Hisham Al-Hadi, Pseudonym

Translated by Sara Hlaibeih

“Anguish is Killing Us”

These were the words of the Syrian director Fawaz Al-Sajer before he died of suffocation in his apartment located in Damascus. These words have left such an impression on me, just as Fawaz Al-Sajer has as one of the most important modern playwrights. I have always been haunted by this anguish, as the son of this century, this defeated revolution, this lost theatre, this futility and inevitable change, the son of Damascus.     

I am a Syrian playwright, living in Damascus, Syria. I began by working on a play about death with my friends in Lebanon. We decided to delve into death and its manifestation, on suicide and its impact, on loss and its dreadfulness, and on the pursuit of freedom within all these layers and mazes. The search is here, in an imprisoning world, in a huge city that has lost its sense of belonging. The cold, defeated city that yet survives the chaos of bloodshed. The city where memories vanish in the presence of death, where there is no acceptance or admission or consolation. The place where we rose up and were defeated, where we were born and forgotten. In our rooms where we end our lives without farewell. In Damascus, in Beirut, in these cursed cities.

The moment had arrived to leave for Lebanon and start rehearsals. I was so excited, for it was the first time I ever traveled. However, travel was complicated and expensive, so I had to choose the ‘illegal’ smuggling path. The choice to travel this path was inevitable, I wouldn’t even consider staying in Damascus and abandoning my play. Just planning got me thinking of how much this experience would add to my imagination in conjuring characters and stories. And more than anything, traveling for the sake of theatre was going to make such a beautiful story to tell. I craved this endeavour so that I might feel alive amidst the slow cruel death creeping all over Damascus.

The journey began by hopping into a small, crowded car. We left Damascus behind in a car fumed with sweat, fear, desire and silence. I did not speak to anyone and not one person even mentioned their name. Within the first hour, the driver’s tacky jokes were the only thing breaking the silence.

A Night with Nietzsche’s Descendant!

We arrived at a house in a small village near the borders, and spent the night eager for morning, the time agreed upon by the border patrol and the smuggler to pass safely. This was one of the most bizarre nights I had ever experienced, as I got to know the house owner, the man supposedly leading our border crossing.  

The young twenty-year old smuggler started narrating his story, and in the meantime revealed his inner Nietzsche. His own humble beliefs in nihilism, world misery and how to face it with will power. At the age of seven, he began smuggling gas, fuels and slowly made it to humans, which he emphasized to be the most safe and profitable type of smuggling.

He continued to tell me his story of how this job has made him a fortune that helped to rebuild his entire village after the bombings destroyed their homes. Next, he compared between urban and rural dwellers and explained that “the city people have to adhere to their cities’ rules, while country people are themselves the ones who impose and control the conditions in their environment”.  

I tried to examine his theory by projecting it onto my own experience. I started working at the age of seven as well, however, I now needed this person’s help to get a fresh start in another city after failing in the previous one, whereas he built a whole new village after he lost the old one by choosing the life of a smuggler and a rebel. He mentioned repeatedly that he was wanted by the authorities. I listened to him in astonishment, admiration and fright, while so many questions occupied my mind about rebellion, its cost and all of its manifestations. I could not stop thinking about the number of realities that we are unaware of, of this character I just met who I could not help but visualize as a dramatic modern hero.

My daydreaming was interrupted by his last sentence, “eh, but fuck this life”. We kept quiet after that and stared into oblivion. The rest of the night was full of hallucinations until dawn brought me back to reality, marking the point to continue the journey.

We set off at dawn and reached the borders. On the way, I got to know my “colleagues”. The large number of people I saw was both reassuring and worrying at the same time. The third stage began as we all walked in line like in one of those scenes of the Palestinian exodus, engraved in our minds, from documentaries and television dramas. However, this scene was devoid of the charging feelings that breach our hearts as we watch those dramatic “displacement scenes”. This trip was even similar to any normal trip, with some actually recounting how they had travelled this road several times. Passing by the Syrian border patrol and actually greeting them as we did, we continued to move along as they counted us to guarantee they got paid the right amount. Oh how easy it was to cross to the other side! I felt nothing. It was not even close to what I had thought it would be or feel like. But I was tired and scared. I was swamped with thoughts of remaining and the desire for it. Exclamations and question marks hovered around the meaning of a homeland or one’s country. I could not help but ponder upon the unknown, upon fearing and seeking it. 

I arrived in Lebanon, where the journey became ever more difficult, for how did one now reach Beirut? I moved between many places to escape the Lebanese authorities, feeling as though I was on the run. I started to think I was a criminal, an “outlaw” and an “illegal one”.

As I imagined terrifying scenarios in which I would be arrested, I kept thinking about the fictional dialogue where I would try to reason with them that “I didn’t want to hurt anyone”, that “all I want is to work in theatre”. To be a criminal is to hurt others, so how would I be considered one? Why put me on the wanted list? I tried to make peace with myself and become convinced that criminality is one thing and breaking the law is another, but then needed to shut down all these questions and fantasies in order to return to reality.  

Freedom with a Stranger

I arrived at the house where I would spend another 12 hours in order to be able to cross the Lebanese border villages and make it to Beirut. The first six hours were spent in utter silence, keeping to myself.

Fear crept into my head. I needed to do something about it, so I began talking to the people around me, starting with the family of the driver responsible for us. I first spoke with his wife, who elaborated on her love and obsession with Syria, a place that had become lifeless to me. I then met his smart-phone addicted children who dreamed of following in their father’s footsteps.

During this wait, I met a fellow traveller, a fifty-year-old man who worked in construction. The purpose of his visit was to see to unfinished business. I told him I work in theatre as I was curious to know his reaction. He started dropping names of known playwrights, and the conversation developed into a discussion on political parties and how they restricted freedoms and beliefs and monopolized politics. This was followed by an awkward silence, from which we could not revive our dialogue due to the mistrust that arises from such conversations, especially in an unknown place such as the one we were in while waiting for god knows what.      

I analyzed furthermore what we had discussed. I felt that I was overthinking as I tried to find meaning in any detail. I contemplated my attempt to plant significance in this travelling experience, hoping to find meaning. So I told myself that I would treat this as a simple trip, where I happened to meet people going through a temporary period in their lives.      

Hope, An Abused Cliché 

I had reached the last step before arriving in Beirut. We set out at midnight after I hid any documentation that proved my identity, as the smuggler advised. The dreadful mission was to walk for five hours across a dark and gripping road in order to pass the most dangerous search point.   

Suddenly, a little girl who had lost her mom took hold of my hand. I asked for her name, and she answered “Hope”. I laughed sarcastically to myself. Given the circumstances, her name seemed to me a dull cliché. Do cliches exist to comfort those who see the world filled with symbols and inquiries? Was the world trying to tell me something? I looked at the star-lit sky, having never seen it quite as it was in that moment, and pointed to it so that “Hope” might see it, and she in turn looked at the stars with her big eyes full of life, beauty and the thirst for knowledge. At that moment, an old man tripped and everyone hurried to help him up, but once we continued marching, I looked at “Hope”. She did not flinch, but kept staring at the stars, like one who has discovered god. This was the only detail worthy of remembering during those five long hours, the rest were full of fear, terror, weariness, and determination on a dark path towards definite futility. Time ceased to exist, and the thought of being stuck in this limbo took over me. I was Sisyphus on an endless walk up the mountain. But I had to keep going, there was simply no other choice.   

It was dawn when we reached the end of the road. Everyone hurried and jumped into the cars fearing the morning police patrol. We headed towards Beirut covered in dirt and sweat and overwhelmed with feelings of disbelief, misery and ecstasy.

I arrived…

I looked at the sky, the sea and the people going about their normal day in this miserable world. Irrespective of our completely different nights, we witnessed the same sunrise.

I will work in the theatre now. I will write about death, freedom, loss, distress, desire and beauty. I will bury this journey deep within me and do my best to never let it surface. I know how my chest will explode with anguish like a serial killer, whose crime scene is our defeated cities, these same cities filled with forgotten stories in a world where no one cares to know they exist.