When Farah Cries A Stage Play by Mudar Al Haggi

When Farah Cries
A Stage Play by
Mudar Al Haggi
Translated by Nashwa Gowanlock
with Ruth Ahmedzai Kemp
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Stage Play
When Farah Cries is Mudar Al Haggi’s first comprehensive play to deal with the dilemmas, personal
approaches and unforeseeable emotional consequences
of inner or factual emigration from ongoing events
in Syria. It is based on documentary material and
dramaturgical sketches collected during his participation in the Tandem Shaml – Cultural Managers
Exchange programme. Temporarily exiled in Beirut,
Mudar Al Haggi and his Tandem Shaml partner organisation kitev ↗ www.kitev.de from Oberhausen in Germany
developed the documentary Now T_here. Based on
eye-witness accounts and video interviews, this
artistic research project introduced aspects of
day-to-day life under war conditions in Damascus
throughout 2013. A question that remains troubling
for many Syrians today is central to this mixed media
enactment: do I leave or do I stay?
Al Haggi’s stage play is directly inspired by
Nour Hmedan, an artist from Alswaydaa City, Syria,
who graduated from the College of Fine Arts at
Damascus University and now lives in Istanbul, Turkey.
Mudar Al Haggi, writer and artist
from Syria. From 2012-2013, he
represented Ettijahat. Independent
Culture in ECF’s Tandem Shaml –
Cultural Managers Exchange
programme between Europe and
the Arab Mediterranean Region.
Photo: Rami Al Homsi
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Stage Play
When Farah Cries
Mudar Al Haggi
Characters
Farah:
a young woman in her mid-twenties
Ahmed:
a young man in his early thirties
Donya:
a young woman in her mid-thirties
The Father:
Farah’s father, in his early sixties
The Officer:
in his fifties
“I work with inner dialogues which
I express with shadows and colored
spaces. I have strong contradicting
images in my mind, just like the
variety of life. My figures can be
me but maybe also you. They are
actually only a little bit about me,
more about the others. Maybe.”
Nour Hmedan
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Stage Play
Scene One
A small room, a bed, a table and a wardrobe. Farah and Donya enter the
room and close the door. They look as if they’ve been running away from
something. They’re out of breath.
your first protest like?” just like the question about the first kiss. But I stopped
asking when the answers became boring and predictable. They’d say, “I felt free
for the first time ever,” or “I felt like I owned the world, that I was strong, that,
for the first time, I knew what it felt like to express what’s inside me,” and so on.
Farah: Do you think they’re conventional responses?
Donya doesn’t reply.
Farah: Where are we?
Donya: In my room.
Donya throws herself onto the bed. Farah stays standing.
Farah: Are you sure nobody followed us?
Donya: Now we’re here, we’re safe. Sit down. Lie back and take a deep breath.
You’re safe now.
Donya pours a glass of water for Farah. Farah gulps the whole lot down.
Farah: I can’t believe I did that, and in Salihiya, of all places – right in front of the
parliament building!
Donya: Believe it! And soon we’ll do the same outside Umayyad Square, and
outside the Defence Ministry.
Farah: No way.
Donya: Anyone who reaches the parliament building in a protest can reach the
presidential palace.
Farah: What matters to me the most is that I did it.
Donya: I guess this was your first protest?
Farah: It was. I’ve tried to go before, lots of times, but I was always too scared.
Do you remember the artists’ protest in the Square? I’d planned to go but then
I got lost along the way, even though I know the area well. By the time I got
there, everyone had left.
Donya: Maybe deep down you wanted to get lost.
Farah: I wouldn’t be surprised. But I couldn’t have got lost at the parliament
today.
Donya: Then I’m lucky to have been able to join you on your first protest. My favourite question to any member of the opposition used to always be, “What was
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Farah: It’s cosy here. Do you live on your own?
Donya: For the past 10 years.
Farah: And your family?
Donya: They live here in Damascus, in Midan. I heard that they left but I’m not
sure.
Farah: Don’t you ever speak to them?
Donya: Not since I left home. Or to be precise, when... when my brother Khaled
reached puberty and discovered that he could get an erection and pump out
sperm… My mum was delighted and let him take on the role of my dad, who had
died a few years earlier. Khaled tried to hit me. So I hit him back and left home.
Farah: My heart is still beating incredibly fast she laughs softly, just like with my
first kiss. Your comparison’s perfect – it’s the feeling of both fear and ecstasy.
Donya: And astonishment.
Farah lies down. Silence.
Donya: What’s your name?
Farah: Farah.
Silence.
Donya: I’m Donya.
Farah: I didn’t see you during the protest.
Donya: There were lots of people there, more than expected. Are you a student?
Farah: I graduated two years ago. I did Fine Arts, specialising in sculpture.
Donya: Sculpture. You need strong fingers to sculpt! Your fingers are too soft.
Farah: Soft and strong.
Donya: Sculpting is difficult.
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Stage Play
Farah: But it’s fun. It may be the most difficult art form but sculptures will live
the longest. Anyway, I can’t resist a challenge.
Farah’s phone rings. Farah looks at the caller’s number for a few moments.
Farah: Do you have a hair dryer?
Donya: Yes.
Farah: Switch it on, quickly.
Farah: No. I’ve wanted to lots of times before but I never took that step. Each
time I wanted to go to a doctor for a different reason; I realised that I had lots of
different reasons, but there’s one I keep coming back to: the fact that I stopped
sculpting after I graduated. I’d like to keep it up but something’s stopping me.
Why? Are you a psychoanalyst?
Donya: I studied it but I’ve never practised.
Farah’s phone rings. Donya switches on the hair dryer.
Donya brings the hair dryer and switches it on but the phone stops ringing.
Farah answers. She raises her voice.
Farah: Switch it off.
Donya: What is it?
Farah: It’s my boyfriend. I told him I was at the hairdresser’s. He doesn’t let me
go out to protests.
Donya: Is he a government supporter?
Farah: Opposition, and he’s wanted. But he worries about me getting arrested
or beaten up.
Donya: Or raped.
Farah: Or something even more horrific. He doesn’t even mention everything
that worries him. It drives him mad just to imagine that I’ve crossed a red line.
For him, it’s not only about me being arrested.
Donya: Are you afraid of him or are you afraid of being arrested?
Farah: I don’t know. I can’t tell.
Donya: But you were at the protest.
Farah: I was scared.
Donya: It’s natural for you to feel scared, but the fact that you went to the protest means you overcame that fear.
Farah: How? What do you mean?
Donya: Let’s say that you’ve got some serious fears inside you, and that today
you overcame one of them, but not the biggest one. The way I see it, someone
who’s capable of overcoming the fear of being arrested is able to overcome all of
their fears. They may be capable of it but it doesn’t necessarily mean that they’ll
do it.
Farah: What you’re saying seems important, even though I don’t completely
understand it.
Donya: Have you ever visited a psychoanalyst?
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Farah: Ahmed, I’m not finished yet. The power was off. Speak louder. I was also
late getting my turn. I can’t hear you. They’ve started doing my hair and I can’t
suddenly stop. I understand, I understand, but I told you I can’t just leave all of
a sudden. Ahmed, there’s no need to get angry. Yes. Speak louder. Ahmed, Ahmed.
She hangs up.
Farah: He hung up. We’ve been living like this for months now. He calls every
hour to check up on me, especially when I leave the house. Things were easier
before; having my friends Ruba and Leila around made things easier. Ruba’s now
in Beirut, and as for Leila, she fled to Jordan after she was arrested and detained
for a month. I’m not in touch with them anymore. I don’t know why. I don’t have
anyone left except my father and Ahmed. I rarely leave the house, and when I do
it’s usually to go to Ahmed’s house where we spend most of our time watching
the news.
Donya: Ahmed loves you. But he seems difficult.
Farah: When Leila was arrested, a group of officers stripped her naked and then
made her wash their underwear. Then they ordered her to make coffee and to lie
down on the coffee table while they drank it. I couldn’t believe this story. How
can a group of officers all agree to such a vile act? Ever since Ahmed heard this,
he’s been monitoring my movements constantly. I’m told to be home by five
o’clock and he won’t let me write any comments on Facebook or post a photo.
I try to go along with it but I’m also frightened.
Donya: Why don’t you get married?
Farah: That’s impossible.
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Stage Play
Donya: Your family won’t allow it?
Farah: It would be impossible for my father to know about our relationship;
he’s a Sunni and I’m a Druze.
Donya: Is your father educated?
Farah: He’s a paediatrician.
Donya: And your mother?
Farah: She’s dead. Things can’t carry on like this. Ahmed will escape to Jordan
and I’ll follow him. We’ll live there together, just like a married couple. But we’ll
be safe. Ahmed doesn’t get angry when he feels safe.
Farah’s phone rings.
Farah: My father.
Donya automatically switches on the hair dryer.
Farah: Dad, I haven’t finished yet. Didn’t you hear me? I’m not finished yet.
I’ve only just started.
Donya picks up a hairbrush and begins to style Farah’s hair.
Farah: Dad, I won’t be late. I swear, I won’t be late. I’ll call you when I’m finished.
If you get hungry then don’t wait for me, please eat. Dad. OK, as you like.
Farah hangs up and Donya continues styling her hair.
Donya: What would happen if you married Ahmed and your father found out?
Farah: That’s impossible.
Donya: And what if you did?
Farah: He’d kill me.
Donya: But he loves you.
Farah: The family would disown him if he didn’t.
Donya: Does he love you or the family more?
Farah: You talk as if you live in Europe.
Donya: But he’s a doctor! I bet that it’s all in your imagination and that you’ve
never even considered what might actually happen. I don’t live in Europe as you
say, but I’m trying to imagine it. What if? He won’t eat until you get home, but
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he’ll kill you if you married someone from a different sect! Does that make
any sense?
Farah: No, it doesn’t make sense. But I have heard true stories about fathers
who killed their daughters for that very same reason.
Donya: Just like the officers and your friend Leila.
Farah: That was a true story.
Donya: The fact that it’s true doesn’t mean that it’ll happen to you.
Silence.
Farah: How come I didn’t see you at the protest?
Donya: Your hair’s beautiful. Don’t you dare cut it.
Farah: Why did you cut your hair? Your hair’s also beautiful.
Donya: The first time I cut it was after I hit Khaled and left the house. It wasn’t
the fact that my adolescent brother wanted to impose his authority on me that
hurt. What was painful was that the person who was doing it was Khaled. When
Khaled was little, no reward in the world could tempt him, no sweets, or parks or
children’s programmes. The only thing guaranteed to bring him round was the
chance to brush my hair. If anyone wanted anything from Khaled, they would
promise that they’d let him “brush Donya’s hair”. He would be over the moon and
would do anything to win this prize. He’d wait until the second I’d come out of
the bathroom when he’d grab the hairbrush and start. He’d brush my hair like
a professional and with an indescribable tenderness. And the strange thing was
that he would beg me to let him keep doing it. He’d also sound like an expert,
talking about how brushing your hair strengthens it and makes it more beautiful. But then Khaled grew up, and all of a sudden he wanted to hit me, because
of a tight pair of trousers I wanted to wear. I left home and I cut my hair for the
first time.
Farah: My mother always used to cut her hair.
Donya doesn’t answer, completely engrossed in styling Farah’s hair.
She turns off the hair dryer. A long silence.
Donya: Will you go out and protest again?
Farah: I don’t know if I can cope with this fear again. I can still hear the echoing
of the bullets.
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Stage Play
Donya: Think about the future. Before I experienced the protests, I used to think
that my only connections to this country, to Syria, were just ordinary emotions
like the ones they talk about at school. But I feel something else now; I feel that
Syria is mine. The stones of Bab Touma, the cafes in Qasiyun and the magicians
in Baramka all belong to me. Do you know what it means to suddenly realise
that these things belong to you, that you’re responsible for them and that you
can also enjoy them? But why did I only realise this after being part of the protests? Because I experienced what it’s like to be free. When you know what
it’s like to be free, you realise how strong you are. How did you feel at your
first protest?
Farah: Whatever I say, you’ll think it’s conventional. In general, I didn’t feel
anything, but what did get me really fired up was that my mother was protesting alongside me, with her short hair and the beauty spot on her right cheek.
She was happy and confident. Everything about the way she walked, the way
she chanted, her smile and her eyes, all said: “This is the solution! How could we
not see it before? Come on, Farah, you can go out and protest, there’s so much
you can do, you can do well at school, you can be beautiful and attractive, you
can say ‘No’.” Whenever I chanted, she would look at me and say, “Your voice
could be stronger”, and my voice would gradually get louder. Until the security
forces came. I shouted to her to run and she did. I’ve never run so fast in my life.
I could hear my mother’s footsteps as she ran behind me. Eventually I got tired
and turned around to look at her but I didn’t find her. You were the one running
behind me. You held me by the hand and led me here.
A long silence.
Donya: What would your mother have done if she found out that you were in
a relationship with a Sunni?
A long silence.
Donya switches on the hair dryer and continues styling Farah’s hair.
Lights down.
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Scene Two
Ahmed’s room. Ahmed is chain-smoking without a break. He lies down, sits,
stands and wanders to and fro without doing anything productive. Farah is
busy packing his clothes in a small suitcase.
Farah: I’ll put the socks in this corner, and I’ll put your toiletries and shaving
things in this plastic bag and the shirts at the bottom of the suitcase. I packed
them the way you prefer.
Ahmed: That’s the right way, not the way I prefer.
Farah: Let’s say that you always prefer doing things the right way.
Ahmed: And you?
Farah: I prefer you. She smiles. Please check the bag before you close it.
Ahmed: You finished that quickly. You check it; I won’t be able to remember anything now. I’m worried that the car won’t come. I’m not tense but I am worried.
Farah: You’re not tense but you’re worried. What you’re going through is natural.
Ahmed: I’ll be worried about you. You’re still trying to persuade me to let you
stay out for an extra hour. That means that when you come home on time, you
don’t do it because you really want to, and that you aren’t really convinced about
how important it is for you to get back early. Remember, this is what we agreed
on and not something I’m forcing you to do.
Farah: You aren’t forcing me to do anything, but sometimes I’m late because it’s
necessary. Five o’clock in the evening is very early.
Ahmed: No, that’s not it. And necessity isn’t more important than your safety.
Farah: But life is normal in Syria. The markets are teeming with people, until
nine or ten.
Ahmed: Well, we don’t have to do the same, Farah. And why are you arguing as
if I’m forcing this on you. Didn’t we agree on it?
Farah: Yes, we agreed, darling, but what I want from you is to understand that
sometimes I’m forced into being late.
Ahmed: Things are different now. I’ll be abroad and I’ll be much more worried
about you. All I’ll know about what’s happening here is what I’ll be seeing on
the news, and the only thing that’ll reassure me is knowing that you’re keeping
to what we agreed.
Farah: Would you feel better if I promised that I would stick to our agreement?
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Stage Play
Ahmed: I don’t know. I feel as if there’s nothing in this world that can make
me feel better. I can’t accept the fact that I’m leaving Damascus. But then I ask
myself, am I really living in Damascus? I haven’t left the house in the last three
months. What difference would it make if I uprooted this house and set it down
in Amman or Beirut, or anywhere else? Then at least I’d leave the house.
But really I left Damascus three months ago.
Farah: You’ve been doing a lot during those three months in the house.
Ahmed: Should I have held on for longer?
Farah: For what?
Ahmed: I don’t know. Where are the smart black shoes?
Farah: Don’t tell me you want them.
Ahmed: Do I have to tell you everything I want? Why don’t I pack it myself?
He starts packing the suitcase himself. Farah stops him.
He doesn’t stop her and goes back to sitting on the bed.
Ahmed: Sometimes I think about going back to the village in Aleppo. I can do
a lot there, but the thing that stops me from going back is that I think I might
not be able to stand living there. That’s just one part of it, but it’s true. I lie to
myself and say that I’ll be more productive if I leave the country. On my last visit
to the village, everything was comfortable, which might have been because
I was just a guest and because they looked after me as if I were a guest. But I
couldn’t imagine living there, suffering the scorching heat without fans or air
conditioning, getting through the morning without coffee because there’s no
gas or electricity, putting up with the slow pace of life. Even the people, they’re
as nice and kind as they always have been, but I still feel like I’m different from
them, even though we’re on the same side of the revolution and even though
I agree with their approach to the struggle. But it’s the puzzled way they look
at me that hasn’t changed since before the revolution. Do you know, Farah,
something strange happened to me on that trip to the village. I was sitting with
a group of activists and, to make my presence felt, I told them a sex joke. No one
laughed when I’d finished. They just looked at me in a strange way that I couldn’t
figure out. Maybe it was a look of disapproval, or rejection, or embarrassment.
But what was even stranger was that it was the same look they’d given me once,
before the revolution, when I’d told them a rude, political joke.
Farah: You’ll let me know once you’ve crossed, the border, right? Don’t look for
work straightaway, take a bit of a break and relax. You need time to calm down.
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Meet Adnan and Kamel. Go out together and have a drink, stay out late.
How long has it been since you stayed out late with them? Please don’t think
about the problems here, and don’t worry about me. It won’t be long before
I come and join you.
Ahmed: That won’t be until I settle in. And I know what life’s like there; Jordan
is a conservative country and it might not be a good idea for us to live together.
Farah: Will my father let me go?
Ahmed: He will. Trust me; he loves you.
Farah: Maybe he won’t let me because he loves me.
Ahmed: Even if he stopped you from going, this won’t last for long. I’ll be
back soon.
Farah: How can I be sure?
Ahmed: It’s clear from everything that’s happening that things won’t stay like
this for long. Why don’t you have faith in me? The bombing of the National
Security office, the huge numbers of desertions, the Free Army reaching the
heart of Damascus; what does all that mean? I’m leaving today but don’t be
surprised if next week we get together again here.
Farah: I have faith in you. But nothing is certain.
Ahmed: I promise you.
Silence.
Farah: She screams suddenly. Oh my God – where’s the foot powder? I forgot
to pack it.
Ahmed: Good God! Foot powder, Farah? Foot powder? I’m going to be sneaking
across the border on my belly. There’ll be an entire battalion of the Free Army
with me. I’ll need to be ready to run at any moment. I might get shot, and I might
also be arrested. So I only need to pack the most essential things, and only
what’s essential... Foot powder?!
Farah: I’m sorry.
Ahmed: What really annoys me is that you don’t seem to understand how
dangerous the situation is.
Farah: Don’t I!
Ahmed: I feel like you don’t believe that the journey I’m going on is really that
dangerous, or maybe you think that anyone could do it.
Farah: OK, I won’t put the foot powder in.
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Stage Play
Silence.
Farah: What about the nail clippers?
Silence.
Farah: Fighting off tears. I don’t want to be far away from you. And I wouldn’t
like it if you stayed here. And I can’t travel with you.
Ahmed: He hugs her. Please, anything but crying.
Farah: I promised you before that I wouldn’t cry but sometimes I can’t control
myself.
Ahmed: If you don’t stop then I’ll stay here and won’t go.
Farah: I’ll stop.
of ways to entertain myself and to waste time, I won’t feel lonely, I won’t be pessimistic, I won’t watch the news, I won’t be influenced by what people say about
the dark future, and I won’t believe anyone who says that the crisis is far from
over. But when I think to myself, I won’t use the word ‘crisis’; I’ll call it a revolution.
I won’t sit with Dima or Yazan or anyone wanted by the security forces. I won’t
react if any of them mentions a conspiracy or the abstention in front of me. If
anyone asks, I’ll say that I’m pro-Syria. What’s important is for you not to worry.
Ahmed: Believe me, these days we’re living through won’t last much longer.
You only need to visit my village in Aleppo and to look into people’s eyes to
believe what I believe.
Ahmed’s mobile phone rings once.
Ahmed: He’s arrived.
She tries to stop but can’t.
Ahmed closes the suitcase and gets ready to go out.
Ahmed: I won’t go. I’m serious, I won’t go.
Farah: Don’t be crazy.
Ahmed: Angry. So what do you expect me to do? I can’t bear to imagine you
crying while I’m in Jordan. Now you’re crying when you’re near me. You know
that my heart can’t stand this. I’m responsible for you. I feel like I exist so that you
don’t cry. How can I be sure that you won’t cry while I’m in Jordan? I won’t go.
Farah: My darling, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.
Ahmed: Liar.
Farah: I’ll stop myself from crying for your sake. The look in your eyes when I cry
is tougher than my tears.
Ahmed: Yesterday I saw my father in a dream. He was silent, as usual, and I tried
to talk to him but he didn’t reply. I told him I was happy that I could see him and
that he was still alive. I told him I needed to touch him, to hear his voice, to know
the reason for his sadness. I remember that I begged him to tell me who it was
that had made him so sad. I said to him, “Tell me who’s upset you and I promise
I’ll bring back his head.” Can you imagine, Farah, that I said that to him?
Farah: It’s you he’s sad about. You have to go so that his soul can rest.
Ahmed: My soul is going to be restless with worry over you.
Farah: Don’t worry. I’ll be home by five. I won’t post anything on Facebook except
love poems. I won’t look at revolutionary websites and I won’t open any protest
videos. I won’t leave Jermana except to go to Bab Touma or Qusaa. I’ll find lots
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Farah: I believe in you. I always trust you, and I believe that you won’t leave me,
that you won’t lie to me.
Ahmed: I won’t.
Farah: And I’ll stick to what we agreed and I won’t lie.
Ahmed: You never lie.
He hugs her. A long silence.
Ahmed: I have to go.
Farah: I went out to a protest.
A long silence. Ahmed stands frozen. Again, his mobile rings just once.
Ahmed: If it happens again, we’ll break up.
Silence.
Farah: Do you mean if I go out to a protest again, or if I lie?
He leaves. Lights down.
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Stage Play
Scene Three
An old office. A table, a metal wardrobe and a group of chairs. Farah is
standing, trembling with fear, with signs of torture on her body. A police
officer enters.
Officer: You haven’t seen anything yet. I picked the friendly ones to welcome you
but there are others, they’re crazy and they’re ravenous. I just have to give the
signal and they’ll devour you. You can avoid all of that if you confess.
Farah: I don’t have anything to say.
Officer: Why are you travelling to Amman?
Farah: To look for work.
Officer: What do you do?
Farah: I don’t work.
Officer: What work are you looking for?
Farah: I don’t know.
Officer: We heard that you collect donations for the Free Army.
Farah: I’m against the Free Army.
Officer: And that bracelet that was in your bag, hasn’t it got the Free Army’s flag
on it?
Farah: No, that’s the flag of the revolution.
Officer: You support the revolution but are against the Free Army?
Farah: I’m against the revolution.
Officer: And the bracelet?
Farah: It’s not mine.
Officer: Who are you going to meet in Amman?
Farah: I won’t meet anyone.
Officer: And how will you look for work?
Farah: My friends will help me.
Officer: So you’ll meet your friends. Are they members of the opposition?
Farah: No.
Officer: Supporters of the government?
Farah: No… They’re pro-Syria.
Officer: Pro-Syria...They’re pro-Syria. And what do you think we are? Pro-Brazil?
Farah: They’re anti-militarisation.
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Officer: Government supporters who are anti-militarisation.
Farah: No.
Officer: Members of the opposition who are anti-militarisation and pro-Syria.
Farah: They aren’t members of the opposition.
Officer: What’s your story?
Farah: I don’t have a story. I’m travelling to Jordan and I don’t know how that
bracelet got in my bag.
She starts crying again.
The officer freezes completely as if he doesn’t know what he’ll do with her.
Officer: He explodes with anger. Shut up. I’ll call the units – they’ll know exactly
how to shut you up.
Farah: Please, no.
Officer: Then shut up. I hate women’s crying.
A long silence. The officer lights up a cigarette.
Officer: How old are you?
Farah: Twenty-four.
Officer: Do you study?
Farah: I graduated with a Fine Arts degree last year.
Officer: What was your specialty?
Farah: Sculpture.
Officer: Who put the bracelet in your bag, Farah?
Farah: I don’t know.
Officer: It must be someone who wants to hurt you.
Farah: It must be.
Farah won’t stop crying. The officer screams.
Officer: Stop crying! He kicks the chair over with his foot.
A silence that goes on for as long as possible.
The officer pulls the chair upright again,
placing it opposite Farah, who is completely silent.
They look at each other for a long time.
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Stage Play
Farah: Why do you hate women’s crying?
The officer is surprised by her question. He slaps her hard. Silence.
Farah: The bracelet is Ahmed’s. He gave it to me before he left. I kept it because
it’s my only present from him. I’m not sure if I’ll meet him again. He also hates
women’s tears, or maybe only my tears. He’ll do anything so that I won’t cry.
That’s why I’ve stopped crying completely.
Officer: Did your father mourn her death?
Farah: Yes. It was as though he was the orphan, not me.
Officer: But you think your mother wasn’t happy.
Farah: He didn’t pay her attention when she was alive.
Officer: And she got that attention from another man instead.
Farah: I would have forgiven her if she had.
Officer: And what about him? Here you are, also leaving, without giving him a
second thought. Why? So you can be free? Or do you want him to punish you?
Silence.
Officer: Who do you live with?
Farah: With my father.
Officer: Does he know about you travelling to Jordan?
Farah: No.
Officer: Does he know about Ahmed?
Farah: No.
Officer: What does he do?
Farah: He’s a paediatrician.
Officer: So you’re running away from him then. Do you hate him?
Farah: No.
Officer: You love your mother more.
Farah: My mother’s dead.
Officer: You used to love her more.
Farah: No. Maybe. I don’t know.
Officer: And your brothers and sisters?
Farah: I’m an only child.
Officer: Why didn’t they have more children? Were they divorced?
Farah: No, but they weren’t really compatible. Or maybe they were. But my
mother wasn’t happy with him.
Officer: Did she tell you that?
Farah: No. I guessed that she wasn’t happy. Their relationship was very strange.
Officer: What do you mean, it was strange?
Farah: My mum was always silent. She did everything she was supposed to do.
She used to look after him as if he was her child. Everything happened quietly
and in an orderly manner, but she wasn’t happy, to the extent that I actually
think she wanted to die.
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Silence.
Farah: I love him.
Silence that goes on for as long as possible.
Officer: Give me his phone number.
Farah: Who? My father?
Officer: Yes.
Silence. Farah doesn’t move a muscle.
Officer: Give me the number.
Farah: They took my phone.
Officer: You know it by heart.
Farah: Zero, nine, three, three, nine, eight, four, eight, one.
The officer dials the number. As he makes the call, he walks in and out of the office,
sometimes disappearing so parts of the conversation cannot be heard.
Officer: Hello, doctor. Colonel Omran here. Your daughter Farah is detained with
us at the Syria-Jordan border section. She was heading to Amman. We found her
in possession of a bracelet bearing the flag of the revolution. Yes. Yes. It’s true,
that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.
He is at the farthest possible point from Farah and lowers his voice so that it’s inaudible.
He nods in agreement with what the father is saying. He freezes for a moment then seems
surprised. He walks back towards Farah and some of his words can be heard.
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Stage Play
That’s what I told her. But she doesn’t understand and it doesn’t seem like
she will understand. He nods in agreement. His voice becomes inaudible as he moves
further away, then as he returns it becomes clear again. She talks about things as if
everything’s settled. Has she thought about the past? Has she considered the
future? If only she knew… He disappears for a few moments then returns.… And you
find yourself feeling as if you’re from another world, as if you’re both in two very
different places. And you ask yourself, can she hear you? Does she believe what
you’re saying? And you refuse to accept that she’s far, far away. He disappears for
a few moments then returns. If only she understood this. If she would only realise
what I want from her, and for her. He disappears for a few moments then returns.
But you’re always in that distant place. He disappears for a few moments then returns.
How could she utter those words to me? He disappears for a few moments then
returns, looking as though something is the matter. And as if you don’t have a heart,
as if you are nothing, no one. He disappears for a long time then returns to sit opposite
Farah. He listens to the father and looks at Farah despondently. This carries on for a while,
without him saying anything, until he finally speaks. But you haven’t told me, shall we
let her carry on to Amman? Or send her back to Damascus? OK. Goodbye.
He hangs up. He returns to his chair. He lights a cigarette.
He contemplates Farah for a few moments.
Officer: To Damascus.
Lights down.
Scene Four
Farah is in bed in her bedroom. She has a fever. Her father is beside her,
measuring her temperature.
Father: It looks like you need an injection.
He immediately begins to prepare the injection.
Farah: I’m fine now. The pill will take care of it. There’s no need for an injection.
Father: It’s not you who decides.
Farah: Please, dad. I don’t want it.
Father: Your temperature is almost 40.
Farah: But I don’t feel anything.
Father: That’s normal. You won’t feel anything, no matter how high your
temperature gets.
Farah: Please, I don’t want one. You know I hate injections.
Father: That was when you were a child; now you’re all grown up and can
travel to Amman without telling your father.
Farah: Dad, I’m scared of injections and I’m not all grown up.
He pierces the bottle with the needle of the syringe and begins to fill it.
Father: I’ll change the needle that I used to pierce the bottle. That’ll make it
less painful.
Farah: That won’t change anything, dad. I won’t be able to stand the pain.
Father: You need to trust me. Don’t you always say that my hands are gentle?
Isn’t that why I’m a successful doctor?
Farah: They may be gentle but it’s still an injection. Please.
Father: Turn around.
Farah: No.
Father: Why were you going to Jordan?
Farah: To work.
Father: Why don’t you work here?
Farah: There’s no work here. And would you have let me work here?
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Father: Not before things calm down completely. I’ve emptied out all the air.
Farah: Please, there’s no need for the injection.
Father: Turn around. Do you work with the opposition?
Farah: No, dad, I don’t work with the opposition.
Father: And what’s the story with the bracelet?
Farah: A gift from a friend.
Father: Why would you keep a gift like that, and carry it in your suitcase?
He wets a cold compress and places it on her face.
Father: I can’t believe you were going to Jordan without telling me. I can’t
believe my daughter was detained by the intelligence agency. You, Farah, you’re
still afraid of injections yet you try to run off to another country, carrying a revolutionary bracelet with you. Farah... Farah...
Farah doesn’t answer. It looks as if she’s fallen asleep.
Silence. Farah doesn’t want to respond to the question.
Father: Turn around.
Farah turns around. The father starts to sterilise the area where he will inject.
Father: Where were you going? Where were you going to stay?
Farah: At my friend Leila’s house.
He inserts the syringe. Farah starts to scream.
Father: Wasn’t Leila the one who was arrested?
Father: What did I do to make you run away? I haven’t explained to you the
reason you exist, because I thought you already knew. I wouldn’t have been able
to understand how your mother could have left us if it wasn’t for you. You’re the
proof that she hasn’t left. And the proof that I’m able to carry on. Able to carry
on. To get angry. To cry. I’ve never cried in front of you before, but I cried in front
of your mother many times. To be honest, it was because I could cry in front of
her that I didn’t divorce her. And because she knew everything about me, even
things that I didn’t say. And she let me get angry. And she completely forgave me,
like you forgive me. And she used to listen to me and would sometimes interrupt
me. Actually, she would often interrupt me and I used to get angry when she
interrupted me because it meant that she wasn’t listening to me. But she used
to listen to me and understand me, just like you understand me.
Farah screams louder. He sterilises the site of the injection.
He applies the cold compress.
Father: Leila works with the opposition.
Farah: Exhausted. No, dad, Leila doesn’t work with the opposition anymore.
Father: Are you lying to me?
Farah: Dad, I want to sleep.
Father: Who does Leila live with?
Farah: With her brother, Ghassan.
Father: Where is Leila from?
Farah: From Aleppo.
Father: That means they’re with the opposition. And that means that she has
links with the Free Army and her brother may be a fighter with them.
Farah: Drowsiness calming her down. No, dad. Leila and Ghassan are antimilitarisation.
Father: And you?
Farah: And I am too.
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Father: She would never forget to leave some water by the bed for me at night,
and in the mornings to make the coffee and switch the TV channel to Al Jazeera,
and to put the teapot on the hob before we started eating. She would always
remember, the same way you always remember. And you’re just like her when
you take the ashtray away, forgetting that I smoke. And you also know how
I can’t stand the cold and the extreme heat, just like she did. Sometimes she
would forget and raise her voice just like the way you scream, sometimes,
when you don’t know that I’m there.
He applies the cold compress again.
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Stage Play
Scene Five
Father: Why did you try to run away? Just like her when she tried to die. What do
I have to do to convince you that I love you? That I need you? Your mother didn’t
tell me, but why won’t you tell me?
Farah wakes up, panicked.
In Donya’s bedroom. The bedroom is pitch black, with the only light coming
from Donya’s cigarette. There is persistent tapping on the door, faint at first
but getting louder. Donya finally decides to open the door, and finds Farah.
Farah: Dad.
A long silence.
Father: Are you OK?
Farah: Dad, I’m tired.
Father: Your temperature’s started to drop.
Farah: I want to go to the hairdresser’s. Will you let me?
Father: But you won’t cut your hair?
Farah: I won’t cut it.
Father: Then you can go.
He puts the cold compress on her.
Lights down.
Donya: It’s you. Come in.
Donya switches on a soft light in the room.
Donya: You remembered the way to my house.
Farah: It was difficult but I recognised the smell of bread coming from the
bakery next door. I still remember it.
Donya: Coffee?
Farah: Coffee.
Donya prepares the coffee.
Farah: How can you stand living alone?
Donya: Just like you can stand living with another person. I tried living with
other people. I couldn’t bear it and neither could they. I think I can be quite
irritating and can’t live with other people.
Farah: Not even with a boyfriend?
Donya: Especially not with a boyfriend. Living with someone you love is a test
for the relationship. I find it all ridiculous – whose sofa is it, who gets to be in
charge of the remote control, who’ll fry the eggs, who’ll take out the bin, who’ll
clean the sink, who’ll decide which friends to have over and what drink to offer
them. I’m not lazy, and I’m not really talking about specific examples, but when
I think of love, I think about it differently, I guess. I don’t want to follow anyone,
or be responsible for anyone.
Farah: But that’s difficult.
Donya: So is sculpture. But when you sculpt you decide the form of the
sculpture, like I decide the form of the life I want.
A long silence.
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Stage Play
Donya: Why are you holding yourself back from crying?
Farah: I tried to run away to Jordan. I was arrested at the border because of
a bracelet I had with me. They beat me. They put out cigarettes on my hand until
a senior officer came and took me away. He called my father and they agreed to
send me back to Damascus.
Donya: And now?
Farah: I’m waiting. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Escaping to Jordan was
my final chance.
Donya: How can escape be the final chance?
Farah: Yesterday I argued with my dad about where my bed should be. He wants
to move me away from the window. He says it’s dangerous to have my bed so
close to the window, in case there’s an explosion or a missile lands. I don’t want
to move away from the window, not because I’m not afraid of dying, but because
I’ve started to wish that I might die that way, that a missile might land on my
bed; that would be the most peaceful end. Escape is an opportunity when you
believe that what’s happening around you defies belief. The stench of war is
everywhere: the missiles, the explosions, the noise of the ambulance sirens
and the funerals.
Donya: Would you be happy if you lived with Ahmed now?
Farah: Happy! I don’t think I’m capable of being happy, even if I lived with
Ahmed.
Donya: Even if you got married?
Farah: Got married! I don’t even dare think about it. I’ve convinced him over the
years that I’m not interested in marriage. At the beginning I was lying, but after
a while I started to believe it – that I’m not interested in marriage, that we can
just live in the present. That’s what we decided on.
Donya: And now?
Farah: I don’t know. All I want is to sleep near him.
Donya: Are you sure he wants to marry you? And that being from different sects
is what’s really stopping him?
Farah: Yes, I’m sure.
Donya: But this story has to have an ending.
Farah: We’re quite capable of putting off thinking about it.
Donya: Capable! That word is used when there’s another option. To put off thinking about the ending means that you don’t know what kind of an ending you
want and that you’re waiting for an ending to impose itself. Then you won’t have
to accept any responsibility for taking a decision and you can call yourself the
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victim. You’re your own victim, the victim of the moment that you put off
for thinking about the ending.
Farah: Any decision we take will mean something will be lost. Things will end
up changing into having to choose between losing one thing or the other.
Donya: You’ve got split ends; you need to trim your hair.
Farah: Cut it for me.
Donya: I’m not a professional.
Farah: That doesn’t matter.
Donya begins to trim Farah’s hair.
Donya: A few days ago I bumped into my brother Khaled at a protest. It made me
anxious seeing him and I expected him to either look away or to try to hit me,
but he didn’t. He was happy to see me. He came and stood near me and started
chanting enthusiastically with me, “The Syrian people won’t be humiliated”.
Then the firing started. Khaled disappeared shortly after that. I hid in one of the
alleys by the side of a wide road and spotted him on the other side. I signalled to
get his attention. He smiled because he could see I was OK, and began shouting something from the other side. He was trying to say something to me. The
sounds of the bullets were drowning out his voice. Maybe he was telling me off
for cutting my hair. Maybe he was asking me to go back. And maybe he was
trying to let me know that my mother was OK.
Farah: And here I am, saying goodbye to some of my hair.
Donya: If you looked after your hair then it wouldn’t have split ends and you
wouldn’t have had to lose some of it. You need to use oil treatments. Try not
to brush it when it’s wet and use a wide-toothed comb, and once a month use
a conditioner after the shampoo. And you should sleep on a satin pillowcase.
Farah: I haven’t looked after my hair since Ahmed left.
Donya: Your beauty is yours and no one else’s.
Silence.
Farah: Do you decide what form you would like your life to have?
Donya: I go for days here without seeing the sun. I won’t shower so that I can
smell the natural odour of my body and feel alive. And feel sorry that I’m still
alive. I leave food in the room so that I can watch the ants, play with them, and
get drunk with them. I spend the night with the ants and beer. Suddenly, and
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Stage Play
without any reason, I let sunshine back into my room. I shower, put something
sexy on and go down to Saroja. It’s easy to find someone to sit with there, and
I make sure not to let anyone have my address.
Farah: I don’t know if I’d be able to live like that.
Donya: Go. You shouldn’t stay here.
Farah: I don’t think I can. It seems like leaving Damascus is harder than staying.
Donya: No. You can do it.
Farah gets up. She starts to leave.
Farah: And what about you?
Donya: I won’t leave this room. I won’t leave Syria. There’s nothing I need to
travel for because I’m also not capable of being happy. And as for travelling so
that I can find some sort of safety: I don’t think I’ll find a safer place in the world
than this room, than my loneliness in this room. Death is very close here. That’s
a frightening thought but also reassuring. Maybe safety for me is choosing the
place that I’ll die in.
Farah: There’s no need for us to stay in touch? Donya, you’re harsh.
Donya: When you go back to sculpting you’ll find that you’re capable of choosing
the ending you want, or you’ll transfer the ending you want onto your sculpture.
Farah: And what about you?
Donya returns to her bed.
It looks as if she’s put an ant on her hand and is watching it moving around on her hand.
Donya: Days in darkness and days in sunshine. That’s my life. I have something
to do here. I met a handsome man and he suggested that we get involved in
relief work together. I’m thinking about kidnapping him for a few days to live
with me in the darkness. With my darling ants.
Farah: Don’t the ants bite you?
Donya: No. My ants are nice. They don’t bite me and if they did, then their bites
would be gentle.
Farah smiles and leaves.
She picks up the locks of Farah’s hair and wraps them in tissue.
Donya: I’ll keep it.
A long silence.
Farah: Does that mean we won’t meet again?
Donya: Maybe.
Farah: Will we talk on Skype?
Donya: I don’t like using it, but I will for you. On one condition: I won’t switch
the camera on or speak to you unless I see that you’re next to a sculpture that
you’re working on.
Farah: What kind of a condition is that? You know I’ve stopped sculpting and
that I can’t do it anymore.
Donya: It’s up to you.
Farah: Are you serious? You’re putting such a difficult condition on us staying
in touch!
Donya: If you don’t go back to sculpting then there’s no need for us to stay
in touch.
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Stage Play
Scene Six
The father’s clinic. The father is alone. There’s a knock on the door.
Father: Come in.
Donya enters.
Father: Welcome.
Donya: Donya, Farah’s friend.
The father interrupts Donya.
They shake hands.
Father: Hello. She hasn’t spoken to me about you before.
Donya: Do you know all of her friends?
Father: I’m used to her telling me about them.
Donya: She should get you used to surprises then.
A long silence.
Father: It seems like she doesn’t need that advice. Are you from Suwaida?
Donya: From Damascus, Midan.
Silence.
Father: From Midan.
Donya: Strange?
Father: No, but I have a lot of friends from Midan. Married?
Donya: No, and I won’t marry.
Father: Argh. Why? Men don’t deserve to be rejected like that.
Donya: Of course they don’t deserve it. I’m being unfair to men.
Father: Strange.
Donya: Yes, strange for a girl my age, right? Just as strange as the fact that
Farah and I became friends when she’s quite a few years younger than me.
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Father: It seems that my questions annoyed you. But you must be used to
these kinds of questions. We have to be very careful these days. Farah is my only
daughter; I worry about her and I have a right to want reassurance about everything in her life.
Donya: That’s true. So you know she’s safe and sound.
Father: Exactly.
Donya: I can see how safe she feels from her tired eyes and pale face.
Father: I’ll take her to Suwaida during the holidays.
Donya: Does she want to go to Suwaida?
Father: Children don’t usually understand their parents’ logic. You probably
have the same experience with your own family?
Donya: I left them years ago.
Father: They must have hurt you.
Donya: I don’t know what you’d consider hurtful, but for me, the situation is
a matter of will. My will versus my family’s. Not unlike the revolution.
Father: The revolution.
Donya: A bit like it.
Father: How old were you then?
Donya: Twenty.
Father: And do you think you were able, at that young age, to make difficult
decisions?
Donya: Maybe not, but that’s what I believe in and still do.
Father: I don’t understand. How can such a noble act like the revolution be
associated with illogical and ill-judged actions?
Donya: How old are you now?
Silence. The father lets out a forced laugh.
Father: Me? You’re asking me how old I am? OK... 50.
Donya: So is it your age that’s the most appropriate age for the revolution?
Father: No, my dear, there’s no specific age that’s more appropriate for the revolution than any other. You’re too mature to misinterpret what I’ve said like that.
What I wanted to express was that the revolution isn’t just an outburst of rage
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or an outright rejection of everything negative. Thinking, in itself,
is a kind of revolutionary act.
Donya: So you’re a government supporter then.
Father: I reject these distinctions.
Donya: Isn’t the Syrian revolution, in your opinion, a reckless act?
Father: The situation is more complicated, and things aren’t the way you’re
painting them to be. It’s a disgusting, international game. And if you want to
understand it, you only have to look at a map and see where Syria lies.
Donya: I don’t think that the people who went out onto the streets to stand up
to the security forces had time to look at a map.
Father: Can’t you see? That’s exactly what I’m saying.
Donya: Well, then I think that looking at a map would give fresh force to the
revolution.
Father: You were 20 when you left your family. Can you even begin to imagine
the loss they must have felt with you gone? You can say that you’ve lived a freer
life, but imagine that you’re in a car accident, that a car runs you over and you’re
taken to a hospital where you’ll suffer alone, and in pain. You’ll need someone to
help you to go to the toilet, someone to put up with your screaming, and you’ll
be bored of the bed, the room and the food. You might find yourself a friend,
but they’ll only be able to stand it for a few hours. Can you imagine an experience like this without your mother by your side? And besides, did your mother
deserve the pain you caused her when you left home?
You’ll always find someone there to put up with your mood, someone who’ll
try to please you, always. Things will carry on as you’re used to, until you die.
Or until Farah dies. Like your wife died. Like your mother died.
Father: It’s time to close the clinic.
Donya: Farah is wanted by the security forces and we have to smuggle her out
immediately.
Father: How? Who are you to find something like this out?
Donya: When I heard about what happened with Farah, I wanted to check that
she was OK, so I asked my friends in the Free Army. The answer I got was that
she’s wanted.
Father: If she’s wanted, then why did they release her?
Donya: She wasn’t wanted then but they kept her laptop with them.
Isn’t that right?
Father: Yes.
Donya: And it seems that there were some videos on the laptop related to
the revolution.
Father: She deleted them all.
Donya: They can recover deleted files. After they watched the videos, her name
was circulated to the borders. My friends can help us smuggle her to Jordan.
She can enter Jordan in a legitimate way but we have to do it now.
A long silence.
The father is in a total daze. He comes out of his stupor suddenly.
A long silence.
Donya: And is that why you’re a government supporter?
Father: I can see now why Farah ran away.
Donya: I wouldn’t mind being the reason, but I’m not.
Father: Listen, you can destroy your own life as you please, but I won’t allow you
to cause my daughter any pain. Leave Farah alone.
Father: You’re the reason for all of this. Get out of here. Why Farah? Why don’t
they arrest you?
Donya: Do you want to call the relevant units now and tell them there’s a vandal
in your clinic who’s guilty of destroying your life? I don’t have a problem with
being arrested; no one will miss me.
The father lifts the receiver and dials a number.
A long silence.
Donya: I’ll leave her alone. I’ll disappear completely, and that way you and your
daughter can live safe and sound. Things will carry on the way you’re used to;
nothing new, no danger, no change. You won’t have to suffer the dangerous experience of being taken into hospital alone. You’ll always find someone to shout at.
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Father: Farah, my darling, are you OK? Nothing, nothing. Listen, I’m coming
home. Don’t open the door to anyone until I get there. He starts to put the
receiver down then continues the conversation. Farah, listen, get your suitcase
ready, we’re going to Suwaida, I’ll explain later.
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He hangs up. A long silence.
Donya: I wouldn’t advise you to go to Suwaida. That road is full of checkpoints.
A long silence. The father takes out a packet of cigarettes
from the desk drawer and lights a cigarette.
Father: You must have hurt him very much.
Donya: He died before I could cause him any pain.
Father: But I’m alive.
Silence.
Donya: The more we delay, the more difficult it will be to smuggle her out.
Father: So what now?
Donya: Can I have a cigarette?
A long silence. Donya leaves.
The father gives Donya a cigarette.
She places it between her lips and moves closer to him, waiting for him to light it.
Donya: You have lots of options, but the safest one will be the most expensive.
Father: I don’t believe this.
Donya: You don’t have any time left.
Father: Do you know anyone who can help?
Donya: Maybe – are you prepared to work with the Free Army?
Father: Is there no other way?
Donya: No.
Father: It’ll be dangerous to communicate with the Free Army.
Donya: Communicating with the shitty security isn’t any less dangerous.
Don’t worry, I can take care of it.
Father: I don’t want to.
Donya: Keep all the options open.
Father: Why is all this happening?
Donya: It might be too late to ask a question like that.
Father: Do you know what it means for Farah to leave?
Donya: Do you really love your daughter?
Father: You’re a slut. A woman who’s left her family, who claims she doesn’t
want to get married when she’s on the brink of becoming an old maid, and
who wants to play the hero in my daughter’s life. And on top of all that, she
has doubts about my love for her.
Donya: My father wouldn’t let me ride a bike when I was young and used to
say that he was afraid I’d fall. Later, I found out that he was afraid I’d lose my
virginity that way, and even later, I found out that he was worried about his
reputation.
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Stage Play
Scene Seven
In a traditional coffee shop. The father and the officer sit at a small table.
Officer: Next Thursday.
Father: That soon?
Officer: Farah’s ready.
Father: Are you sure this plan is safe?
Officer: As long as Farah follows the orders.
Father: And how much will it be?
Officer: Five hundred thousand.
Father: That’s a lot.
Officer: I’m not here to negotiate with you. Either you accept or you don’t.
Father: I might not be able to get it all.
Officer: If Farah were my daughter, I wouldn’t hesitate.
Father: I’m not hesitating.
Officer: So then there’s nothing to discuss.
Father: If you’re so worried about Farah, then why did you keep hold of
the laptop?
Officer: I didn’t expect them to find such disastrous material – protests, planes
dropping missiles, and people being arrested and beaten in the street. I don’t
believe that Farah’s innocent; I think she’s mixed up in something.
Father: Farah’s innocent.
Officer: Then why did she try to run away?
Father: I wish I knew.
Officer: I asked myself that night what I would do if my daughter wanted to run
away. It would hurt, first of all because she’s my daughter, and secondly, because
she’s a girl. A woman running away from you is truly humiliating.
Father: I’m not worried about that.
Officer: And that’s why I thought that, if I were in your place, I’d let her go.
Where’s the logic in forcing her to live with me.
Father: It’s for her own good. She doesn’t know what’s best for her.
Officer: How did her mother die?
Father: Cancer.
Officer: Farah said she wasn’t happy.
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A long silence.
Father: She died a few days after we discovered the tumour, faster than I could
prepare for it. Just like Farah’s doing now, and just like what’s happening in the
country today. Things are changing more quickly than we can adapt to.
Officer: Maybe we didn’t deserve the stable life we were living?
Father: Or perhaps it wasn’t stable, but stagnant.
Officer: So your wife was depressed because things were stagnant.
Father: When will all this end? You all keep saying that the crisis is over, but
all I can see is that it’s intensifying.
Officer: We’re lying!
Father: You’re not lying, but maybe you’re not in control.
Officer: Hmm. I won’t claim that we’re in complete control of the situation,
but you just said that things are changing more quickly than we’re able to
comprehend them.
Father: It worries me to hear you say things like that.
Officer: Just remember that I’m here to help you smuggle your daughter out.
That means that you’re totally submitting to the changes.
Father: I don’t have any other option.
Officer: Things won’t carry on like this for long; she’ll be back again soon.
Father: I doubt it.
Officer: Everything that’s happening suggests that. The world has started to see
that the situation in Syria is different, and that the best option, for everyone, is
to work with the government to find a solution, rather than trying to force solutions onto them.
Father: And is it possible to reach a solution with the government?
Officer: In this world, everything is possible. Cutting off the arms supply is all
it would take.
A long silence.
Father: Did you find out where Farah got the bracelet?
Officer: She didn’t say.
Father: So you couldn’t force her to confess?
Silence. The officer laughs.
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Stage Play
Officer: Do you think Farah will come back just by the crisis in Syria ending?
Silence.
Father: The same way you believe that the crisis will end simply by stopping
the supply of arms.
Silence.
Officer: Does Farah cry in front of you?
Father: No. Rarely.
Officer: Why?
Father: Her mother didn’t cry either.
Officer: Well, she cried a lot during the interrogation. I made her stop crying.
Father: I never needed to stop her or her mother from crying. In fact, there was
no reason for them to cry.
Officer: And was that because things were stable or stagnant?
Father: Do you have any children?
Officer: Three girls. God must love me; he blessed me with three when what I’d
wished for was a boy. It wasn’t that I wanted him to carry my name, or that I
don’t like girls, but I always dreamt I’d raise a man. I carry secrets in my heart,
like talismans – how to succeed in work, how to beat an enemy, how to seduce
a woman. I’d hoped to reveal all these to my future son, but he never came. Then
a few years ago, I met a young officer and felt drawn to him. He seemed wild, but
in a wise way, and kind of reckless, like me. I let him marry my eldest daughter
and passed on my secrets to him. Now, he’s the bane of my life. His goal is to
usurp me, both in the house and at work. It’s thanks to him that I’m just a border
security manager in a far-flung province.
Father: And your daughters?
Officer: They have many more secrets than I ever thought I had. But at least I feel
like I won’t be lonely in my old age; they won’t leave me.
Father: Are you sure?
Officer: I’m not sure of anything.
Father: Yesterday I visited my wife’s grave, for the first time in my life. I sat
facing it, silently, as if I were waiting to hear her voice, but I didn’t hear anything
at all, just like when she was still alive; silent, but saying a great deal. I told her
I was there because I wanted to cry – I haven’t cried since she left – and before
I’d finished my sentence, I began crying. A few minutes later, an old woman was
standing near me, visiting the next grave along. It was the grave of a young
man who’d died in an accident. I forced myself to stop crying, and contented
myself with silence. A few more minutes of silence passed and I turned to see the
old woman staring at me. I felt embarrassed and said, “May God rest his soul”.
She nodded. She was carrying two flowers and placed one of them on her son’s
grave, and one on my wife’s grave. Then she left and it was silent again. I couldn’t
cry anymore. I wanted to get out of there, and I started thinking about how
I didn’t want to be alone for the rest of my life.
A long silence.
Father: On Thursday morning Farah will be at the border. Between nine and
nine-thirty, she’ll ask for Assisting Officer Abdel Razzaq and he’ll deal with
everything. If she doesn’t find him, she’ll say that she’s forgotten some important papers and will go back.
Officer: Don’t try to call me. I’ll send someone to your clinic on Wednesday
to collect the money.
The father asks for the bill.
Officer: It’s already paid.
The father gets up to leave.
Father: Why did you call me that day?
A long silence.
Officer: I don’t know.
A long silence.
Lights down.
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Stage Play
Scene Eight
Farah and her father are at a garage in Amman. They’re sitting on chairs
on the pavement, drinking coffee.
Father: The last time I came to Amman, you were two years old. We’d come to
visit friends. It was the first time your mother and I had left Syria since we were
married. I remember that we went to a very old castle. I don’t remember its
name but it was on top of a steep hill. You could see the whole of Amman from
up there. I remember that she seemed incredibly happy, which I found amazing.
I asked her why she was so happy when she didn’t even like historic sites, and
she said she was happy because she felt like a tourist. Then she suddenly asked
me to speak English as we wandered around the castle. I agreed, and she began
to behave oddly. It was like she was a different person, running around me –
practically leaping – and brazenly posing for photos, pretending to be a film star.
It was bizarre. And what was even stranger was the fact that I let her do all this
in public view. She even dared to try and kiss me.
Farah: She tried what?!
Father: Can you imagine?
Farah: Oh my God. And did she manage it?
The father looks at Farah disapprovingly. Silence.
Father: Your friend’s brother is late.
Farah: Dad, please, you can go.
Father: Not before he gets here to meet you.
Farah: First you say that you’ll just come out with me to the street, then you
decide to come all the way to the garage with me, and then I suddenly find you
in the car, coming to Amman with me. Why are you doing all of this?
Father: Didn’t you see the looks on the faces of the men you were travelling
with? Besides, you’re in a dangerous situation. I was afraid that something
might happen to you at the border.
Farah: OK, so why don’t you go back now? If you wait another hour, you won’t
be able to get back. They’ll close the border at three.
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Father: I’ll stay at a hotel tonight and leave in the morning. How can you expect
me to leave before this guy turns up? And why is he so late? You shouldn’t trust
someone who is as late as this.
Farah: You don’t need to trust him; you need to trust me. I’m not a little girl.
I can take care of myself, and support myself.
Father: I just remembered – take this. It’s a thousand dollars. You’ll get the same
again at the beginning of every month.
Farah: That’s your response to what I just said? A thousand dollars at the beginning of every month? Dad, do you understand what I’m saying? Do you have any
idea what I want?
Father: You’re the one who doesn’t understand. Amman is very expensive. Do
you know, Farah, how much stronger the Jordanian dinar is than the Syrian lira?
It’s 150 Syrian liras to the dinar. The Jordanian dinar is worth 150 Syrian liras!
Farah: I’m going to work, dad, and when I need money, I’ll ask you for it.
Father: You aren’t going to work, Farah. You don’t need to find work, or to
put up with frustrating people and expose yourself to any more danger.
Farah: No, I need to work.
Father: Do you know what you’re doing now? You’re taking advantage of the
fact that I needed to get you out of Syria. I preferred to live on my own, and to let
you live on your own in a city you don’t even know, than to let you stay in Syria
and be exposed to danger. And it’s all thanks to your stupid actions – you go to
Jordan without telling me, cross the border carrying the flag of the revolution in
your suitcase, along with a laptop full of dangerous files, and for what? So that
you can go and look for work? Can’t you hear how stupid that sounds? And you
ask me to accept it all. I now have to pay the price for your stupidity.
Farah: All I did was discover that there’s life outside the bubble you were keeping
me in. Don’t I have the right?
Father: The right to burst the bubble of my love – is that what you’re calling
your right?
Farah: Loving me shouldn’t mean controlling me.
Father: Do you want to free yourself from my love and my control – is that what
you want?
Farah: Please don’t end the conversation like this. Was this the same way you
ended conversations with mum? Maybe you never used to talk about anything
at all. I don’t remember my mother being anything but sad. I don’t remember
you ever arguing, but I do remember that she was sad. Whenever I ask you about
this, you seem confused and deny it and say, “Your mother was happy, Farah”.
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Stage Play
Was she really happy? Is that what she made you believe? Or couldn’t you understand why she was sad? Was it cancer that took the life from her eyes? And what
was this cancer? I now feel like I can relate to her sadness, and to understand
what it means for cancer to take hold of a woman so young. It was the pain, dad,
the pain that she wouldn’t let out. So that you wouldn’t end the conversation
by saying to her, “Do you want to free yourself from the circle of my love and my
control – is that what you want?”
Father: Farah, this is too much. You’re saying I’m the reason for your mother’s
death.
Farah: I didn’t say that.
Father: Your mother was never this cruel. What do you want?
Farah: I want to feel that I can live on my own.
The father’s anger reaches a certain level and he tries to curb it.
Father: Then let’s go back to Damascus.
Farah: Let’s go back to Damascus.
A long silence.
Father: Would you have done this to me if you were a man?
A long silence. Ahmed arrives looking nervous. The three of them look at each other.
Farah: Are you Ghassan, Leila’s brother?
Ahmed: Yes, I’m Ghassan, Leila’s brother.
Silence.
Silence.
Father: You’re bringing me closer to my death.
Farah: I’m not bringing you any closer to your death by being able to live on
my own.
Father: Stop repeating the things they say in soap operas. You’re my daughter,
and I love you, and I worry about you.
Farah: I’m sorry. But it’s you who’s repeating what they say in soap operas.
Father: Farah... think about the society you live in.
Farah: Then pretend I’m a man. Try playing a game like the one you played with
mum in the castle.
Father: You’re starting to shock me, just like your mother did that day.
Farah: Come on, talk to me as if I were a man. You’d be more serious and you’d
have more confidence in me. You’d listen to me, you’d think about what I was
saying, and you’d be persuaded by my words. You’d make me feel confident, like
I can do things you might not be capable of. You’d be a different person with me,
you’d be more relaxed, you’d talk to me effortlessly, and use vulgar words and
swear as much as you like. And you wouldn’t get tense about how other men
look at me; in fact, you might even join me as I watch pretty girls walk by.
Father: That’s enough.
Farah: And you’d let me work, without even knowing what kind of work it is.
Father: You won’t work, Farah.
Farah: I will work, dad. It’s better that I tell you I’m going to disobey you than
to work and lie to you.
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Farah: Dad, this is Ghassan, Leila’s brother.
Ahmed: Hello, sir. I’m Ghassan, Leila’s brother.
They shake hands.
Ahmed: Sorry I’m late, but it’s Leila’s fault. She told me you were getting
here later.
Father: Young man, that’s no excuse. I’m leaving my daughter in your care.
What if someone else had come here and pretended that he was Ghassan,
Leila’s brother. Would she have recognised him? Then what would you have
said, that Leila told you the wrong time? Who would that benefit?
Ahmed: You have a point, sir. You have a point.
Father: My son, you’re in a foreign country, and you need to be a lot more
careful than you would be elsewhere.
Ahmed: You’re right, sir. I am usually. I was probably less worried when I found
out you were with her. Anyway, don’t worry. There are lots of Syrians here, so
you shouldn’t worry.
Father: The number of Syrians here is increasing, isn’t that so?
Ahmed: There’s been a noticeable increase in the last few months, mostly in
the refugee camps. The situation there has become catastrophic.
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Stage Play
Father: That’s to be expected. And how do you feel the Jordanians are
treating Syrians?
Ahmed: Fine, I think. Generally they sympathise with us, but there are always
exceptions. There are more beggars now, Syrians. I even heard that some Jordanians are pretending they’re Syrian and go out in the streets to beg.
Father: Begging. Did you hear that, Farah? Begging.
Ahmed: We keep hearing that they’re going to close the border permanently.
Father: Is that possible?
Ahmed: It’s unlikely, but we hear these things at the same time as hearing
news that Jordan is getting millions of dollars of aid for accepting refugees.
It’s all politics.
Father: Yes, it’s politics.
Ahmed: Vile politics.
Father: Extremely vile politics.
Ahmed: Yes, extremely vile politics.
Father: Will they close the border at three?
Ahmed: At three exactly.
Father: I need to leave now then.
Silence. He turns to Farah to shake hands with her.
She begins to hug him but he stops her.
Father: I don’t like melodramatic soap opera farewells. Look after Farah and
Leila, Ghassan, I won’t ask you again.
Ahmed: Don’t worry, sir.
Father: There is something I wanted you to help me with. There’s a castle in
the centre of Amman, at the top of a hill, overlooking the city. What’s its name?
Ahmed: It doesn’t have a name, but the hill’s called Castle Hill.
It’s a beautiful place.
Father: That’s right, Castle Hill. It’s called Castle Hill. I want you to take Farah
there. I want her to visit it.
A long silence.
He gets up to leave.
Ahmed: How much did you pay the driver?
Father: Two thousand.
Ahmed: Two thousand is a lot.
Father: How much should we pay, per person?
Ahmed: No more than 800.
Father: 800 seems reasonable. So I shouldn’t go back with that same
driver then?
Ahmed: When you’re with him, pretend that you’re used to travelling between
Amman and Damascus. If he finds out that it’s your first time, he’ll take advantage of you.
Father: No one can take advantage of me. I just didn’t want to negotiate with
him because Farah was with me.
Ahmed: You’re right, but drivers generally take advantage of people.
Father: But they turn into rabbits if you glare at them and raise your voice.
Ahmed: Exactly. If you don’t act like a tiger with them, they treat you like
a rabbit.
Father: That’s right, and Miss Farah here wanted to travel on her own.
Ahmed: No, no, that can’t be, Farah. You don’t know what it means to travel
alone in this atmosphere, this vile climate.
270
Farah: Why don’t you stay the night? You can stay at a hotel and we’ll go to
the castle together in the morning.
The father stands still for a few moments, considering it.
The silence continues.
Father: No, I’d rather not.
He leaves.
Lights down.
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Stage Play
Scene Nine
Farah and Ahmed are in their new home. It looks like they have arrived
together. The place is full of suitcases and large bags.
silent, extremely angry, refusing to say why he’s so angry, so that everyone ends
up thinking it’s their fault.
Farah doesn’t reply. A long silence.
Farah: We don’t argue a lot. Only sometimes.
Ahmed: When I arrived in Amman, I only had that small suitcase. I don’t know
where all these other bags came from.
Farah: It’s because you always keep things that aren’t important.
Ahmed: With a screen like that we’re going to want to watch films. We need
to move the sofa.
Farah: It’s fine where it is.
Ahmed: I prefer to watch films lying down.
Farah: This is a sitting room, not a bedroom.
Ahmed: I feel like I’ve heard you say that before.
Farah: My mum probably said it a lot, but my dad still used to lie down.
He prefers to sleep in the sitting room.
Ahmed: I get confused when you talk about your parents. I can’t tell if they got
on well or not.
Farah: True. It’s not easy to tell, with my father. When she was alive, he felt she
was an unbearable burden, and blamed her for everything bad in his life. But
now, he talks about her with a strange nostalgia. I wonder whether he feels that
same nostalgia for me now.
Ahmed: I’ve never felt happier in my life than when I was a child, in those rare
moments when I’d find my mum and dad talking normally, without arguing
or screaming at each other. I’d feel a sense of safety that I’ll never forget, even
though I wouldn’t be part of their conversation. It’s like tasting something delicious once in your life, before it disappears completely and all you have left is
your memory of it. I don’t know why this scene always comes back to me in the
mornings. I used to wake up and pretend I was still asleep, enjoying listening
to them. Those moments were so rare, I struggle to picture them clearly in my
memory. My father would say something sarcastic and my mother would laugh.
She’d laugh because something was funny and because she knew it was a golden
opportunity that wouldn’t happen again. He would seem really keen on making
my mum laugh, and my mum would laugh, and I’d feel safe. Those moments are
stored somewhere in my memory that’s full of images of my father, absolutely
272
Ahmed kisses her.
Ahmed: That’s because you’re calm and kind.
Farah: And because I don’t like to see you get angry or sad.
Ahmed: I wish time would stop right now. What we’re going through now is so
strange, Farah. Usually, to try and cope in a stressful situation, people imagine
a better future. But what’s happening with us is that thinking about the future
is more stressful than dealing with the present. I think about my mother and
brothers and sisters and I feel helpless. I can’t do anything for them; I can’t even
contact them. Should I go to them? How will my being there help them? I could
send them money, but where would I get it from? And now here you are and you
can’t go back to Damascus, can you?
Farah: I want to stay with you.
Ahmed: And I want that too, but I don’t think this is the right time to be thinking
about what we want.
Farah: Maybe this is the right time.
Ahmed: Is that how you see it?
Farah: As if you really know what you want.
Ahmed: What do you mean?
Silence.
Farah: Give me a cigarette.
Ahmed: Are you serious?
Farah takes a cigarette, lights it and starts to smoke without inhaling the smoke.
Farah: Take a photo of me now.
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Stage Play
Ahmed is staring at what Farah is doing. Farah picks up her mobile phone
and puts it on the camera setting, then hands it to Ahmed.
Farah: Take a photo.
He starts to take photographs of Farah, whose features stay neutral.
Farah: Did the restaurant manager call you?
Ahmed: No, but he will. For him, a Syrian chef in a Jordanian restaurant is
an opportunity that won’t come around again.
Farah: Maybe he won’t call. Why don’t you go to that organisation Kamel told
you about?
Ahmed: I don’t want to work in relief. There’s no meaning to that kind of work
when it’s paid.
Farah: Why? What’s the problem with that?
Ahmed: We’ve got enough of those heroes they always take pictures of in
Zaatari refugee camp.
Farah: I’m not going to collect the money my dad sent.
Ahmed: That’s your business.
Farah: My period’s late.
A long silence. Ahmed stops taking photographs.
Ahmed: By how many days?
Farah: Two days.
Ahmed: That’s normal, isn’t it?
Farah: I don’t know.
Ahmed: It’s normal, normal.
Farah puts the cigarette out without finishing it.
Ahmed: I don’t feel comfortable in this house, even with this big screen.
Farah: You won’t feel comfortable in any house. Stop looking for comfort.
Ahmed: This house smells strange.
Farah: It might not be normal. Do you remember? The condom was no good
last time.
Ahmed: But you washed with cold water and soap straight away, didn’t you?
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Farah: Yes, I did, but what if that didn’t work? What would we do? Would I abort?
Ahmed: What are you saying? How can I let you go through something like that?
An abortion is a painful operation.
Farah: Then what would we do?
Ahmed: Whatever won’t cause you any pain.
Farah: Are you worried about me, or worried about the pregnancy?
Ahmed: Farah, please. You must know how worried I am about you. That’s
beyond any doubt.
Silence.
Farah: What if I’m pregnant?
Ahmed: I don’t think you’re pregnant.
Farah: What if it turns out I am?
Ahmed: Do you think washing wasn’t enough?
Silence.
Farah: It was during my safe period.
Ahmed: I’ll do some research online and find out.
Ahmed turns the computer on and does an online search.
Farah: I know a girl who does everything possible to make sure she doesn’t
get pregnant.
She suddenly goes quiet and doesn’t finish what she was saying.
Ahmed looks at her, waiting for her to finish.
Ahmed: And?
Farah: And what?
Ahmed: What happened?
Farah: Nothing. I don’t know.
Ahmed: Was it during her safe period?
Farah: I don’t know. No, it wasn’t.
Silence. Ahmed goes back to working on the computer.
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Stage Play
Farah: But she’s married.
As Ahmed reads, Farah begins to cry quietly, in such a way that he doesn’t notice.
Ahmed stops again, and looks at Farah.
Lights down.
Ahmed: And does she have children?
Farah: Two.
Ahmed goes back to working on the computer.
Farah: But what if we find out in a few days that I’m pregnant?
Ahmed doesn’t answer. Farah takes a cigarette out and lights it.
She smokes and tries to inhale the smoke. She succeeds.
Farah: I miss Donya. I’ve tried to call her on Skype but she doesn’t answer.
Maybe she knows that I haven’t kept my promise yet, that I haven’t gone back
to sculpting. Ahmed, in the new house we’re going to move into, I want an extra
room to sculpt in. And it should preferably be a room with ants. I’ve decided I’m
going to sculpt. I need to immortalise this pain, nothing deserves immortalising
these days apart from this pain. Nothing matters in life these days apart from
this fragile heart. This dreaded feeling – of fear, of nostalgia, of weariness, of a
desire for death. It’s impossible to survive the days ahead unless we immortalise
them, meditate on them, and uncover their secrets. The name of the sculpture
will be Donya. Donya.
Ahmed turns away from his search suddenly, as if he’s just discovered something.
Ahmed: Listen.
He starts reading.
Ahmed: “Any soap or cleanser used to clean the female genitals after intercourse
has a strong ability to kill sperm, and because these detergents are alkaline, they
are capable of causing paralysis in the movement of sperm. And it can be said
that vaginal cleansing following intercourse reduces the probability of pregnancy, but it isn’t considered a reliable method of contraception, and sperm is able
to reach the cervix of the womb by simply ascending through the vagina.”
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Stage Play
Scene Ten
Farah and Ahmed’s flat. The bed is directly facing the TV. The two of them are
lying on the bed, looking at the TV screen. Ahmed lowers the volume on the
TV. He picks up his phone and looks as if he’s trying to call a number, but no
one’s answering.
Ahmed: It’s no use.
Farah: So look for a new house.
Ahmed: Do you also hate it here?
Farah: No, but it would be better to live somewhere where you feel comfortable.
I don’t want to move every month.
Ahmed: We don’t have many options. We have to find somewhere where the
people are open-minded, with a pleasant owner who doesn’t pay us lots of visits
or interfere in our business. The price needs to be suitable, and it needs to be
bright and warm. How can we find somewhere like that in Amman?!
Farah: So let’s stay here then.
Ahmed: Let’s stay here.
He turns up the volume on the TV. Farah turns it down again.
Farah: Let me try.
Farah takes the phone and tries dialling again. She quickly hands him the mobile.
Farah: It’s ringing.
Farah: What difference would it make if we moved, anyway? We’re in Amman
and we’re not in Damascus. Everywhere will smell the same, and be just as cold.
Ahmed: But now we live together.
Silence. Ahmed tries to make the call again.
Ahmed holds the phone.
Ahmed: Hello, hello? Mum? Mum? Hello, mum, mum? The line’s cut out.
Farah: Did they answer? Did you hear them? Did they hear you?
Ahmed: No, I don’t know. It was just noise. Before the revolution, I used to hate
calling my family. I used to see it as a chore, just meaningless talk, and I used
to hate how, in each call, I’d hear that same broken record – “Why don’t you call
us? Don’t you have a family to remember? Of course, when you live in Damascus
you forget about your village and your people back home.” And here I am now,
dreaming of hearing their voices.
Farah: Don’t worry, no news is good news.
Ahmed: All I need is to hear my mother’s voice.
Silence.
Ahmed: This house is very cold. I think we should move. I don’t like this neighbourhood. And I’m not comfortable with the owner. I hate how he changes his
accent when he speaks to you.
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Silence.
Farah: I feel lonely. I don’t understand what’s stopping me from going out – maybe it’s the cold. No, it isn’t the cold – maybe fear, maybe depression.
Ahmed, I’m depressed.
Silence.
Ahmed: “I’m happy” – what does that even mean? “I’m depressed”. I’m sorry but
it’s a luxury to be able to say that. Don’t forget that you live with someone you
love, don’t forget that you have a home to live in, that you have a full fridge, with
enough food to last a week, don’t forget that you’re safe and you’re not at risk
of being killed or arrested, and don’t forget that a lot of people in Syrian villages
and refugee camps don’t have what you have.
Farah: Can people who live like that get depressed?
Ahmed: They don’t have time for depression or sadness.
Silence.
Farah: Let’s go back to Damascus.
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Stage Play
Ahmed: Let’s give ourselves up to the police you mean.
Farah: I don’t think we’ll matter to them anymore. The situation has changed
now. None of them will care about the activist who went out protesting months
ago, or a girl who had a bunch of videos on her computer that none of them will
be interested in watching anymore. We’re just a couple of young people to them
now, like anyone else. They wouldn’t hold the same charges against us.
Ahmed: That’s not true. The bulk of the struggle is still mostly made up of people
like us.
Farah: Struggle...
Ahmed: Yes, struggle. Is that word not good enough for you?
Farah: I just find it strange. I haven’t heard it for a while.
Ahmed: People with depression don’t understand that word.
Farah: Why don’t you explain it to them then, seeing as you’ve come down
with a case of happiness?
Ahmed: Farah...
He tries to call again without success.
Farah: My dad called. He told me he’s getting ready to move back to the country,
to Suwaida. He mentioned a project to train nurses, and that he’s going to treat
displaced people there for free. He also told me how my aunt cried with happiness when she heard he was planning to go back. But his voice was tired; he
sounded like an old man and he couldn’t laugh. It seemed like the stories about
my aunt, the displaced people and the nurses were just an excuse, so that he
didn’t have to admit that he actually doesn’t want to live on his own. I’m worried
about him; he won’t be able to stand living with my aunt. They miss each other
like mad, and when they get together they give each other a really intense hug.
But within a few hours, the battles begin; they argue until they’re almost hitting
each other, and the whole village can hear them.
Ahmed: This time they won’t argue.
Farah: I won’t be happy at all if I find out they don’t argue. That would mean that
my father’s completely lost hope. I invited him to come and visit us.
Silence.
Ahmed: And what if he suddenly turns up?
Farah: He doesn’t know the address.
Ahmed: He could get here and then call you, say he’s in Amman, and ask you
to pick him up and take him to your house.
Farah: There would be enough time for you to take your things and go out.
Ahmed: And the neighbours?
Farah: My dad doesn’t interact with neighbours.
Ahmed: When will he come?
Farah: What’s up with you? I told you he won’t come.
Ahmed: The situation’s become unbearable: constantly worrying about your
dad visiting, me worrying about my family and the annoying neighbours. The
people in the neighbourhood are always giving me dirty looks; the grocer won’t
sell me anything. It would be difficult for each of us to live in a separate flat;
we wouldn’t be able to afford the rent. And we have to put up with all of this.
Farah: You’re exaggerating. Why don’t I get these dirty looks you’re talking
about from the people in the neighbourhood when I go outside?
Ahmed: Farah, stop talking like that. Are you saying that I’m a coward and
you’re brave?
Farah: Of course I’m not saying that, Ahmed. But for a while now, you’ve been
assuming the worst from me. Why can’t we stay happy and in love, the way
we wanted to be? The way we were when we started living together in Jordan.
Ahmed: But you don’t trust me like you used to.
Farah: What do you mean by trusting you? Haven’t you always said that we
should agree on everything, and that you wouldn’t impose your will on me?
Does trusting you mean that I have to agree with everything you say?
Is that trust?
Ahmed: You didn’t tell me that you were looking for work. You’ve had two job
interviews. Trust, Farah, is sticking to what we agreed to.
Farah: We didn’t agree on that. I told you that I was going to look for work.
Ahmed: And I didn’t say you could.
Farah: So what?
Ahmed: You do whatever you want, without taking me into consideration.
You don’t feel the extent of the pressure that I’m under. How can I cope with
all this on my own?
Farah: Let’s cope with it together. Aren’t I your partner?
Ahmed: Excuse me?
Farah: I mean to visit me for a few days. He hasn’t replied.
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Ahmed: You don’t act like a partner. You see things from one point of view.
Sometimes in life, tough decisions need to be taken, quick decisions, and there’s
no scope for discussion. That’s what you don’t understand.
Farah: Don’t talk to me about travelling to Aleppo again.
Ahmed: Farah, what’s wrong with you? Don’t you understand? I haven’t heard
anything about my family since the massacre took place in our village, and
I can’t contact them.
Farah: I’m sorry. But there’s no need to worry. I read the names of the victims
on Facebook, and there were no names from your family.
Ahmed: So what do you want me to do? Wait for the next massacre?
Farah: What will your going there achieve?
Ahmed: I’d be reassured. I’d be with them. I’d be able to find a way to get them
out. I’d be able to help them find a home in Turkey. I’d help my brother find work.
I might be able to get them passports and bring them here, or to Beirut, or Cairo.
We have to find a solution to all this; I’m suffocating. I want to hear my father’s
voice. He comes to me every night, miserable and silent; he doesn’t utter a single
word. I feel like I might at least hear his voice back home in the village. He’ll visit
me in a dream there and then he’ll speak. And he might be happy too.
Silence. He tries to call again.
Farah: Ahmed, let’s get married.
Silence.
Ahmed: It’s ringing.
Silence.
Ahmed: The line cut out.
Farah: Let’s get married and go to Aleppo together.
Ahmed: And your family?
Farah: They won’t do anything.
Ahmed: Your father will kill you.
Farah: No, he won’t. That’s just a fantasy.
Ahmed: I can’t gamble with your life like that.
Farah: It’s my life.
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Ahmed: It’s my responsibility.
Farah: Ahmed, my life is my responsibility.
Ahmed: This is different.
Farah: I could say that your life is my responsibility, so I won’t let you go
to Aleppo.
Ahmed: Farah, what’s wrong with you? Let’s talk about this later. Anyway,
I’m going to come back; I won’t stay there.
Farah: Let’s get married and go together to Aleppo.
Ahmed: Have you gone mad? To Aleppo? You want me to take you with me,
as my wife, to Aleppo. To my village. And you are Druze.
Farah: And what’s the problem?
Ahmed: You’re being strange.
Farah: Ahmed, are you worried about me because of my family or yours?
Ahmed: Farah, what do you want? I’m talking to you about my family who have
disappeared since the massacre, and you’re talking to me about marriage. What
is up with you?
Farah: I think about your family just like I think about my father. But you haven’t
noticed that you’ve been planning what you’re going to do, without taking
into consideration the fact that I exist in your life. You want to travel to Aleppo.
OK, then let’s get married and you can go. Or let’s get married and we can go
together, or we can go together without getting married.
Ahmed: You’re selfish and I’m not going to answer.
He tries calling again. It seems there’s no answer.
Ahmed: I don’t want anything right now but to hear my mother’s voice.
Farah: I’m stupid; I’m asking you to do what you should want to do.
Ahmed: Farah, shut up.
Farah: I’ll go back to Syria, in the normal way. Let them arrest me, and you’ll
be in Aleppo, trying to call me and you won’t be able to get through.
Ahmed: Farah, please stop. Let’s talk about this later. We can find a solution
together.
Farah opens the wardrobe, takes out her suitcase and starts packing her things in it.
Farah: I don’t need you to find a solution. Even if you decided to stay there,
it’ll make no difference to me. I want to go back to Syria.
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Stage Play
Ahmed: Farah, don’t be crazy, please. Farah.
Farah: You’re a liar. You’re selfish. I came here to join you, after all.
Ahmed: Stop saying that! What does it mean that you came here for me? What
do I have to do to repay you this debt? To stop being victimised by you? To stop
being enslaved? Nothing. Just because you came here for me.
As he says these last words, Farah turns around and stands facing him.
She quietly places her hand on his mouth.
Farah: Shut up.
A long silence, broken by the roar of a huge slap on Farah’s face, followed by silence.
Farah strikes an even stronger slap across Ahmed’s face, then follows it with another.
Ahmed stands, dumbfounded. Farah, her strength sapped, sits on the floor.
She starts crying quietly, gradually getting louder.
The phone rings. Ahmed grabs it and answers.
Ahmed: Hello, mum? Yes, it’s me, Ahmed. Are you well? Mum, hello, hello?
He hangs up. He sits on the floor. He comes closer to Farah.
Farah: Ahmed, I’m crying. I’m crying out loud. Ahmed, I won’t stop crying until
I’ve had enough, until I’m satisfied. Until I’ve had enough. However much it
annoys you and however worried you are about me.
Ahmed: It was my mum. I heard her voice. She’s still alive.
Scene Eleven
On Castle Hill in Amman. Farah is sitting on a rock, holding a camera.
She presses the record button.
Farah: My dear Donya, I’ve tried calling you several times on Skype, but you
don’t answer. I wrote to you as well but you haven’t replied. What’s happening?
Are you OK? They said on the news that a missile landed in Bab Sharqy; was it
close to your house? I’m recording this message for you from Castle Hill, the
place that my father asked Ahmed to bring me to. But Ahmed didn’t bring me
here. For some reason, I feel like I’m going to meet you here. Are you well?
Why don’t you answer? I started sculpting again.
She stops recording. Silence. She starts recording again.
Donya, I’m worried about you. I’ve started sculpting and I wanted to show you.
I’m sculpting here now, but even so, I still can’t decide how the story should end.
Ahmed’s gone to Aleppo and will come back soon. And we’re going to look into
getting married. I don’t believe him, even though he usually doesn’t lie. Maybe
I do believe him, but for some reason I’m dealing with it all quite coldly.
No, I don’t believe him. He just said that so I’d stop crying, even though I didn’t
stop crying when he said we’d look into the marriage issue. But now I think that
kind of a marriage isn’t worth anything – a marriage that wouldn’t happen
unless I asked for it, that we’d only get married so I’d stop crying.
Lights down.
Silence.
My father is in Suwaida. It sounds like he hasn’t been arguing with my aunt.
It seems like he’s lost all hope.
Silence.
The most beautiful thing about this place is that it overlooks the city from every
side. I feel like I’m all the way out of the city, watching it, like it’s a story and
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Stage Play
I’m outside of it, outside the city, as if I’m in another story, another city. If you
could know how much better I felt when I cried and cried and wouldn’t stop.
I’ve been thinking about something – what if ants were marching on the
woman’s body? I mean the sculpture. Have you tried that before? There aren’t
any ants in my house.
She stops recording. Silence. She starts recording again.
She stops recording. Silence. She starts recording again.
My dear Donya, I miss you so much. I wanted to switch the camera on to show
you that I started a sculpture, the body of a woman. You’ll like it when you see it.
Are you OK? For some reason I believe that I’ll see you again, and in Syria. We’ll go
out to Bab Touma and come back late at night. We might be alone, or I might be
with Ahmed, or maybe with someone else and you’ll be with one of your temporary boyfriends, or maybe he won’t be a temporary one. You might be with one
of them right now, and that’s why you’re not answering me. Maybe right now
you’re in your dark days that you talked about, and when you decide to allow
the sunshine to come back into your room, you’ll hear my message.
Dearest Donya, I’m well. I’m thinking about going back to Damascus.
She stops recording. Silence. She starts recording again.
Donya, I’ve started sculpting. The sculpture is the body of a woman with ants
marching on it. I think her hair will be short. I’m thinking about cutting my hair.
You made me promise not to cut my hair. I’m trying not to cut my hair.
Silence.
She stops recording. Silence. She starts recording again.
Donya, are you OK? Have you been arrested? If you have, then the security
services will get into your email and will listen to my message. Are you listening
to my message? Then listen. Don’t you dare touch this woman or you’ll be under
her curse until the end of time. I’m pleased to inform you that you’ve arrested
a sacred woman. Whoever hurts her will spend the rest of his life without any
sensation: he won’t feel anything ever again. Cockroaches will attack him while
he sleeps. He’ll lose his fingers, day by day, and he’ll never have an erection again.
Listen, if you hurt this woman, the regime will collapse.
What’s the difference? Why do women cut their hair? What about how I want
my story to end? I want my hair to be long, very long.
She stops recording.
A silence that lasts for as long as possible.
She starts recording again.
She stops recording. Silence. She starts recording again.
Donya, I’m sculpting again now. Please let me know that you’re OK.
Donya, don’t do this, don’t disappear. Ahmed said we’ll look into the marriage
issue when he gets back from Aleppo, but I’m not bothered about that at all
anymore. Maybe it’s because I don’t believe in it anymore. I’m not his partner,
as he used to claim. Maybe I don’t want to be his partner anymore. Or maybe
I do, but not the way he wants. Since I got to the castle, I’ve been trying to guess
the place where my mum tried to kiss my dad... so brazenly. I feel like I’m tired.
That’s enough. This is how I want my story to end. I’ve started sculpting, a sculpture of a woman’s body. I’m going to call the sculpture Donya. I’ve started to
sculpt and I’ve chosen the ending I want, with or without Ahmed.
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Lights down.
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