In a far place called the Lands of Happiness, everybody is suffering. Poverty is devouring innocent souls while resignation holds their tongues. In the Lands of Happiness no happiness is left at all, only misery and decadence. Walid Youssef sets his play in a world that recalls several old plays and films on corrupt rule. Originally written in the 1990s, the text was not produced until it landed in the hands of the talented theatre director Mazen Al-Gharabawi. It seems the text's discourse is still valid for the Egyptian audiences even though two revolutions have taken place since it was written. While watching Happened in the Lands of Happiness at Al-Salam Theatre, one cannot stop the flow of memories of fictional characters incarnating the role of the dictator, among them Adel Imam's iconic representation in Al-Zaaim (The Leader). One scene of dance and song in that production manages to present the internal discourse of a dictator, how he sees himself as the sole authority, how he defines governance, and how he looks down on his citizens. Adel Imam bravely portrayed the inner psychological features of that leader with sharpness and transparency: his non-negotiable and unjustifiable authority, placing everything and everyone around him in the service of his ego without any kind of accountability whatever. References to Imam's Al-Zaaim are prominent and purposeful, among them a scene that has recently gone viral on the internet. There are two kinds of corrupt leader in Al-Gharabawi's play: the leader (brilliantly played by Sayed Al-Roumi) is revealed to be a puppet in the hands of his prime minister. Al-Roumi's funny rendering of the character as an extremely weak person in the wrong place prevents us from hating or even judging it. When the citizens revolt against this fragile leader, the revolt is ambiguous as it remains unclear whether it is spontaneous or scripted by the prime minister who seems to direct the masses all through their protest. The fragile leader makes one strange and dangerous decision which could have been his only positive act if the director had not insinuated that it was dictated to him by another minister who is a rival of the prime minister's: to step down and hand the leadership over to Bahloul, one of the revolutionaries who works as a woodcutter. In his final speech the fragile leader — who does not look at all fragile at this moment — declares his resignation pending the prime minister's approval, a very clever dramatic strategy to convey to us that everything still depends on the opinion of the secret and real leader, and that if he gave his approval that would mean that he still held control over everything. At that early point in the play, one can already locate the dictator here as being the prime minister and nobody else. The play then evolves smoothly in the direction of bringing Bahloul to power and controlling him by symbolically chaining his chair with ropes on both sides. The director cleverly tries to shape a new image of absolute authority which dwells in the second man, yet it would have been absolutely satisfying to understand this secret and forceful layer of authority within the governance system, which has its own dynamics and history beyond the one-man show. A glimpse of the corrupt community in which the prime minister operates, and where he recruits his allies and partners, might have helped. Medhat Tikha who plays Bahloul is a wonderful actor with a very special stage appeal. He manages to convince us of the goodness within his character: beyond the appearance of naivety, he manages to connect with us on a human level that transcends the stereotype of his role. Nonetheless, the script quickly decides to kill any hope in this character. Bahloul visits the prison where he meets an old man who seems to be the sage of the country, and there he receives even a higher dose of despair and becomes convinced of the futility of seeking change. The prominent actor Hassan Al-Adl plays the role of the sage who, despite appearing in just one scene in the whole play, radiates a historic feeling to the discourse of despair and depression. His words and presence go much further beyond the scene, and they touch the open wounds of those who have vehemently fought for change and ended up the hostages of lifeless despair. In the master scene of the play, we hear opposite statements from Bahloul and the prime minister, both ostensibly giving orders but really expressing their respective discourses and world views. Bahloul orders a free public sphere where people can be at ease and enjoy their gatherings in gardens and elsewhere, he orders subsidies and support for the extremely poor and the unemployed freedom and equality, yet his consciousness is so naïve he looks identical to his predecessor with one difference: that he does care for the people and believe in the possibility of change. Naivety and even stupidity unite the old and the new governors, the negligent and the honest, the cowards and the brave. In the Lands of Happiness, strangely enough, only the prime minister is clever. Such a villain could not have been played by anyone other than Alaa Kouka, the recent winner of the best actor award for a leading role in the National Festival of Egyptian Theatre. Kouka has the exact talent and proficiency for such a role, especially when he performs in silence, or using only a few words. His charisma and looks connect to a concrete history of gestures and presence embedded in oppression. The play proceeds towards Bahloul's very predictable failure. We will never be totally certain whether this failure is celebrated by the playwright and theatre director or not. And in case it is celebrated, we will never know if it is a message that the people of the Lands of Happiness should give up on change and just follow the secret dictators, or if this is an alarm signal saying that the people themselves need to change instead of waiting for another naive ruler to rescue them. This ambiguity exists in almost every scene of the play to the very end. It is very hard to figure out whether this is intended to confuse the viewer or a mere attempt to be on the fence vis-a-vis, embracing even opposites. At a certain moment it feels like mission impossible, but Al-Gharabawi manages to hold this discourse of ambiguity beyond our expectations. The prime minister bribes some bad citizens who look like the eternal archetype of the thug living in a tavern of some kind and manages to fabricate another revolt against Bahloul in what seems to be an endless narrative of the impossibility of any real and true revolt. The unforgettable image of the citizens and the guards of the palace with tape glued to their mouths generates many thoughts about the capacity of a freedom of expression to scare authority so much, and about art itself as the potential voicing of freedom and criticism or as a form of creativity that is still chained by censorship. The representation of restriction exists here not only in the image of taped mouths, but also in the image of the captive ruler as symbolised in his chair being chained by ropes that the prime minister installs directly on stage. How much can we blame a ruler who is almost a victim in his own palace? And how much can we criticise the resignation of the citizens if they are physically forced and threatened into silence? What are the limits of everybody's choices in the Lands of Happiness? Where does the prime minister derive his absolute power? And is physical force the only possible solution available to the citizens to attain freedom and justice? The complexity of such questions could leave the spectator in a state of confusion or speechlessness, not really knowing how to take position within those ambiguities and ambivalences. Happened in the Lands of Happines One could question the lack of any representation of citizens who are neither thugs nor slaves of the system. The predictable end comes with Bahloul being wrapped as if in a shroud. The scene insinuates the acts of muting, eliminating and even killing. It insinuates the assassination of the good as represented by the character. The final scene goes on using video projections and 3D mapping, along with outstanding songs written by Hamdi Eid, composed by Mohamed Mustafa, and delivered by the exceptional duo Fatma Mohamed Ali and Wael Al-Fashni. The songs of the Lands of Happiness are an organic part of the drama, they provide meaning and balance discourses and ambiguities. The song that inaugurates the production talks of a land where people have always been muted, then of a new generation that revolts against that muting, and ends with the wise saying that patience is all that is needed now, because those who have faith in patience will be rewarded. At the end of the production, the songs also conclude with an attempt to soften the tragic finale that symbolises the murder of any hope, by calling for a new era where people will become their own allies and will be more reliable and trustworthy. It concludes with the neverending wise saying that it is the people's mistake that they are oppressed. A sense of absolute despair, depression and self victimisation sound a final note. I walk out of the experience as a frustrated spectator. Maybe this is what Al-Gharabawi wants? Maybe this could be a future trigger of change? Or is it more like Al-Adl's wise sayings that stabilise despair and turn it into a status-quo? Happened in the Lands of Happiness is a big production carrying a high standard of artistic creativity in all its aspects, a production worthy of being extended for its aesthetic and artistic excellence. Ashraf Tolba, the prominent actor and artistic director of Al-Salam Theatre/Modern Theatre deserves our gratitude for supporting a brilliant young director like Al-Gharabawi. This is not an easy production, nor does it follow a fashionable recipe, it is made with perseverance to stimulate discussion and to stress the ambiguity of our lives and histories. History must always be conjugated in the plural, just like the interpretation of a theatre production must be translated into the multiplicity of its spectators, and into the vast field of the unknown internal and external censorships and hesitations. Just like the master scene where Kouka and Tikha are opposing each other with fast sentences and opposite orders, as spectators we will remain in the middle of this hypnotic pendulum, within the rupture as the play insinuates and accused of being forever self-muted. But we are probably muted by the horrific pendulum of power and its representations, representations of the oppressed seeking reconciliation with the oppressor.
