January 8th - Thawrat al-Seerq
The first day of the circus.
Our first performance was in a hospital in Thawra, which means revolution. Hemce ‘thawrat al-seerq’ is the circus revolution. We went with Fadhil and performed after their play, clowning on stilts, just me and Amber, blowing bubbles and dancing, playing the kazoos and getting the kids to clap and dance along.
Fadhil is into the idea of putting together some kind of pantomime with us, using very little language, for adults more than kids. “We are waiting for the writers to start documenting and discussing the situation here now and the history of the last decades but they are still… “ He put his hands across his mouth. “They are afraid. They are afraid of all the different leaders, the different parties.”
Fadhil kept shaking his head as we clambered into the camp at what used to be the air force barracks. “All this money. All this money. Damn Saddam. He did not feed the people but he had money to build this. And all bombed by the Americans. Why?” Among the opulent rubble were two swimming pools, one indoors, one al fresco, likewise two theatres, their backstage doorways bricked up and a baby crying in the shack created behind one of them.
It would only take about an hour with some shovels to clear the outdoor one enough to fill with people and perform in. The indoor one is a ruin, stripped of everything by people desperate for a living. Four hundred homeless families live here. A baker called Abbas is acknowledged as the head of the camp. Fadhil teased the kids who were leading us to his house, a few rooms in the officers’ quarters. “Whose house is this?” “Abbas.” “Where does Abbas live?” “Here!” “Where is he?” “I don’t know.” “Oh. So whose house is this?” “ABBAS’!”
Abbas was in the bakery, but was into the idea of us coming to do a show, so he sent Mohammed with us to pick a place. The garden was too uneven for stilt walking. Fadhil didn’t fancy the stage dynamics of the concrete space where the boys were playing football. There was another open concrete space with people living in the remains of the buildings at one end, an enclosure built out of metal locker doors sealing one end of the accommodation.
Rubbish heaps bordered the area, where barefoot children were playing. Women came out and complained about the habit people had of dumping rubbish there. Fadhil was excited about the dramatic effect of having us pop up on stilts from behind the locker door contraption and, with his easy charm, asked permission from the woman who lives behind it.
I started doing cartwheels, inciting the kids to try. Some of them picked it up straight away, others just enjoyed flinging themselves about. One of the boys wears a baseball cap to partly conceal burns to his face and a damaged eye from the bombing. His home was burnt when a hospital nearby was hit. He didn’t join in the cartwheeling, but repeatedly shook our hands and thanked us for each cartwheel.
We made a deal – the older kids will clean up the square and we’ll come back and perform. Fadhil and his group will do the play about the tree and we’ll do the circus show and teach them some juggling and stilt walking and play parachute games. The square will be clear of rubbish and broken glass, which will make the women happy. Maybe there will be more dumped, but you never know.
Maybe the act of clearing it themselves gives them some pride in their place, such as it is, some feeling of control, responsibility, ownership, and maybe that means they keep the square as a community space and maybe the kids carry on practising whatever we teach them and maybe it gives them some hope, some fun, something. Maybe.
Fadhil is into the idea of putting together some kind of pantomime with us, using very little language, for adults more than kids. “We are waiting for the writers to start documenting and discussing the situation here now and the history of the last decades but they are still… “ He put his hands across his mouth. “They are afraid. They are afraid of all the different leaders, the different parties.”
Fadhil kept shaking his head as we clambered into the camp at what used to be the air force barracks. “All this money. All this money. Damn Saddam. He did not feed the people but he had money to build this. And all bombed by the Americans. Why?” Among the opulent rubble were two swimming pools, one indoors, one al fresco, likewise two theatres, their backstage doorways bricked up and a baby crying in the shack created behind one of them.
It would only take about an hour with some shovels to clear the outdoor one enough to fill with people and perform in. The indoor one is a ruin, stripped of everything by people desperate for a living. Four hundred homeless families live here. A baker called Abbas is acknowledged as the head of the camp. Fadhil teased the kids who were leading us to his house, a few rooms in the officers’ quarters. “Whose house is this?” “Abbas.” “Where does Abbas live?” “Here!” “Where is he?” “I don’t know.” “Oh. So whose house is this?” “ABBAS’!”
Abbas was in the bakery, but was into the idea of us coming to do a show, so he sent Mohammed with us to pick a place. The garden was too uneven for stilt walking. Fadhil didn’t fancy the stage dynamics of the concrete space where the boys were playing football. There was another open concrete space with people living in the remains of the buildings at one end, an enclosure built out of metal locker doors sealing one end of the accommodation.
Rubbish heaps bordered the area, where barefoot children were playing. Women came out and complained about the habit people had of dumping rubbish there. Fadhil was excited about the dramatic effect of having us pop up on stilts from behind the locker door contraption and, with his easy charm, asked permission from the woman who lives behind it.
I started doing cartwheels, inciting the kids to try. Some of them picked it up straight away, others just enjoyed flinging themselves about. One of the boys wears a baseball cap to partly conceal burns to his face and a damaged eye from the bombing. His home was burnt when a hospital nearby was hit. He didn’t join in the cartwheeling, but repeatedly shook our hands and thanked us for each cartwheel.
We made a deal – the older kids will clean up the square and we’ll come back and perform. Fadhil and his group will do the play about the tree and we’ll do the circus show and teach them some juggling and stilt walking and play parachute games. The square will be clear of rubbish and broken glass, which will make the women happy. Maybe there will be more dumped, but you never know.
Maybe the act of clearing it themselves gives them some pride in their place, such as it is, some feeling of control, responsibility, ownership, and maybe that means they keep the square as a community space and maybe the kids carry on practising whatever we teach them and maybe it gives them some hope, some fun, something. Maybe.