltrates the life of society as celebration, dialogue, and awareness is no longer viable. Abandoning such a role may seem destructive to theater, but let us look at the matter from another angle. Marginalized theater would move away from the populism that is characteristic of other means of communication and enrich its artistic particularity by becoming a locale for contemplation and questioning instead of a place for instruction and the generation of prepackaged ideas. Mary Ilyas: A theater for the elite? Saʿdallah Wannous: Why not? I believe that a theater that distances itself from populism and creates new aesthetics and horizons of expression that are impossible to achieve in the usual media is a

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theater that would be more daring in exploring the individual and society. I would think that a theater with these characteristics could draw the attention of a wider circle of the elite. Mary Ilyas: Are we to understand your persistence to write for the theater and your “new theater” within this perspective? Saʿdallah Wannous: Despite all the frustrations one encounters, I still believe theater is an art form that has the potential to actually shake up civil society. Mary Ilyas: What about theater as performance? I feel that it is in this realm that the main feature that has changed in your theater lies. You have come back to writing in this most recent phase, but what place does performance have in your writing and what is the audience for in it since, in this new phase, your writing is not based on the “theater of politicization”? Saʿdallah Wannous: I still write a text to be performed, that is certain, but the difference is that I no longer imagine the auditorium as I write. I do not imagine a specific audience. This change has allowed me more freedom. I have borrowed from the process of novel writing, which is an individualistic and contemplative art. I have incorporated many aspects of novel writing within my new dramatic work. I should also make clear that no matter how besieged theater may be, it remains a disturbing witness to history. I still strive to maintain this function in my writing for the theater. Mary Ilyas: I would like to ask you more specifically about your opinion about writing for the theater today. You previously said that the peculiarity of every theater arises from the peculiarity of its audience, and that what was important in theater was its primary nucleus, the actor/spectator. Your conception of “theater of politicization” was based on that idea, and so was your stand with regard to writing for the theater in general, in terms of composition and adaptation. I think your position on form in theater, structure in plays, and the manner by which a spectator is influenced (illusion, breaking of illusion, or estrangement effect) emerged from your aforementioned conviction.

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I think your conviction concerning the necessity of addressing an audience with something very particular can also explain your interest in experimentation and in the theater of pioneering Arab dramatists. Do you still have the same conviction and interest? Saʿdallah Wannous: I will speak about my personal experience, which I believe has many similarities with the experiences of many Arab writers who actively wrote plays and tried to influence their societies in Egypt in the sixties. I used to believe that we had a degree of democracy in our society. We should not forget that I and an entire, or nearly entire, generation believed that the general movement of our societies was progressive and that whatever stumbles we encountered were due to either distortions of individuals in government or a general lack of radicalism in the political positions taken by those in authority. We were, therefore, under the illusion that more struggle would enable us to avoid stumbles and to hasten the kind of progress that was being promoted by societies that had adopted socialist and unionist options that were opposed to imperialism. From this idea of development I go back to the idea of a degree of democracy, which we hoped could become more extensive. We hoped that theater, which grew as a result of democracy, would play a role in deepening civil society and would drive more people to political action. We hoped they would leave behind their fear, their ignorance, and a long tradition of supporting defeatism, caution, dissimulation, and the avoidance of politics. Mary Ilyas: Did you ever truly witness the kind of effective theatrical experience you’re talking about, in France or Europe, for example, while you lived there? Did you ever see spectators interfere in theatrical performance? Can a play really turn into action? From whence does this conviction of yours arise? Saʿdallah Wannous: During my entire stay in Europe I did not see a single play in which a spectator dared to interrupt a performance. Theater that I was aware of there did not achieve that level of effectiveness, nor did it aspire to. Brecht did not abandon the curtain,

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and people attended the Berliner Ensemble in formal dress. I always dreamt, however, that dialogue that reveals the identity of those who are most responsible for defeat and underdevelopment would emerge through theater. In short, I dreamt that dialogue would gradually increase the awareness of citizens of their historical condition and lead them to take action. I dreamt that they would become absolutely certain that action is necessary or, at the very least, they would become bitter and have the feeling that the situation they were in was unbearable and must be changed. I dreamt that this increased awareness would widen democratic possibilities and firmly establish a civil society, that it would lure the repressive machine of government so that they too would participate in dialogue. That is why I imagined that my early texts, despite the fact that they may seem tightly knit, were nothing but suggestions, or rather working plans artistically put together with some aesthetic characteristics that would entice people to begin dialogue. Believe me, I would not have cared if An Evening’s Entertainment stopped at a certain point during performance and branched out into live dialogue between the audience and actors or among members of the audience. Unfortunately, however, at the time that we started this experiment with An Evening’s Entertainment, government had already absorbed people’s initial reactions to the June defeat and had begun to better organize its suppressive machinery by shrinking the amount of existing democracy daily. The irony was that at the same time that I began my experiment of writing and putting on a play that required a degree of democracy, the government began to eliminate even that degree of democracy. I was conscious that this change was happening. Do not forget that I was the first dramatist to be summoned for questioning by the military intelligence, which occurred after An Evening’s Entertainment. I was also the only dramatist whose play, The Adventure of the Head of Mamlouk Jabir, was cancelled on opening night, which is not something to brag about. My early confrontation with censorship revealed

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the limits of my dream and the limits of what theater can achieve. That is why I began to experiment with various forms. The form of An Evening’s Entertainment was not repeated in any other play, and I began to concentrate on increasing my own awareness without totally abandoning the idea of engagement and dialogue between performance and audience. As for the experimentation of pioneering Arab dramatists that we know about from the descriptions of what happened during their performances, my interest in them arises from my astonishment and appreciation of the lively experimentation those pioneers undertook. I shared their belief that theater was a Western art that must be cultivated without any complexes in our local environment. That absolutely does not mean, however, that we should turn the cultivation of this magnificent art form into a kind of folk art. It also does not mean that we should transfigure it into narrative texts that are stuffed with the traditions of every single tribe in this world, or to fabricate a dramatic tradition, as some did, out of The Epistle of Forgiveness, stories, maqamat [a literary genre of collections of tales written in rhymed form], etc. The pioneers had a clearer understanding. The solutions they came up with to cultivate a particular kind of theater were provocative. They were original, profound, and daring. I have said on multiple occasions that the experiences of these pioneers constitute the tradition that influenced me more than any other. Mary Ilyas: We were talking a little while ago about the translation of dramatic texts, specifically to the Arabic language. Based on my experience in this field I find myself perplexed at the translation of some contemporary texts and feel they should have been converted into our daily language to give the precise meaning and spirit of the original text and to make translation a more agreeable process for translator and reader alike. There are texts, specifically those that are predominantly comic, which are lost in part or in full when rendered into formal, written Arabic. This problem affects performance

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more than it affects the text, and it determines how spectators will react to what they see. This problem also affects the delivery of actors in terms of their improvisation or liveliness. Saʿdallah Wannous: Let us look back and ask ourselves whether the language of dramatic texts was raised as a problematic issue in the past. It was not. Poetic theater was understood, and it reached people. What did harm to theater was the popularization of culture, which brings up the question of the definition of popular theater. It was generally believed that popular theater meant to superficially pull theater toward the masses. No, popular theater does not mean in any way that it should have colloquial and superficial language. Theater is the profound presentation of the human condition through the rules that govern history, and through class struggle and the process of social development. It is also finding inspiration in some aspects of popular wit and forms of expression. Inspiration here is not to directly imitate in order to please the audience or the masses, but to incorporate the abovementioned aspects or forms in an organic manner that raises the attention of the majority of spectators but not at the expense of theater losing its poetic sense and particularity as a high and distinguished art form. Theater originally was always charged poetically and philosophically, but when it changed to become an imitation of reality it declined. Even as realism flourished with Chekhov and Zola we see the trend of symbolism emerging in reaction to realism and bringing balance to theater’s relationship with reality. In fact, theater reproduces reality, it does not imitate it. Theater has not undergone any development since it attempted to draw on the mundane through direct imitation, specifically on the level of language. This is when the question about language began to be raised, although it had not been raised in the past. Moreover, we currently have other art forms that are more capable of portraying reality such as cinema and television, and they provide a different kind of pleasure than does theater. Various forms of spectacle that provided pleasure, such as jesters or

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buffoons and boulevard theater, were created before television and cinema were technically possible. It is hardly a coincidence that soap operas have now emerged. My answer should not be considered a defense of formal, written Arabic and eloquence, but rather as essentially a defense of the poetic in theater and its artistic peculiarity, whether written in formal Arabic or in the vernacular. I am against trite imitation in the vernacular or in formal Arabic. Mary Ilyas: A salient feature in your theater is game play, which appears equally in themes and dramatic approach. Your writing, which is generally serious, relies heavily upon this mode and uses it in various ways. What does game play mean to you? Saʿdallah Wannous: I believe games are always present in theater. Games constitute a form of relief that a person can experience when occupied in essential, collective causes, or when he or she is feeling a sense of nihilism. Through game play, the nihilist inner voice is given a degree of expression by which it can pre­sent serious content in a playful and frivolous context that can sometimes verge upon criticism. We play because history is not as serious as it appears to be. At the same time, I think history is not in opposition to the idea of playing. It is actually in congruence with playing. History alone cannot provide us with truth. What is true is the great emotional wealth of the human being, the individual who is free and capable of acting based on free will. We will return to this topic later. Mary Ilyas: We find new types of characters in your play Rituals of Signs and Transformations, whose complexities and troubles reveal new and rich human characteristics. Where did you draw these characters from? The question refers specifically to the female character Almasa, who attracts special attention in this play. I should add that she is the only female protagonist in your theater. Did you have an image of a specific model in your mind when you created her? Is she a model of a person who may exist in our lives today? Saʿdallah Wannous: The character of Almasa was entirely a cre-

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ated character. Of course, nothing is created from nothing. She has glimpses or parts of people I had encountered, but in general the characters in this play were all created. That’s all I have to say about the matter now. We can address the subject later. Mary Ilyas: Can we speak in general today about your view of women? Woman, in general, is a new topic in your plays. Saʿdallah Wannous: Using words of comparison between men and women is meaningless. Comparison between them is pointless. But if I were to use a mythological picture about the beginning of creation, I would say that the original story of creation, before it was distorted by parasites and tyrannical males, can be narrated in the following manner: In the beginning, the deity grasped a handful of clay and blew into it to create woman. Then the deity took a rib out of woman and formed man out of it. In this sense, woman is closer to nature, and her relationship to it is not one of struggle, which is what man wished the relationship to be. Therefore, she is the stronger being, not in terms of muscular strength, but in terms of human and existential strength. She is the one more capable of persevering and building. When man committed his historical rebellion and transformed the harmonious communal relationship he had with nature and woman into a relationship of domination and ownership, he not only took away woman’s power and superiority but condemned himself to miserable fragility. Such a state led him to forge his life and relationship with woman in a crooked, fraudulent manner that is devoid of humanity. I must emphasize that the way in which man has carefully dispossessed woman and confirmed his control over her only makes him weaker. Woman, however, remains the strong one in spite of her day-­to-­day struggles. She is the threat that arouses astonishing fear in him. Given these impaired relationships that are based on a fragile equilibrium, woman, when she rebels or reclaims her body and soul, turns into a frighteningly powerful being that shakes the stability of

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households and spreads chaos. Undoubtedly, it is the weakness of man that makes such chaos possible and augments its effects. Mary Ilyas: This is a general answer. Let us talk about how the private and public are intertwined in your theater. When you attempted to widen the scope of topics in your recent plays you touched upon matters that are considered taboos, or, rather, you broke taboos. Saʿdallah Wannous: Let us agree on one point. I stopped writing for the theater for ten years, which were wasted in the crypts of depression. I knew I could not return to writing unless I seriously examined the condition of theater in our part of the world and what I had accomplished. I also had to examine the deterioration that had befallen the national project across the Arab world. As I previously told you, I realized I had not devoted enough attention to the backwardness of our social structures and only marginally connected these structures with the forms of authority that history has bestowed upon us. I also needed to come to the conclusion that the national project, though it entails emancipation, progress, and modernism, does not require us to deny that we are individuals with desires, inclinations, fears, an urgent need for freedom, and the ability to say “I” without shame (God forbid we should say “I”!). To the contrary, the national project cannot be accomplished or succeed unless this “I” opens up and lives its freedom to express itself without shame or hypocrisy and without saying, “God forbid.” Mary Ilyas: Does that mean your view of the intellectual has changed? Saʿdallah Wannous: I consider the role of intellectual less brilliant and more humble but with a wider horizon now. His role as critic is more of a priority, more urgent. I think such a critical role is more beneficial than his miserable attempts to struggle and immerse himself in political affairs on a daily basis, or to disseminate ready-­ made ideas, definitive theories, and flamboyant slogans. The role of the intellectual as critic should have preceded his role as one who

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spreads prepackaged ideas. However, our haste to burn natural stages of development had the effect of disconnecting us as intellectuals of the nation-­state from intellectuals who had lived during our age of enlightenment, a period in which we were under colonial rule. This led in part to the continuous defeats we witnessed during half a century. Another mission that the intellectual should have is to practice his freedom, to cherish it and never think that he breaks the solidarity of his community if he enriches his individual self. We were naive in our understanding of community and communal work. We imagined the community to be individuals with similar faces and temperaments. We had an aversion to exceptions and individualism and forgot, or ignored, that exceptions and individualism are what make a community a human power rather than a collection of barren existences.

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Saʿdallah Wannous is one of the most significant writers and intellectuals from the Arab world in the second half of the twentieth century. Rituals of Signs and Transformations, one of his most celebrated plays, was added to the repertoire of the French national theater, the Comédie-­Française, in 2013. Born in Syria in 1941, he studied journalism in Cairo and theater in Paris at the Sorbonne. In addition to writing over a dozen major plays and numerous essays about theater, Wannous helped to found the High Institute for Dramatic Arts in Damascus. In 1996, the year before his death, he was selected by the International Theater Institute to give the address for World Theater Day.

Robert Myers (www.robert-­myers.com) is Professor of English at the American University of Beirut and Director of the Alwaleed Center for American Studies. He received his Ph.D. in literature from Yale, with a specialty in Spanish, Portuguese, and Hispano-­Arabic literatures. He is the author of over a dozen stage plays, including Atwater: Fixin’ to Die, The Lynching of Leo Frank, and Mesopotamia. With Nada Saab he has also translated plays by Jawad al-­Asadi and ʿIsam Mahfouz.

Nada Saab ([email protected]) is Associate Professor of Arabic Studies at the Lebanese American University. She has a Ph.D. and M.Phil. from Yale University in Religious Studies and Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations. With Robert Myers she has translated plays by Saʿdallah Wannous, Jawad al-­Asadi, and ʿIsam Mahfouz. Her most recent work includes a book of translations and critical essays with Robert Myers: Modern and Contemporary Political Theater from the Levant: A Critical Anthology, published in 2018 by Brill.

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