(Originally written in 2007)
WHO are you?
WHERE have you come
from?
WHERE is your home?
ARE you going back?
A grey mother tent, on the bare Ranga Shankara stage at Bangalore, gives birth to
six others, amidst swirling questions about individual identity.Each tent with
a view pulses to life. They spin, twirl, collide, crawl, to choreograph our
worst fears about our globalized world. About dislocation. About territorial
strife. About nationhood, exile, longing and belonging. In an hour, each of us are
in the thick of an identity crisis, provoked by ‘Return to Sender — Letters from Tentland,’ a dance theatre
production by brilliant German director-choreographer Helena Waldmann, staged
on September 7, 2007.
Six young Berlin-based actresses of
Iranian origin are the cloaked faces of this extraordinary journey between
continents and cultures. The tent as a metaphor for our times provokes images from
our collective memory. Of itinerant labourers in Bangalore. Of Palestine. Of strife-torn Aghanistan. Or even
Sri Lanka.
And we acknowledge that this production, under auspices of the
Goethe-Institut/Max Mueller Bhavan, redefines political, avant-garde theatre as
a revitalizing force, as it is staged en route from Kabul
and New Delhi to Colombo.
Theatrically, the narrative takes
precedence over experimentation, however unfashionable within the contemporary
artistic context. Postcards from nowhere yoke Berlin with Teheran, then pit skyscrapers against
interior landscapes, the exiled against imaginary homelands, governments
against the individual. Projections on a foregrounded screen send affirmative correspondence
to six Iranian actresses in Teheran, from Waldmann and her cast, signed off
with “love from H.”
Who are these shadowy women, whose
absence permeates the performance? They are the lifeblood of this show’s
precursor, titled “Letters from Tentland,”
a poignant commentary about womanhood in Iran, the offspring of a 2004 Waldmann
workshop with Iranian actresses/ dancers in Teheran. The tensile creation
premiered at Teheran’s International
Fadjr Theatre Festival, touring 17 countries over 16 months, before Iran
banned it in 2005. The show exploited
loopholes to edge past the censors, for a solo woman could sing for a mere 20
seconds, and even a phantom was forbidden to dance. But monologues, slides, and
projected letters proved perfect ploys.
Interviewed in Bangalore on September 6, Waldmann recalls her
inspiring encounters with the feisty Iranian actresses, who couched their angst
about their lives, both personal and political, as letters to her. For instance, ‘Director, what are you doing to
us? You change the rules every other day!’
She backtracks to their first
workshop: “I asked them to look out of a window, then write a letter to
Teheran. One wrote: ‘Please God, come back from holiday.’ They are totally
lost. No one cares about their plight. They need help.”
The 2005 ban upset Waldmann. She stresses,
“As an artist, I felt that I couldn’t just do another piece as if nothing
happened. I asked the actresses from Berlin
to watch ‘Letters from Tentland’ and
somehow overwrite it.” The title of the original, slashed in the poster of the Bangalore show, traces
that parallel trajectory.
The Berlin actresses drew on their own
experiences, their dual identities, their constant search for a home. Within light
tents once used by their Teheran predecessors, their metaphorical mobility suggests
both home and the world. Their fears, their dreams, their plea for tolerance,
imbue the moving tents, in wordless communication as in passionate encounters.
Each layered resonance instigates another heart-rending quest, as their
missives to Teheran bounce back, marked ‘Return to Sender.’
Waldmann’s sharing is profoundly moving:
“In Palestine and Afghanistan, they saw ‘Return to Sender’ not as art, but as part
of their lives. They wonder: how can a country like Germany create a piece that seems
to be a warfield? The tents tell them it’s not about rich people or the lucky
ones. In Kabul or Ramallah, it was important for
them to see that others also have a hard life, even in Germany. You
cannot imagine what it means to have men sitting in the audience, crying.”
How do the participants, equally fluent
in Farsi and German, feel about the transformative experience, which has
already toured 10 countries, including Kenya and Serbia-Montenegro? “We
are Iranian in our language, food, music and customs. But German is our mother
tongue, Berlin our home city,” responds Sanam
Afrashteh, cosy on a sofa at their Bangalore
hotel. “Where do I locate myself? Does this have to be geographically defined?”
Niloufar Shahisavandi adds, “I pick
up what I like from both cultures, to create my own somehow. That’s the only
way I can handle this situation.”
Signalling the lack of a red carpet
for refugees in the first world, a tearful Javeh Asefdjah sighs, “For me, Berlin is nice. It
wasn’t so for my parents. My mother now lives in Teheran. It was tough for her
to be in a new country with no language, no job, no friends. Yet people ask me:
‘How can she live with the hijab? Doesn’t she want to be free?’ Each of us have
stories like this.”
How tough is it to identify an
identity? Pujeh Taghdisi, who came to Germany at eight, revisited Teheran, only
to discover, “I went back to the streets of my childhood, to a bakery to buy
bread. The man there asked, ‘You’re a foreigner, aren’t you?’ It’s hard to
accept. But yes, I am.”
How relative is freedom? How real
is fear? Beyond news bulletins, they investigate blood, sweat and real courage.
Pujeh says, “In Kabul, during the post-show interaction, when we invite either
the men or the women backstage, we were all crying. We met strong, fiery girls
of 15 or 16, who had set up their own theatre groups, fighting for open spaces
for the next generation. One girl had come to Kabul
from Herat. She
knew that, when she returned, her family wouldn’t accept her any more. But she
took the risk.”
Salome Dastmalchi, the only trouper
unafraid of the Kabul visit, took courage from a
1995 family holiday in strife-torn Israel. She recalls, “In Afghanistan,
the women hug you, give you so much love. You learn how to care about people.”
“We’re also discovering that if you
have a place inside you that you call home, then you don’t need to have a
country that you belong to, or a nationality that binds you. You can be strong
and say: wherever I am, is home,” concludes Sanam, whose father returned to Iran for two
weeks to stay on for 16 years. Perhaps that is the vital clue to global citizenry
or, in the words of an onstage monologue, to these ‘passport photographs from nowhere.’
(The Week, 2007)
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