For A Palestinian | Camden People's Theatre
I've never liked the colour orange. In a world full of traffic cones, reflective vests, and life rafts, I've found myself overwhelmed by its loudness, betrayed by its promise of vitality that always ends in tartness.
Last night, I went to Camden People's Theatre, one of my favourite places in London, one that to me means safety, acceptance, growth. When I started working at CPT, in 2019, the dominant colour in our logo was a deep, dark aqua: a gorgeous, grounding shade I now instinctively link to creativity and family. Hence, I am taken aback when I look at the CPT stage, ready for For A Palestinian, and notice an unignorable pile of oranges on the floor. Then, rows of oranges hung from the ceiling. Then, an orange wash in the background, which, in combination with the other elements of the masterful light design (Ros Chase), fills the room with wondrous shades of magenta purple, indigo blue, and of course, an abundance of orange.
Now, it would be reasonable to expect my reaction to be at least a bit hostile to this undoubtedly thoughtful set design (Jida Akil), but that is unfortunately covered in a colour (and a fruit) I don't like. However, I am taken by surprise in noticing that, for the first time in my life, orange doesn't feel that threatening. And when Bilal Hasna starts his energetic, incredibly generous performance, I look at him looking at us with such softness, such determination, that I completely forget how orange seemed so harsh to me until that moment.
As the night progresses, various elements and stages of the show contribute in different ways to my much needed re-education in the realm of all things orange. Bilal's incredible energy, along with the atmospheric soundscape (Holly Khan) underscoring the piece with unparalleled empathy, make me bask in the awareness of just how alive orange can feel, and how much enjoyment, enthusiasm and creativity it can communicate. Now even Italy, my country of origin, where most of the story is set, feels orange.
What I thought was a personal labour of revisiting biases, soon transforms into an electrical, joyful experience I get to share with Wa'el, a Palestinian translator living in Italy whose story Bilal is trying to uncover. Wa'el walks into Galleria Augusto Consorti and - very much like myself walking in the theatre not long ago - is stricken by a painting whose colours "are bright and vivid" and that displays, in the corner, "a bowl of oranges which, once you notice, make the whole painting... orange" (Hasna & Kilercioglu, 8). Wa'el is so touched he can hardly speak, and the same happens to me. It seems impossible to reconcile my perception of orange as something impersonal, when Bilal is simply glowing with warmth, embracing us, taking us on a journey that eviscerates all the possible meanings of the word "personal". And this is when I realise how intimate orange can feel.
The story continues. The writing (Bilal Hasna and Aaron Kilercioglu) serves it with a moving devotion, making narratives overlap with refreshing clarity, and depicting supporting characters that draw on clichés to actually get to something that's true, and joyous, and tender. Both the writing and the acting don't miss a bit, as we transition into a more threatening, and even more vulnerable, period of Wa'el's life. One that changes him forever.
Don't forget, this is a love story, and it's an epic one - but all love stories worth telling are work-in-progresses, and they're lived by people who don't have all the answers but sure try their damn best. And though I can't begin to understand the depth and complexity of the love Bilal is describing, the show really makes me want to try. So I listen, and I watch, as orange becomes the color of frustration, of activism, of insomnia, of healthy relationships, of people debating, showing up, recriminating, and caring.
Orange becomes a celebration that looks and sounds like a dream come true. Then, the writing pierces the pages and bridges the gap between the making of the show and its actualisation, presenting us with precious insight coming from Bilal's conversations with his family members and with Aaron, the show's co-writer and director. Again, how much creativity in that orange; there's a cleverness in these passages that is only matched by the ostensible care the two writers put in the process of making For A Palestinian. But my elucubrations about metatheatricality have to wait, for a threatening orange pervades the space now.
I watch, hopeless, as orange becomes again the color of danger, of bitterness, of waste. Bilal seems to read my mind and enunciates, with presence:
"Last summer in London, when the violence kicked off, after the evictions in Sheikh Jarrah, and obviously after seventy years of brutal occupation and all that, 160,000 people took to the streets.
One hundred and sixty thousand.
160,000 is approximately the population size of Nablus, the town that Wa'el grew up in.
This isn't hopeless." (28)
I cry. As Bilal wraps up Wa'el's narrative, and his own, I sit and cry and think about all that went wrong. I think about hope, about the smell of oranges; I think about a group of young adults from all corners of the world drinking Chianti in Rome. I think about cultural trauma, unions, about the adamant belief in activism I've carried with me for my whole life. I think about injustice and about ethnic displacement. I think about how many times, as a migrant, I find myself completely unable to translate certain words or feelings into English, and the pain I feel as a result. But I also think about stories, dancing, and paintings; I think about the unpredictability and beauty of life. Most of all, I'm grateful for the serendipitous chain of events that brought Bilal and Aaron (the most perfect recipients I could think of) to find a copy of a book, originally written in my own native language, called For A Palestinian.
After the show, I say hi to Bilal. I thank him, and I set myself up for failure trying to distil my deep thoughts and feelings about this marvellous work in a couple of teary sentences. He smiles, and hugs me.
I go home, and write a love letter to orange.
References:
Bilal Hasna & Aaron Kilercioglu. For a Palestinian. Methuen Drama, London, 2022.
The playscript can be purchased directly at CPT or online, here.
Tickets for A Palestinian can be booked here (CPT run) and here (Bristol Old Vic run).
Learn more about the Palestine Solidarity Campaign, and join the fight for Palestinian rights, here.
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