I am walking down the dirt road, my headscarf up over my nose to keep from breathing quite so much dust and smog, averting my eyes and trajectory from any men, and looking for the cement stanchions on the right-hand side that mark, for me, where I turn left.
So many of the courtyard and protection walls look similar, I am still nervous about making a mistake, even though I have taken this route for over a week. My left turn takes me down another dirt road, past the home of somebody important, to the middle of the next block. There, next to a yellow metal door in the huge security wall, the building’s white facade is painted in bright colors with images of children juggling, standing on each other’s’ shoulders and smiling.
This is the compound of the Mobile Mini Children’s Circus of Afghanistan. I am here to help develop the girls’ sense of theatricality, meaning: what is character, how does one develop them, how/why would you include characters in a juggling routine, what is a scene, how does comedy and comic timing work, what are forms of local narrative, and how can we create work along those lines, entrances and exits, beginning/middle/end, physical theatre techniques, and so on.
Taking up space
Although I spent half my time volunteering with the Afghan Friends Network, each of my days also held time with the wonderful children at the Circus school. Some days I was with them as they went to perform, some days I was the teacher for the full morning, and some days I hung out with them in their math or science or English or Dari class before being their Teaching Artist for the following hour and a half to two hours. The Circus also stewards the children’s futures; feeding them, cultivating team building and leadership skills, inviting the children to imagine and create the Afghanistan they want to live in.
Because my work with the girls there was colored/textured so heavily by the context of what is happening in Afghanistan, I first want to paint a picture of what life is like there, especially for girls. As many of you know, Afghanistan has been torn by war since the 1970s, with the Taliban occupation setting new standards for oppression and cruelty in this part of the world. When I was in Kabul eleven years ago it was illegal to listen to music, wear bright colors, and watch television or movies. It was illegal for girls to go to school, and for children to fly kites or play outside.
Of course, in true Afghan spirit, people did these things anyway, fighting the darkness with secret arts and education. How telling that these two phenomena are perceived as the most threatening things people could do! And yet, this is what we Teaching Artists know, that arts and education are tools of immense power to instigate thinking, compassion, and action.
It’s hard for people in the US to really understand what girls taking up space means, how important that is in and of itself, never mind the actual defiant act of girls studying anything outside of the Koran, which is still an issue (especially outside Kabul) despite official government support. Girls performing, having actions and a voice, being seen strong and bold in public and across Afghanistan deeply affects everyone—the viewers, the families of the performers, the boys in the Circus, the girls themselves. Supporting the girls’ artistic transition from “just juggling” to the creation of context and character also promotes a paradigm of analytical thought about social action/interaction: Who is doing the action? Why are they doing it? What could happen next?
So there I am, only enough Dari to say hello, in a room full of children who typically all talk at once to each other throughout their academic classes (all learning and working, by the way), tasked with doing that listening-teaching thing in hopes of sparking their understanding of and interest in various theatrical concepts. Daunting. Exciting. Chaotically beautiful. Each day I would come, not knowing if the schedule would bear any resemblance to what we had talked about the previous day, having a lesson plan of something fun, student-driven, and geared toward skill-discovery and exploration. I always came early so I could hang out with them in their other classes or as they prepared to perform, and participated in warm-ups, being extra goofy or rigorous or reflective as it felt right to do.
Some days I had some translation help from the “circus father” Hamid; sometimes my friend Eva of the Afghan Friends Network (who is not fluent but had much more Dari than I did) would help and participate; and sometimes I and the girls struggled through with bits of Dari they taught me, bits of English they knew, and a great deal of gesture and pantomime.
One day we played with masks and discovered characters, gestures, and walks, then created little scenelets. The next day we played with objects, creating scenes around them then using them to become other objects (including a hilarious one where a woman trying to smack a fly with a swatter pops another character’s heart). Another day we built on the “this object is really something else” and grew scenelets with those, focusing on humor and poignancy. We found it was easier and more fun for them with the masks, and that the conceal/reveal nature of the masks made entrance and exit buttons more apparent.
Slowly, bit by bit, we negotiated what was important, what was fun, when it was time for a break, when we wanted to work beyond the normal parameters. They came to trust my intent and instinct and would reach more passionately across the divide of language as well as that of theatrical understanding. They worried less and played more. On our last two of my ten days, they created a new piece based on a favorite folktale using each other as the trees and house, discovering largess and timing, and even though it was fairly raw it was enchanting. In one part of the story the father has plucked the sacred fruit, is accosted by the ogre and in fearful desperation promises the ogre one of his daughters in marriage. Hamid planned on developing it to be included in the touring show, the first piece of its kind, the first story told.
I was told I should extend my stay, which I logistically could not do, so instead we have made plans for my return which includes grant hunting and Dari-learning. I can only believe that somehow the pieces will come together and I will again be in a deliciously crazy situation with brilliant, brave girls who will be the first in many years to tell a story, be loud and large and take up space in front of everyone. In the grey-brown streets and hills of Kabul, my heart will be bright and full of joy and gratitude.