Poster

End

The actors performed their 4th performance September 4 at the Maison de la Culture in Bejaia. Typical N—I called at 8:05 to see how far away she was: “I’m coming! But Taous you didn’t give me a precise time to arrive, you said 8pm.”

So of course rolled her eyes at the idea of warm ups and F apologized for having been a snot at the Ait Smail performance last Friday.

They had a very full house at the Maison de la Culture. It was the first play performed in the new small theatre. Energy was low as well as volume but they have started to own the show, started to be able to move smoothly through it…I feel quite proud of them. They want to continue so I sent Sa home with all the set pieces (there isn’t much) and fabric. We’ll see if they manage to organize themselves. I think they will.

Many poet types, older men generally, have insisted on sharing their poems written in Tamazigh with me, not understanding that I don’t really understand the language. Last night a man brought me a play he wrote in Tamazigh, and another tried to drag me into his office in the Maison de la Culture to share something he’d written with me.

Then there are the folktale purists who come and tell me: “But that’s not how that story goes! That’s not the REAL version.”

We spent a month exploring different styles of play, improvisation and creating characters. We collected about 20 different folktales tales and in three weeks created an hour-long show from three. Lots of wonderful people have popped up here in Bejaia these past few months, I will miss them. I will definitely miss looking at Ymma Gouraya and the sea everyday. And even though they drove me MAD I know in a week or so I will start to miss I, Sa, So, N, A, F and L.

Thank you all for following along on this journey. I’m going on vacation now.

Bouzalouf

Bouzalouf is a dish that is made from parts of a sheep's head. Like the cheeks and tongue. I got all geared up to eat it last night, as I was famished from having fasted all day (it's Ramadan now) and I just couldn't do it. The part of the tongue flipped up towards me, the same consistency as my own tongue! I felt bad and rude and went to make an omelette. I was a vegetarian from age 9 to 23 and I think I still am one at heart...

I am wondering how the girls are going to handle a Ramadan performance. On a normal day they like to complain about not having much energy because of the heat...now imagine that mixed in with Ramadan...

Last Minute Preparations

Jijel Park

Show's Up

31 August

2 performances at the theatre in Bejaia. The first performance was really high energy with a very supportive audience. Because they were not used to such a rambunceous audience the show felt choppy. There is this problem in theatre in Algeria of the INVITATION. Theatres all around Algeria have instigated this invitation policy where the theatre hands out invitations for every seat in the theatre and often times only let people in who have invitation. This means of course your audience is preselected and people who are not priveledged enough to receive an invitation think that going to the theatre is some sort of elitiste HIGH art event. So when a play is open to the public potential audience members don’t even think to come. And the invitation seems to be a sign of prestige. I gave a couple of invitations to the guys who work at my usual lunch restaurant and they let me eat for free that day…for the shows at the TRB I made the invitations at the insistence of the TRB but I let anyone who wanted to come into the theatre.

Friday we all piled into the TRB’s van and drove an hour and a half to the commune of Ait Smail. After lunch the light tech set up the lights and we did a long warm up. Then I said

Ok now we are going to do a run thru. “Normally we don’t do a run thru” says the lighting tech. And the actors “yeah!” And I said “we are in a new space we need do to a run thru!” Especially since volume has been a problem and the theatre was much bigger than the small theatre at the TRB. During the run thru N said something in an improv that was apparently inappropriate. She had said something during a TRB performance and the girls had something to me and I had completely forgot to talk to her. So in the middle of the run thru Sa just walked off the stage. And L followed. And the others tried to cover and somehow made it through to the bow. A couple of talks later we seemed to smooth out the problem. Then right before the show I went backstage to do a final short energy warm up. And I was met with rolling eyes and sagging shoulders and huffing and puffing. So I just said “ok. See you after the show.”

And it was their best performance yet for a couple of reasons—we spent a lot of time checking volume before the show, they are now allowing the show to breath, and the audience was tough—the house was packed, mainly with rather frustrated young people who were hooting and hollering as soon as the lights went to black. The actors had to step up their energy in order to pull in all that chaotic energy and they did it. After the show the cultural association that had invited us treated us all like rock stars, another newspaper interview, light bulbs flashing, the mayor sat in on the interview…

One more performance to go—on Thursday night at the Maison de la Culture in Bejaia as part of their Ramadan program. And today I’m back to Madame’s house until my departure…my lovely apartment was only rented until today…

Pacing

24 August

Lunch break. First tech through. Slowly making our way. Lots of things left to tighten but we will have 6 run thrus under our belt by the time Wednesday comes round. They are worried and stressed and I want to keep them that way. Wanting to work more so that they get more efficient during rehearsal time. It's not adding more hours and getting exhausted and frayed that will make a better show--it's learning how to be present in the time we have that will make the most difference. So I am trying to manage how to keep encouraging them but also letting them get a little freaked out at the same time. The light fellow is not very sensible--not so good at feeling the beats and timing things with feeling. But again. 6 more run thrus to go.

23 August

Before starting a stop and start run thru for the lighting tech I said to the group:

Being a professional doesn’t necessarily mean getting paid for your work. It’s state of mind, a way of carrying yourself and interacting with others. Many of you have told me that you are professionals or have had professional experience. I have yet to see it. Show me. Don’t tell me. And if there is one more fight I rip up the posters, call the papers to print a little something that says the show is cancelled, and we pack up and go.

And the day went really well.

Someone Else Will Clean It Up

The posters were printed yesterday. The invitations will be printed Saturday. The program is ready, the TRB's light tech started hanging yesterday and I'm washing costumes this afternoon. There is going to be a performance. 4 performances. Even if we are all half bald by next Wednesday.

We had our first run thru yesterday. Rocky as can be. But that's to be expected isn't it. Usually is the first run thru before tech. Sa said "But Taous how can we do a run thru? We've never done a run thru?!"

Well dear, there's a first time for everything isn't there.

And three times I shouted "if you don't have something to say that you are supposed to say in the play than don't open your mouth!" And it shows the one's that have been showing up working (A, S) and one's that show up but don't work. And they blame me and other's when things don't work. I can tell. No personal responsibility. Isn't that what I am supposed to be teaching them? I guess in two months you maybe start to chip away at these things...

Like the trash on the street. Everyone thinks someone else will clean it up. Or the trash left in the theatre by the mysterious men at night. We find cigarette butts, empty plastic coffee cups laying around. Because someone else will clean it up. 

The Placement of a Word

18 August

Ib didn’t show up yesterday. When I called she said she was stuck in Algiers. Her Dad wasn’t ready to come back and wouldn’t let her take the bus back to Bejaia on her own. L had lunch yesterday with her boyfriend. And was 20 minutes late getting back. I tried calling and calling. She wouldn’t pick up. She said “I didn’t want to use up your minutes.” That frustrates me to no end. If I pick up the phone to call you that means I am prepared to pay for the call. And I said for the 100th time: “if you are going to be late just beep me and I will call you back.” They have gotten better. Sa now sends texts if she is late and N as well. But I am wondering if L didn’t want to do this project just to be able to see her boyfriend…she lives in a village 2 hours from the city…
N sleeps through the lunch break—she’s spending the summer at the beach and parties all night long. She wakes up asking who has food to give her.

Both newspaper articles that have come out have had a lot of mistakes—typos, totally changing things I tell them—I told the Depeche de Kabylie journalist that we have been working two months. He didn’t think that was enough so he put four months. He couldn’t quite get it that my name is Taous Claire Khazem. And insisted on writing Taous-Claire. I sent them 4 pictures of the girls and the editor pulled a picture of me off the internet. When I complain to other artists here they say: “what did you expect?”
So has started getting “headaches” every time the work gets a little bit tough. I called her on it yesterday. F got through an entire day without insulting anyone.

A French director and two other actors were touring the theatre yesterday. They came in and sat down during rehearsal. S completely froze. Couldn’t move. Kept giggling. How are you going to be able to perform in front of a packed audience if you can’t in front of three people? She says in the 3 other shows she’s worked on she always gets scared. I told them you have to imagine that the audience is there all the time. This might be a problem…As of next week I am going to start inviting people to watch in small doses.

A lot of these girls were in a show that the TRB produced in Kabyle last year. Sometimes when we are creating dialogue they reference that show. I worry because that is the only reference they have that they sometimes blend and mix up the two projects. I told them yesterday: “Be careful. This is not the same story. We need to stay true to these characters.” But of course I didn’t see this play and I don’t speak Kabyle fluently. I turned to the visiting director yesterday and said:
“I’m crazy! I am directing a play in a language I don’t even speak! Who does that?!”

Oh, and we have a title: Timiqwa n Tmucuha, which loosely translated means, Droplets of Stories.

19 August

I asked if a certain dialogue had been fixed. “No not yet.” So they sat down to write it out. So and F started fighting. An argument about a word. The placement of a word. Then F got up to get her stuff and leave. I intervened. The same pattern as usual. They fight. I don’t understand. I break up the fight. One wants to leave. I insist on figuring out the problem. Maybe I should just let them walk out. But they are only 7. The show is their creation. It would hard to replace them. And with a voice that I don’t know where it came from I said “what would you do in my place?” And Sa said “I would pick up my stuff and leave.” And I said “that is not a solution. I am here to see this project through to the end. I am going nowhere. I did not work for a year and a half preparing for this summer to play referee. You have worked for two months and you are throwing it all down the toilet. Figure it out.”

And then there was this silence like I’ve never heard in that space. Because my voice caught in my throat. And maybe suddenly they realized I’m not so different from them.

After lunch I came back and said “if you have something to say that is not in service of this show that don’t bother saying it.”

Then when they were working on writing out the text they have created in the scene improves I went upstairs and found D who has been working as a director at the TRB for years and years. Some of the girls have worked with him before. Some really want to work with them. I asked him to come down and have a chat. He told me:

You have to be a dictator when you direct in this country. Algeria is only 46 years old. We’ve only had a semblance of democracy since 1988. How do you expect to work with everyone giving their opinions? Collective creation! Ha! We don’t even have democracy in our homes. When I direct here I am a tyrant. You give them an ounce of liberty and…well…good luck…tigers let out of their cages.

He came down into the theatre and amongst other things he said: “I can’t believe you fight in Kabyle in front of your director on stage. That is the most disrespectable thing you could do.” And all of their heads dropped. “Put all of that energy into creation, working on your characters on the show as a hole. Why are you wasting your time? The stage never lies—if don’t put the work in you need than it will show. And it will you in front of that public. Not Taous. And she’s going to leave in two weeks. Back to the US. You might never see her again. But I’ll still be here.” In other words if you even dream of thinking I would ever cast you after seeing how you work here—think again.

It kills me that I had to bring D in. What did I do in the beginning that they just assumed they could behave like this? I wish I could work backwards and see. I have been quite severe from the beginning and demanding. And I have been repeating these same things over and over again.

I found some apple juice imported from Turkey last night. Pure apple juice no sugar added. The brand is called Joyful. I think I will keep drinking it up until next Wednesday…

Maybe I'm the crazy one

A couple of days ago Ib came to me and said that her boyfriend came to ask for her hand but that he wants her to stop performing. Her father doesn’t want her to marry the guy…it seems to me that she is still continuing with this project until the end…she shows up. And today with a ring. But she shows up.

There are two women S and F that have spent a lot of time together and act like sisters—aggressive, mean, biting and insulting. My problem is that I don’t understand when they insult each other. All I hear is the raised voices and tears and crossed arms and stomping off. Yesterday we had a chat about respect. The sort of chat I typically have when I work with junior high students. These are young women between 20 and 26 and they behave like kids. Recently we spent an hour trying to create a scene that should’ve been focused on the acting but instead we got caught up in a fight between two women about how a tradition jar is used. Sometimes I run around making funny noises to distract them from each other. I am trying to find a calm tone of voice. In control.

Somehow we still manage to create. I asked So to write poems and songs that are interspersed throughout. Only a couple are really singers but music will be a good to way to break up the rhythm. Maybe there will be some dancing. Maybe with a bendir.

They are used to be told what to do. Are they having fun? Are they learning things? In a society where living and working and navigating within a community is of utmost importance, where the individual is secondary to the group—it is shocking these women have such a hard time working together. They don’t know how to really listen—to themselves and to each other.

In the middle of the lunch break today Sa called me and said "please come now." I turned around and went back to the theatre. I found 6 women glaring at each other and then one stomped out. Then Ib said the argument began about x subject and then the Kabyle version of the F word was used and then the screaming started and then the artistic director walked in. And I laid it out nice and clear like calmly and quietly. And by some miracle they apologized to each other and the rest of the day went by extremely well. Complete with two major newspaper interviews. Nevertheless I have a horrid headache.

There will be a couple of articles coming out this week in Algeria News and in La Depeche de Kabylie and hopefully next week in El Watan. A painter I’ve met through the Maison de la Culture is making the poster. And on we continue…

 

Some Kind of Journey

In all three of these folktales the journey of the young woman becomes particularly interesting when looking at the values of Algerian society. At the beginning of the story there is a girl at home and everything is well. There is a family unit that is bound by love and tradition. Then something in the home breaks, either the step-mom goes on a jealous rampage, the brother decides to marry his sister, or a life is threatened by an evil outsider, that causes the young girl to flee. At the end of her journey through a forest or a cave she encounters a neutral man who asks her to marry him. Once this marriage happens the young girl is no longer a girl but a woman and establishes her own home. Only then, after creating her own personal and adult space she then returns to gain revenge on whoever did her wrong.  This new establishment gives her strength and power in order for justice to prevail. 

The home in Algeria is of utmost importance and more importantly how the small community of a family is viewed by the larger community as a whole. When a woman marries she is taken by a caravan of multiple cars and people from her community (I see this as a journey, as if through a forest) to the home of her husband. Once married she is looked on as someone who has attainted a certain amount of power and respect in her community by leaving one home behind for another. She leaves her parents house and becomes a woman.

There are of course other themes that appear beyond this reading—jealousy, trust, justice, good vs. evil, love and fidelity…but each story can be broken down into the exact same skeleton.

This skeleton is how I am going to try and direct the show. I have created an outline of 15 scenes allowing the stories to weave in and out. I said I am going to do the drawing you guys have to add the colors. Ib said “I don’t know if we are capable…” Of course you are—we have been working on all the tools you need in order to this for the past month…I am throwing so many new things at them all the time…I have to get them to trust themselves…and each other…and me…consistently. We work on this everyday.

Sometimes I think maybe I am imposing a style on them—my own style. But when I leave it open really open they tend to feel lost I have noticed. Today when I presented the outline they were all visibly relieved that I had a concrete plan. Just now I found myself thinking: Have I failed on this angle—as we begin to create—that they haven’t embraced a style of their own? But then I tell myself—we have only just begun creating! There is so much more work to do and things to discover. But I am realizing they want to be guided. So how I do I guide whilst letting them create…

My goal is to show them that theatre can be created by them. From scratch. And we have 4 performance dates ALMOST set. This is Algeria. Nothing is ever set. It is always changing and never at a constant speed. Things either happen at the speed of light or at the speed of a snail. 

Folktales

Here is my English translation/outline of the three stories we are working on. In the creation of the show we will expand and contract these stories as needed.

The Ogress and the Seven Sisters

There once was a widower with seven daughters. Six of his daughters were not very bright but the seventh daughter, Aicha, was incredibly smart. One day in the middle of winter the widower leaves on to take part in the Hadj to Mecca. He leaves his seventh daughter in charge of her other sisters and the house.

“Do not open the door to strangers. And remember you do not have any aunts or grandparents. Believe no one if they try to tell you otherwise.”

Not long after the widower left on his journey an evil ogress, hungry for human flesh, knocks on the door.

“Girls! It’s your old aunty come to pay you a visit! I have food for you all!”

Aicha responds: “we do not have any aunties. Go away!” But her other six sisters, thinking only of the food, barrel past her and open the door for the ogress. The old ogress distributes her food to all of the sisters who gobble up the food and fall asleep. Aicha, knowing they are in danger, does not touch her food. When the ogress is not looking she runs out into the nearby forest. And runs, and runs, and night falls, and she continues to run.

When the Moon is at her height in the night sky she tells Aicha “your first sister has died at the hands of the ogress.” Aicha continues and every few steps the Moon tells Aicha of another sister who has been eaten by the ogress…

After days of traveling Aicha takes shelter in a cave. Inside the cave Aicha encounters two women who tell her:

“We are the wives of the Snake that lives here. When he comes to see us we will pretend that you are a baby so that he won’t eat you.”

The Snake arrives and sees his two wives with a baby. As soon as the Snake looks upon Aicha he is filled with joy and falls in love with her.

[Dialogue between Aicha and the Sheep that I don’t understand yet…but the Sheep dies]

The Snake learns the true story of Aicha and marries her. On their wedding day the Snake suddenly transforms into handsome and strong man.
His two other wives become her humble servants.

The End

The Snake Egg

A young girl lives happily with her father, two brothers and step-mother. Her step-mother becomes incredibly jealous of her and goes to visit an old wise woman for ideas of how to get rid of her step-daughter. The old wise woman gives her a snake egg to feed to the young girl.

After eating the egg the girl’s belly starts to grow bigger and bigger as the snake egg matures. The step-mother brings the girl in front of her father and says “look at the shame your daughter has brought upon our family! She has gotten herself pregnant!”

Without giving the girl a second to defend herself and tell the true story the father and two brothers dig a tomb and bury her alive.

The next day a Traveler is passing by and hears someone crying from underground. He starts to dig and uncovers the girl, still alive. He takes her to his house in a far away village and the girl tells him her story and the injustice befallen her. He then goes to see the local wise man who tells him:

“Slaughter a sheep. Dry and salt the meat. Add extra salt. Then feed the meat to the girl. The snake inside of her will get thirsty. Hang her by her feet and near her mouth set a basin of water. The snake will crawl out of her belly in order to drink.”

The Traveler does just this.
Then the Traveler and the girl get married and have a son.

The son one day asks his mother why he has never met his grandfather and uncles. She decides to take him to her village. She tells her son “when we are at your Grandfather’s house ask me to tell you a story. I will say no the first time. Keep asking me until I agree.”

At her father’s house her son asks for a story. “No not now,” she says as planned. He asks again “No not now” she says. He asks a third time and she agrees.

She begins to tell her own story of what really happened to her and how her step-mother betrayed her. As the story unfolds her step-mother starts to sink into the floor. By the end of the story only her step-mother’s head remains visible. Enraged, her father takes a sword and cuts off the head of his wife. And the family is reunited again. The End.


Drima

A young woman named Drima goes to fetch water at the fountain. A strand of her hair falls into the water. A few hours later, after Drima has returned home, her brother comes riding up to the same fountain on his horse. The horse refuses to drink. The brother looks into the water and sees a strand of hair floating in the fountain. He proclaims:

“I will marry the woman from whose head this hair fell! I swear to God!”

He arrives at home and tells his mother “I swear that I will marry the woman from whose head this hair fell. Find her for me!”

His mother goes door to door looking for the woman. Exhausted and fatigued she returns home without having found the woman. She suddenly realizes that Drima’s hair is the exact match. Quietly she tells her son: “this hair belongs to your sister, Drima.”

“I swore it. I will marry my sister.” He responds. So the mother and her son begin wedding preparations in secret. While Drima is in the courtyard rolling couscous a Chicken approaches and says: “Your family is preparing to marry you to your brother!”

Drima hears this and confronts her parents. They tell her that it is indeed true. So, Drima decides to run away. She heads to the forest and hides in a cave. The family’s servant is sent to look for her and finds her hiding in the cave and goes back to tell the brother. The brother goes to the cave and says: “Drima don’t be afraid, stick out your hand.” She does this and her brother cuts off her hand. So Drima curses her brother with a large pine needle in his hand. He returns home screaming in pain and Drima starts to walk through the forest away from her home.

A Traveler finds Drima wondering in the forest. Drima tells him her story. The Traveler and Drima get married and live in the Travelers house in a far away village.

One day Drima is washing wool in the fountain when a Crow arrives and says to her:

“If you give me your wool I will give you anything you wish for!”

Drima wishes to have her hand back. The Crow produces her hand and it reattaches as if it had never left her. Then Drima travels back to her village and removes the giant pine needle from her brother’s hand.

The End

Bread

On Monday and Tuesday a singer rehearsed in the Petite Salle where we usually work so we had to move up to the Veranda. When we returned to the Petite Salle on Wednesday we found the place trashed. Cigarette butts, coffee cups, cigarette packs, little sacks of tobacco, napkins, coffee spilled on stage, microphone cords laying around, a horrible stale cigarette smell lingering, and a thick layer of dust on the wooden planks of the stage we work so hard to keep clean…
So I asked the guardian that day for a broom. He shrugged his shoulders and said: “Nassim is on vacation. He took the key to the broom closet with him.”

*

I often see people walking with bags and bags of bread near the bus station. This morning I went on a mission to find the bakery where all this bread was coming from. It’s Friday, the day off here…people go to the beach, men sit around on door steps and in parks and at cafés and observe the trees and insects and the occasional woman passing by…I found a line outside a nondescript bakery. I asked the last man in line “is this the bakery with the best bread in town? You are waiting in line for bread?”
“Yes, we are waiting in line for bread.”
“Well then I’ll wait in line too!”
“No problem.”
Then another fellow came over and said: “go inside the bakery. Women don’t wait in line here.” So I go inside the bakery and wasn’t sure what to do…suddenly I find myself at the head of a long time of old men wanting to buy this apparently excellent bread. And they are buying a dozen loaves at a time (big families see, who eat a enormous amount of bread). So I just boldly made eye contact with the older man behind the counter with not many teeth and asked for 2 loaves. He gives them to me wrapped in paper. “Can I have a plastic bag please?”
5 dinars more.
Clearly I am not from here.

*

The KFP is exactly where I wanted it to be at this time…we finished our 4th week with having dug deep into a variety of performance styles, I have been working hard on getting the women to start listening to one another on stage, pushing them to stretch themselves further, and myself as well. I finish our 3-hour sessions exhausted. We’ve been to 3 different villages and met with 7 different older women and have chosen 3 different folktales to create into our show.

And now as of Sunday I will start outlining a skeleton of the show and will ask the actors to fill in the blanks. I wasn’t totally sure how to go about the creation. Part of me was hoping that I could just hand a large part of it over to them…but after the end of last week on Wednesday I realized I need to guide them more than I thought…just to get a jump start, to steer the boat in the right direction, just next to the wind…

Improvisation

20 July

We have been working through improvisation to create scenes—some inspired by autocours I had at Lecoq, some from J. Mandell’s book on creating theatre with teens and some from Boal.

Short descriptions of what we’ve had so far (this is not what will compose the final show—these are scenes created for the sake of creating in our workshops that will lead to a vocabulary that will carry over into our creation)

With objects:
A man and a woman get married. A jealous man approaches and kisses the newly weds then turns around the shoots the man.


Battle of elements and materials:
General Izith (oil) confronts General Terre (earth). A battle ensues. General Izith calls in Caoutchouc (rubber) to fight Feu (fire). Caoutchouc calls in Sachet en Plastique (Plastic Bag) for back up. Feu melts and kills Caoutchouc and Sachet en Plastique. Feu goes after General Izith who bubbles and pops with anger. Amen (water) enters and kills Feu and surprise attacks General Izith who squashes Amen and is the only one left standing…


Melodramatic Scenes that freeze at the climatic moment:

A woman sits in the street begging. A young man enters a leans against a nearby wall watching her. A young woman enters exhausted after a day of work at the Post Office and realizes that the old woman begging in the middle of the street is her Grandmother. Shocked she goes to take her home. The young man approaches and offers to help up the Grandmother. As he does this he steals the change the old woman had collected…

A young, very pregnant woman is laughing at a TV program when labor pains ensue. Her husband comes home having drunk too much. He enters and clumsily helps her into the car. En route to the hospital the car skids and crashes…


July 24

Today we went to visit the mother of a director who often works at the TRB—we arrived at her house and she said embarrassed “I don’t remember any folktales.” 4 hours after we arrived she told us 3 in a row. Her Grandchildren and daughter started out by listening with us and then one by one left the living room to go and watch TV in the other room. We also went to see her sister in law’s house who told us 1 folktale. She said: “folktales started to disappear during the war 54-62. We didn’t have time anymore and then we had electricity and then the TV and then…”

I am pushing this project towards a language de gestes style because I don’t want to have to deal with scenic designers and props and a set…simple simple simple and the girls keep asking what about costumes? What about the set?

July 29

Mosquito war. Every night c’est la guerre. They come sneaking into my apartment through the open windows. I do not understand why in a country with so many mosquitoes and humid regions why why why people do not build windows with screens!? And mosquito nets around beds. I wake up every night scratching and groaning and stumble into the kitchen and pour vinegar over the bites and then stumble back to bed. They have these mosquito apparatus with little blue chemical squares that heat up and kill mosquitoes. But it’s not enough. Not in my neighborhood. I have started to burn the little blue squares like incense and wave them around the room like some Catholic service. If I cover myself with the sheet they attack my head. If I leave a toe uncovered they attack. They are merciless these Bejaia mosquitoes. Today I am going to buy the strong horribly bad for the environment and health spray.

Basic Elements

12 July

One thing I am noticing is that these actors have trouble with their ability to imagine beyond what they see right in front of them. On the third day we worked on an exercise where one actor has their eyes closed and another leads them on an adventure of different obstacles in the space. Each actor is to imagine a specific location with specific events. The first few tries the actors were thinking only of what they knew to be true of the space: an overturned chair, a mattress, a curtain…finally at the end we started getting stories of war, a mother searching for her son, a day in the life of an office worker…

I have thrown a lot of first year Lecoq work out as well—identifying as elements and materials in order to create characters. Fire has always been one of the hardest elements to identify with because it easily can turn into a strange modern dance piece rather than a pure element. With these actresses I was surprised. They have trouble with air and earth but fire came so easily to them. But then it was like pulling teeth to get them to recreate what they had found in the improv! To at least try and find it again! There is always the question of how far do I push…just enough but not too much that they crack…luckily the small theatre we are working in has air conditioning.

Inspired by the work we were doing with Off Leash Area in Minneapolis this past spring I’ve started integrating flocking into our warm ups. Following one another, listening to the breath of the group, give and take of movements…yeow it’s not easy. And concentration concentration concentration…

13 July

This morning N’s mom came to tell us folktales for the first hour of our session. I watched the actors more than her during the stories. Their faces were bright and attentive. She recited a poem she had written as well about her and N who didn’t meet until recently…

During lunch N said: “I didn’t want to tell you but I have done a lot of the stuff you are doing with us with an Italian director last year. I mean not the exact same stuff but he was always telling us the same things in the workshop.” Ha! That’s the work. That’s working out as a performer. The same general concepts (should) apply whether it’s an Italian or an American. And that means if you are getting the same comments from more than one person that you need to work a little harder! I didn’t say all that. I just thought it. I’ll say it little by little.

S said: “what in the world is the point of this flocking thing?” I said “you guys will tell me at the end of the session today.” I’m kinda of tough sometimes. But I know that when I have been on the other side of things I have always loved those moments of figuring something out on my own—having something click without it being dealt immediately.

14 July

Today I moved into a great apartment for the rest of the KFP. Whew! The 11th bed I’ve slept in since arriving in Algeria almost two months ago! I was so excited to actually unpack my clothes and have a couple of drawers and shelves to put my stuff in!

And this afternoon I ran into the TRB lighting designer and asked him what his summer schedule was like to light the KFP show…and he informed me that he asked the Director of the TRB if there was anything being performed in the small theatre this summer and he told him no. And so the lighting designer struck all the instruments in the small theatre where we are working and where we are supposed to be performing at the end of August!

L was not at the theatre today. When I called to ask what was going on she said: “I have an upset stomach and I was too ashamed to call you.” What? American’s don’t get upset stomachs too?


15 July
An hour into our session today the guardian knocked on the door (men always knock on the door now before coming into our rehearsals!) and introduced F. F said “I am here for theatre class.” I sighed a big sigh and looked at the 6 actors working on stage and asked them to explain to her exactly what the project entailed. Then So said with great big arm gestures: “don’t think you can just come and go as you please! We have been working for almost two weeks now and Sor and K have come and gone and we need to be a consistent group! So if you are serious about working with us until the beginning of September then come but if not don’t waste our time!”
I couldn’t believe it! I didn’t have to say anything!
F said: “I will watch today and then start next rehearsal.”

16 July
F joined today. 6 of us met at stadium and took a bus an hour up into the mountains and met with So’s best friend’s grandmother. In the small van/bus from one village to another we were 7 women and joined by 5 other traveling women. When the bus stopped to pick up a man at the next stop he opened the door, his eyes got all big and he looked downright scared and he didn’t dare get in! We all burst out laughing. How many times have I hopped into public transportation and been the only woman! Many!
Nana F lives alone in a large house sparsely decorated. We arrived loaded with eggs, yogurt, bread, and juice and found Nana F not home…her granddaughter hadn’t told her we were coming! Then So and Sa started to cut French fries when Nana F returned and said of course “I will tell you stories. Except I don’t have any teeth will you understand?” We recorded an hour with her. Then a neighbor showed up and we recorded her for another 20 minutes. Leaving Nana F’s house Ib started to cry. She said: “I am so touched by this woman…”
Then we were off to So’s friend’s house where her Mom and made us svinge and we recorded her telling folktales as well. Next Wednesday So is taking us to another village. Then Thursday another with Djamel from the TRB…

20 July

N was out with a bad back and L went to Turkey for a week to "save women's rights" she said. So needs a place to stay in town and we haven't able to get the right paper for the student housing. Sa took a film gig for a week but will only miss one day this week. And the TRB suddenly has decided to be really strict about these badges. Guardian Reda barreled into the theatre like a cop this morning crying "show me your badges now." What's that about? I am in charge of the space and if I don't have a problem with the people working with me what is the TRB's problem? General malaise this morning but we worked on melodramatic scenes and froze them at the heightened moments. I am started to feel really stressed about the creation and the gathering of stories...no one seems to want to work outside of our time together. Tomorrow we are working in the afternoon to listen to the recordings we collected last week.

Bejaia is full of Europeans now. Mixed couples, long lost immigrants, and dogs on leashes.

Petrol Port

I am staying this week in a not yet finished villa overlooking the port of Bejaia. Everyday I watch the petrol boats come and go. We take showers on the terrace in the middle of the day with water from the citern that heats up in the sun. Madame says "I figure the men on the ships haven't seen a woman in a long time, why not let them look." She knows the movement of every boat moored in the harbor and knows every family that ever set foot in Bejaia. Today we gorged ourselves on sivnge (Kabyle donuts) and homemade prune and apricot jam. This morning I spent picking the leaves of all her dried herbs off the stems and into jars. "Oh how I love when someone offers to help me!" She cried. She makes teas that cure headaches, digestive problems, circulation problems, cramps, stress...teas that are bitter and are to be swallowed cold. 

I am trying to organize village trips for the actresses of the KFP and myself to meet old women who know Kabyle folktales. I've got 3 possible villages lined up.  This is folktale collecting plan B. Plan C is hit the books. Taos Amrouche and Mouloud Mammeri already sort of did the work for us...but one of the goals of this project is to get the younger generation asking folktales of the older generation...

Finally there is a breeze from the sea. 

Photos above are from Mostaganem and the Palais du Bey in Oran. 

Obstacles

Today we concluded our third day of work--9 hours so far. S has a serious fear of risk taking alone and a fear of failure. K didn't show up today and we found out she was at the dentist. L had to go to the consulate to see about a VISA to Turkey. I and A and S said they do not have any older relatives who know any folktales. The older lady we were supposed to go and see today ended up going to the village with her daughter...S.O knows many folktales and told us two today. She said we might be able to go to her village and visit her grandmother etc. I am looking into ways we can perform not only in Bejaia but also in surrounding villages at youth centers and other small theatre's. Maybe that is how we will reach and inspire more people. My goal of reviving the tradition of the folktale seems a bit far fetched now...but hopefully this project will be a way of transmiting the stories in another way...

And we keep marching on...

BejaiaOranAlgiersBejaia

16 June in Bejaia

Today Bejaia won the Coup d’Algérie—the entire city took to the streets and danced—old women, babies, old men, young men, students…everyone. Except me. I was watching it all on TV and forgot that I was supposed to meet S at the Cultural House. Then I was too freaked out to go on my own—entertaining images of being trampled in a crowd that has so little opportunity to let loose…

26 June in Oran

Lately I have been discussing Algerian identity with Oranian artists. Their point of view is quite different than that of many of the Berbers I have met in various parts of the world. One thing that comes up often is while these folks are Arabophone they are acutely aware that they are also Berber. “We are mixed, especially those of us with roots in Oran. We are Berber, Arab, Spanish, French, Turkish…” Another said—“yes it is extremely unfortunate that in school we are not taught Berber, Tamazight, but which Berber should they teach us? Kabyle, Touareg, Chaoui?” He continued “Tamazight was just recently written down in a way that made it possible to study in school…Arabic has been used as a literary language for millennia so it’s much easier to transmit from generation to generation across borders and continents.” Another said “I wish we could find an Algerian identity that makes sense for 2008—were the diversity and history of this country was celebrated and used as a way to bring us together rather than to create divisions between people living between the same borders.”

One thing I know is true: no matter what household I find myself in here in Algeria certain things do not change: the intense sense of humor of the people, a love of french fries I will never quite understand, homemade bread, doilies doilies everywhere, and the TV always on…

Here in Oran I have met women between 60 and 90 years old with impeccable French, noticed that people in the street talk about music, theatre and cinema, met my generation of Algerian hipsters, seen women at the beach in Miami style bikinis, attended a jazz concert at the Regional Theatre of Oran with a packed house, and seen the Berber sign of liberty painted on many many a wall…

3 July Bejaia and then Algiers

I met with the KFP actresses yesterday—looks like we are 6 for sure and still waiting on 3…not nearly as many as I was hoping. There is a bit of a divide between “you should do this project during the school year when we don’t spend so much time at the beach” and “thank goodness you are doing this during the summer when we spend all day at home with nothing to do and start to feel totally disgusted with life…” I’m not sure who to listen to!

One of the actresses I have already gotten to know quite well. She has been telling me her life story in small pieces—of dropping out of school because she and her mom moved around so much, squatting in abandoned buildings, living horrific situations behind closed doors…she said she never felt like she was worth anything until she found the theatre community…”but there’s not enough to do here, there are not enough opportunities to perform.” After our meeting this week she said: “I am so excited to begin, I feel like I am reliving the first time I was cast in a show…” She’s why I am here.

I’ve decided to stay with a new family for July—a friend of a friend whose house is along the edge of the sea over looking the port of Bejaia with a grand terrace.

Right now I am in Algiers at my aunts until Saturday (Algerian Independence Day) because I have been invited to the US Embassy for a 4th of July BBQ potluck. Yes, the US Embassy has insisted its citizens in Algeria provide the salad and beverages. Really? It has to be a potluck? They can’t provide for us just this once? I am looking forward to meeting other Americans in Algeria. I am super curious as to what they are doing here…

July 4 in Algiers

And in the middle of the classiest neighborhood in Algiers I ate deviled eggs, tuna salad, big ol’ hamburger with a pickle and a brownie. I met folks who work in various departments at the Embassy. I am going to try and dream up an “American” influenced cultural program for next year. Naomi Wallace in Oran and Algiers?

Two things that I have come to realize recently:
It does me no good to continue to mourn the things in the States and Europe that I wish were here—my favorite coffee shops for example—living in a different country would be boring if everywhere you went it was the same décor, the same mentality, the same way of life…
Also, sometimes when I go out I have this voice in my head saying “Algeria is out to get you! Be careful!” And I feel all tense and catch myself scowling a lot. But as soon as I relax and think: “go with the river rather than against it, you are just as welcome here as someone who grew up on this street, you belong here” I relax, my language skills come easier, I walk with more confidence and feel more apart of the daily tableau rather than the odd one out.

July 7 in Bejaia

The KFP began yesterday. I have 7 talented young women working with me. We created a big list of goals for the project and posted on the theatre walls. I insist that we clean the stage everyday. When we arrived yesterday is was a mess and the guardian kept saying "don't clean that's the work of a guardian!" But if we don't clean who will...so we got the soap and the brooms. What I've noticed here is that as soon as you start an action people come to help you. But dream on if you are going to wait for someone else to take the initiative.

Tomorrow afternoon after our morning session we are going to visit an old woman storyteller. "But I am warning you" N said, "if her knees hurt we won't get a single story out of her."

By the way the 3 picture posted in me being interviewed by the Amazigh radio station in Oran at the Arab Film Festival.

Interlude in Oran

I finally met with the 8 women who will be participating in the KFP. There are 2 more that will be joining us in July. We start officially on July 6. I have had to rearrange the schedule a bit to accomodate everyone--I had been ambitious in the beginning and thought we could work 5 days a week...then it became 4 days and now 3 and everyone is happy. The group is a mix of mainly women in their early 20s. Some have performed before at the TRB or in university theatre organizations and a few have never been on stage before. One woman said "I can't believe you came all this way to work with us! I never thought an American would ever bother to create theatre in Algeria..." I was really quite blown away. For me this project is a must do. I have never given it a second thought.

For the next two weeks I am in Oran where I have been invited to provide an outside eye for a solo show produced by a young up and coming company here. I am having a complete Algerian awakening between the people I have met in Bejaia and Oran. Artists who fall directly into the hipster category--glasses and all, connaisseurs of jazz and Marx, projects abroad and Algerian tours, trilingual book collections...
The Regional Theatre of Oran that was built in 1897 and is emmaculate. I have never seen a space so well taken care of in Algeria. Yesterday, when I toured the theatre even the men cleaning the marble stairs were working so tenderly on the space and with such respect I just wanted to stand and watch them work.

On being Algerienne

A new friend of mine was invited to MC a conference “on the state of the Algerian woman” at the cultural house last week. Apparently each wilaya was to send a small delegation of women to attend the conference. She said that when she got on stage she saw a group of men staring back at her.

There are still more men who work in the theatre than women in Algeria--the opposite of the states where men have a much easier time getting cast than women. And LIKE in the US, women are less likely to be directors. But the administration of most theatres seems to be women. It’s the old thing of women running the show behind the scenes and the men the face of the space.

Bejaia is the only city in Algeria where I have ever sat at a café on my own. There is a café in the Place Gueydon where women go regularly. It’s a mixed, mutually respected space. Otherwise I do go into cafés that are typically part of a male space. But I go in a group or with another male. I always judge the atmosphere of the café by the amount of women seated. Hundreds of intellectuals have written about this clear division of space in this part of the world—and what it means when a woman or a man enter into a space not designated for them…in this country of contradictions those spaces are shifting…but at the speed of a snail.

This week I am staying with one of the women who will work on the KFP. She and her mom live alone. It is almost impossible to rent as a woman here according to the director a women’s organization here in Bejaia.

I should have 9 at the first KFP meeting on Tuesday. One young woman I talked to who had said she was interested in the project said “no problem, Taous, I’ll be there Tuesday, that’s not a problem.” As if she is doing me a favor. I guess maybe…I am the one who had the idea in the first place…

Another actor who is currently working on a show at the TRB came running up to me the other day and said “Taous I found you two actors on the bus.” On the bus? He picked up two women on the bus and promised them a part in my play…

Below are some recent comments that have come in my direction. The hard part to digest coming from the states is that these are the comments of my Grandmother’s generation. But I always feel so conflicted because Algeria is such a different context I hesitate to compare the two places so directly. At the same time when I share these comments with my new friends in the artistic community they roll their eyes and say “come on, it’s 2008.”

“A woman should have a job that allows her to keep house and take care of her children.”
“As soon as a woman has children she is condemned to the home.”
“The most important part of a Kabyle woman’s life is to satisfy her husband.”
“This is not the USA. This is Africa. Don’t forget you can’t behave like an American.”
“Men who travel have nothing to worry about. But for a woman it’s different. It’s harder for them to figure things out on their own.”

The Kids in the House

The Children’s Theatre Festival is almost over. A Theatre festival organized in a week. Some friend’s of mine performed in the resort town of Tichy just outside of Bejaia. The performance was in an old cinema that hasn’t been used in years. The seats are so old they are starting to desintegrate and you end up sitting at a strange angle. There is absolutely no lighting—the walls are crumbling, the curtains torn to shreads, and pigeons and sea gulls have built nests in the rafters.
The cinema/theatre is in a neighborhood that nobody in Tichy ever goes to—it’s the part of town where you could easily find a prostitute. Broken beer bottles all over the ground, men waiting impatiently under over hanging bushes…etc etc. My friends found a group of 5 boys playing in the street and invited them into the cinema for their own private performance. They put 5 chairs on stage and improvised gags and jokes and slapstick for 45 minutes. The kids were totally beside themselves. And there’s where the importance and magic of theatre lies—it can happen anywhere for anyone…

I have one more day left of the workshop I am leading for actors of the TRB. There are 5 consistent guys who keep coming and work really hard. The other’s come and go and I can tell they don’t really see the importance of learning to move, taking note of one’s body as an actor…It’s difficult too because the people who drift in and out do not get how I am trying to build one day on the other. And I keep second guessing myself—really who am I to be leading a workshop for the actors of a regional theatre? I told them—look this is all research that we do together—I will propose things but ultimately it’s up to you to take my proposition further on your own. Once it gets physically demanding half the group sits down or asks if they can go and get a coffee.

In other news recuitment for the KFP is going slowly. The folks at the TRB who are helping me have been swamped by this festival. I am leading 4 different workshops at schools here next week (as of Saturday given the Algerian weekend of Thursday and Friday) and I’m hoping something comes of that…we are trying to circulate the word of mouth as much as possible…already today two people have spoken to me about the project.

This afternoon I attended one of the day-time performances of the Festival. The kids in the audience were out of control, let out of their cages. Screaming, chanting, clapping, talking with each other, shouting things at the actors, dancing in their seats to songs in their heads…one entire row was dressed in the Bejaia football team’s colors. Apparently they lost their way en route to the stadium…there were fire fighters and a policeman at the theatre who in the middle of the show and chaos walked right in front of the stage, the props master at one point opened the door to the theatre and lit a cigarette…

For kids here it feels like they are living in a pressure cooker. As soon as there is any activity that gets them out of the rigid constraints that encircle most people in this country they seem to loose all reference points. I am surprised the kids didn’t charge the stage. Actors here tell me stories of kids climbing up on stage with them in the middle of a show.

I led a workshop after the second day-time performance with middle school students. There were exceptional. And oh so much more willing to take risks than the adult actors I am working with in the morning…

A note on the state of the Algerian toilet

This is a major problem in this country. It finally dawned on me today—Algerian society has made way for women in the public sphere in the past 25 years. Women are always out and about, running for President, directing the cultural ministry, leading major organizations and political parties, working as Police Sargents, eating out at restaurants and so on and so forth. But the toilet in Algeria has not caught up. Bathrooms in restaurants are often without soap and a waste basket. Where we ate today as part of the festival they didn’t have any water. Today I am presenting in a conference at the Cultural House of Bejaia and I had to go to the bathroom. First of all to find a place to work and prepare before the festival I had to talk to 3 different people before they would let me into the room. Then I had to go to the bathroom. I ask at the “desk.” The man rummages in a drawer and pulls out a key and points 3 doors down. What if I had been at the Cultural House to see a film or a show and I needed to use the bathroom? I wouldn’t know to ask the man in the corner for a key! And in the bathroom there is no toilet paper because most Algerians assume foreigners who come should just adapt to the washing with water rather than wiping method. But there is no soap. So even if we wanted to wash instead of wipe it would be mighty difficult. And the flush on the Turkish toilet sends the water all throughout the WC causing a flood and nearly drowning my backpack. Oh my poor backpack that I will never be able to touch the bottom of again unless I put it through a washing machine with very very hot water.
I have learned never leave the house without Kleenex and hand sanitizer. Please note that at the festival in Egypt that I participated in this past February I was very impressed with the state of the toilets.
In Algeria I have done my business in the following places over the years: at an Army barracks, in a café with rats and cockroaches and at the home of strangers along the roadside. My step-aunt stops drinking water 2 days before going on a road trip. I am close to starting a nation wide petition to better the public sanitary conditions. There must be some oil or gas money...

Absurdities and Hope

Nora, who is connected to ACAA, arrived the day before yesterday from Paris. Another new friend that I feel like I have known forever. Last night we went to the closing night of the Bejaia film festival. The first short film was an original creation by young Bejaia folk who created sort of a SNL style journal recap of the festival. It was hysterical and Nora and I both looked at each other and said: “there is hope for this country.” Then there was a long film from the 1980s that was as Nora says “a psychiatric nightmare.” The film was set in a completely Berber setting but the actors performed in classical Arabic. And every 10 minutes a woman in the film would have a frenetic fingernail-on-the-wall-hair-tearing-out-of-control-screaming crisis.

My experience in Algeria these past 5 years has always been one of enormous emotional highs and lows. I’ll be laughing hysterically for days, and then sobbing for days, and then totally confused for a few more days. Somehow being apart of this culture and society you have to keep an outside eye, a third objective eye, in order to stay afloat. It’s the blessing and curse of being of multiple cultures, languages and places. We are never satisfied.

Yesterday I wandered the old part of Bejaia near where the theatre is situated. Just gorgeous! The view from the Place Guidon is one of the reasons why I wanted the KFP to take place in Bejaia!

Tomorrow I am meeting with the mayor of Bejaia with Nora to see if the KFP couldn’t be performed in October during a cultural exchange between the city of Creteil (a Paris suburb) and Bejaia. Exciting!

Among other absurdities: we have to arrange our meeting with university students around the European Cup! We cannot schedule anything during a match!

Nora told me that according to certain anthropologists and ethnologists the fact that Tamazight (the Berber language) still exists is actually a phenomenon—the language and traditions in fact are survivors. Even the TRB’s presentation in the National Theatre Festival was in Arabic, all of discussions and debates at the Cultural House during the film festival in Bejaia were in French. I am not going to write about any of the politics behind this history because I really feel that as an outsider (from the inside) my involvement is completely personal and artistic. But all the same, it’s food for thought, and important to be aware of the climate, conditions, roots and goals that surround me. Creating a public performance cannot be done naively and innocently. A statement is made just in the very act of creation.

Step by Step

I’ve landed in Bejaia. Imma Gouraya, a mountain top in the shape of a woman laying down, looks over the entire city. There is a film festival going on at the Maison de la Culture that I have been attending. Like the professional theatre festival in Algiers this film festival is free of charge—everything paid for by the cultural ministry--which of course means certain things be upheld in a certain way regarding content…

Today was my first experience out and about on my own taking the famous Algerian transport publique. Here in Bejaia they have small buses each clearly numbered but the stops are totally not clear. And oh I wish my Kabyle was better!

My host family is very nice. Mom, Dad, and two small kids. But I do have a curfew (to not give the neighbors any ideas…). Not surprising considering that this is Algeria where reputation is everything. But a curfew means I can’t see the films in the festival at night. It’s hard to swallow. But I keep reminding myself I didn’t come to Algeria to go out at night or to have a happening social life. I came to do this project. I knew there would be certain limitations and I tried to mentally prepare for them…but all the same my reference points of Minneapolis, St. Paul, Paris are totally thrown off balance.

Tomorrow I head over to the TRB and meet with the administration. Next week I lead a week-long workshop and I have to start recruiting for the KFP…in St. Paul at SteppingStone recruiting or advertising for projects, while not always easy, was made possible by being able to look any school up on the internet, send an email, set up a meeting. Here right now I am frankly feeling a little bit lost. But…like all things here in Algeria you have to really concentrate on the moment. This is really a step-by-step sorta system.

Audience

A brief description of the Algiers theatre audience.
People walk into the theatre in the middle of the show with a loud Salaam...to the entire audience.

Cell phones ring, people answer.

Audience members tend to speak directly to the actors--I'm not sure if they just can't contain themselves or if they are just so into the show that they can't help themselves.

Every piece of decor that is flown in gets an applause!

Flash photography all over the place and the actors don't seem to notice.

During a performance of a Palestinian company's production of Ibsen's "A Doll's House" the director got so mad at a woman talking on her cell phone that he grapped it out of her hands and threw it out the hall door. The entire audience turned to watch that scene instead of the stage.

After two shows a day for 5 days I finally stopped resisting and thought--why not? Why should we sit and watch a show passively!? Why not applaud the decor? Scene designers so often get forgotten about! Why not chitty chat as I watch? I might be more engaged!? But the cell phone thing and the flash thing...no way.

Standing outside the TNA chatting with an actor friend a hot shot director comes over and I introduce myself as Kabylo-American. The fellow shook his finger at me and said: your passport says Algerian. Not Kabyle.

Tomorrow I finally land in Bejaia.

TNA Festival...

The TNA theatre festival is in full swing. In general, I find that the mise en scène of all that I have seen has not been very well thought out. I have seen one show that I liked and two where I sat squirming until the end. So far the style of the shows has leaned toward the fantastic and surreal. In the past two days I have met actors, directors and writers from all over Algeria. The atmosphere of a theatre or film festival is always heartening and energizing.

Next week I am going to be leading a weeklong workshop at the Regional Theatre of Bejaia during their children’s theatre festival. Hopefully I’ll be able to get some KFP participants from my class.

Last night I taught my new friend from Oran words that I know in Kabyle. The irony. The irony.

Algiers

Just the word Algiers makes me think all sorts of orientalist thoughts. Delacroix paintings of large women lounging in hamams, men in jalabas muttering strange incantations, and colonial period women strolling along the sea in large white hats and matching shoes. Algiers is a big dirty city.

I am staying with my step-mom’s sister at the foot of the great monument of colonial France: the cathedral Notre Dame d’Afrique. Yesterday we went to visit the mausoleum of Saint Sidi Abdel Rahman. The caretaker told us that Sidi Abdel Rahman was said to have had the power to cure women of infertility. Then he told us that the American he admires the most is the actor from Colombo.

We also visited a small museum of traditional Algerian art in the casbah. Traditional Algerian art seems to really mean Amazigh handicrafts—bowls, jars, olive press, the bride’s trousseau, jewelry…most of the pieces were labeled 20th century. There is something eerie about seeing objects that my Grandmother used in a museum. It’s the same with the Tamazigh language. People here are surprised when I tell them I want to first be comfortable in Kabyle before I start to learn Arabic. The Grandparents here in Algiers speak Kabyle. Most people my age and older whose parents spoke to them in Kabyle understand it and speak it. But it’s rare that the younger generation understand much of anything. And that’s how a language dies out I suppose. Little by little everyone forgets one word at a time. And our grandmother’s everyday objects end up covered by glass in a museum.

I am here in Algiers to attend the Festival du Théâtre Professionnel at the Théâtre National d’Algérie (TNA). Last night was the opening and I finally meet up with Omar Fetmouche—the director of the Regional Theatre of Bejaia (TRB), where the Kabyle Folktale Project will be housed, before the show. I risk driving my step-aunt mad because the shows are at night and not during the day. Only a certain group of people tend to have a night life in Algeria. It is rare for a woman to attend a performance of any kind alone especially at night and expect to get home safely on her own.

*

The opening of the Professional Algerian Theatre Festival was quite a snazzy affair.

A marching band paraded in on to the stage and played “Kassaman”, the Algerian national anthem, Madame la Ministre of Culture opened the festival with a long speech, 10 actors in costume held spears that made up a sort of grand entryway for old time Algerian actors, directors and producers to come on stage and accept an award from Madame the Minister and the director of the TNA. Two Algerian television personalities hosted the evening…my step-aunt watched the whole spectacle agog as she saw all these famous Algerian actors parade across the stage.

We thought we would need tickets but we just walked right in. My step aunt said to the man at the entrance to the performance hall: "this is an actress come all the way from America here to meet with Omar Fetmouche." And the guy at the door hurried into the hall, found Fetmouche and placed us in the third row!

My step-aunt and I walked halfway home this evening and really—this country at night becomes a place for young men to run around and hiss at any woman who is unfortunate enough to walk by. I really wish their mother’s or sister’s or auntie would tell them “you know young (insert name here) hissing at a woman in an aggressive fashion will get you no where on your pitiful march to find a wife.” Honestly.

Once home I asked my step-aunt’s mother-in-law if she happened to know any Kabyle folktales. She knew a few but she repeated the lament of most Grandmother’s “it’s the TV now that has become the story teller not us the Grandmother’s.” I got a couple of songs recorded and one folktale (one that my great aunt told me last week). But the real success of the evening (voir in my own “political” way) was when 5 of us sat down and she started testing my Kabyle to see what I knew already and what practical things she could teach me. Her daughter, who grew up here in Algiers, understands Kabyle but doesn’t really speak it learned along with me.

When learning Kabyle oftentimes I feel like I am running up a down escalator.

Things to remember

If I had grown up in Tizi Ouzou I would have the following things engrained in my psyche:

-When you enter a room of people you greet each and everyone with kiss on the cheek or a handshake.
-When you shake hands with a man you touch the right hand to your heart.
-When you shake hands with a woman you touch the right hand to your lips.
-When you arrive at someone’s house you have something to offer them in your hand.
-When someone comes to your house from another country you never let them leave empty handed.
-When you get engaged you are totally sure you want to marry the person.
-If you were born after 1970 you avoid falling in love with your cousin.
-When you see people around you for the first time in the morning you always say Good Morning.
-You conserve every drop of water, every last crumble in the pan.
-If you want to break free from the constraints around you have to live a double life or face the consequences of exclusion.
-Lock everything away and keep the key close by.
-When making your bed never put blankets or pillow on the floor. That’s where you feet that have entered the toilet have been.

Imaginary Worlds

Another Great Aunt came over and told 4 more folktales. So far the women I have asked who know the folktales are more than willing to tell them—in fact seem flattered that the American Granddaughter has taken an interest in one of the oldest parts of our culture. Tonight the other grand children (understand Grandchildren in their 20s) left as soon as the story telling began. Which of course means that there will soon no longer be anyone to carry on these stories. My Great Aunt said that when her kids were young you could scare them or teach a lesson with a folktale—now she says they don’t believe in imaginary worlds anymore.
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This morning everyone was saying “did you hear the gun fire last night? Towards the road that leads to Beni Douala?” That’s my family’s village. The day before yesterday terrorists held two women hostage in an apartment building in the area near Tizi Ouzou called la Nouvelle Ville. The police shot one of the men and the other ran away. But these are incidents we read about in the newspaper and even though they are happening close by they feel completely distant and separate from my daily routine here. When I widen my eyes or say Oooh that makes me nervous everyone says “how is that different from the horrible things we read about in America? People getting shot at school? Or in a shopping mall? Or at a church? You just don’t use the word terrorist for those things.”

And then it turns out all the noise that everyone thought was gunfire came from firecrackers up the street. Dozens of little bitty firecrackers.
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I came home for the afternoon coffee yesterday and was met by my uncle who said that my aunt had lost her tooth in her lunch at work today. “Make her laugh, she’s in a foul mood.” To repair a lost tooth costs as much as one month’s pay. Last night, standing waiting for the water to boil for my evening tisane my uncle comes home from work lugging a big plastic bag--the day’s garbage from the hotel where he and my aunt work. He sets it down in the middle of the kitchen and says: “I’m going to find her tooth.”
*
I have to give props to my uncle as the only man I have ever seen wonder the streets of Tizi Ouzou with his son in a stroller. He refuses to take out the new stroller. He says: “the new stroller is really strong and well built—it’s not fit for the tough broken up streets of Tizi Ouzou. I prefer this old rickety one that could break any minute…” All the same, he’s not ashamed to be seen taking his son for a walk around the neighborhood in an old dirty stroller that is so low to the ground it forces him to bend halfway over.