Nehad Selaiha discovers what a fuss cuckoos still make You would think that with so many chronic local and regional problems to tackle the ruling National Democratic Party (NDP) would have better things to do than hound and harass a group of young actors performing on the fringe. Apparently they don't, or I would not be writing now about this event. When I went to Al-Hanager last month to watch a performance by an independent theatre troupe called Al-Amwag (Waves), which Huda Wasfi, as artistic director of that venue and patroness of all independent theatrical ventures, had decided to host for a couple of nights (19 and 20 February), I had only artistic issues on my mind. Never for a minute did I imagine I was about to get embroiled in a heated political brawl. The title of the show, Ana wi Enta wi Baba fil Balala, was intriguing, since the word 'balala' does not exist in Arabic and is obviously the author's own coinage. However, since the phrase 'fil balala' sounds very similar to other new catch phrases in the current Egyptian slang, particularly popular among the young -- expressions like 'fil halawa', or 'fil daiaa', which generally indicate various degrees or states of stupor, indifference, or drug-induced lunacy, all of which can be loosely summed up as being in cuckoo-cuckoo land, it was not difficult to guess which direction the 'balala' spectacle would be heading. As I guessed, You, I and Papa are in Cuckoo-Cuckoo Land, turned out to be a harsh and embittered political satire on the policies of the current Egyptian regime and the deadly slings and arrows to which it has subjected its meek citizens. Cast in the form of a 'political cabaret' show -- a series of satirical sketches linked together by one character and demonstrating in each sketch one form or other of the soul-shriveling corruption that poisons the springs of life in Egypt and infects everyone like Camus' plague, fil Balala features a young, impoverished scientist who has discovered in his laboratory a drug more potent in its mind-softening effects than the most potent narcotic -- more potent that coke or heroin. Unfortunately, his Ph.D. supervisor, a flashy, good-for-nothing aspirant to fame and fortune who achieved his position God knows how, comes up with the fiendish idea of manufacturing a form of sweets that contains this drug as a major ingredient. Predictably, this psychedelic panacea, commercially peddled under the innocuous name 'balala', becomes instantly popular and scores high sales, which persuades the ruling regime to sponsor its manufacturing and distribution on the largest possible scale and at prices that suit every pocket. The end result is a whole nation of lotus-eaters. And, predictably, the young scientist feels responsible for this plague and duly guilty and, like the old Everyman in Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, undertakes an arduous journey for salvation, but, in this case, not only for his own individual salvation, but for the salvation of his whole country and fellow citizens. However, his efforts to warn his people against the danger of the doctored sweet are, again, quite predictably, in view of the host of similar satires one has watched before, met with disbelief and end in failure. In scene after scene we see him subjected to temptation, exposed to humiliation, thrust in prison as a subversive insurrectionist, subjected to a violent gang-rape and finally condemned as mad and thrown into a lunatic asylum. Every one he resorts to in his crusade to save the nation from the disastrous effects of this sweet-but-deadly drug turns out to be in cahoots with its manufacturers and a beneficiary of its sales, even its own victims. That he ends in the madhouse is not surprising; the scenes he goes through on his journey can only lead to this absurd, farcical/tragic end. Such satires, however dark or savage, are by no means a novelty in the Egyptian theatre and one could cite scores of similar offerings. Sitting through the show, scenes from other plays, some dating back to the 1960s, kept flitting through my mind. And once more, for probably the one thousand and one times, deploring the stinted production budget, palpable in the scenic poverty of the whole show. Waiting to meet Rami El-Qattan, who wrote and directed the show, after the performance, I found him deep in conversation with an aged member of the audience who was gently taking him to task over the last scene. What I overheard exactly spoke my thoughts. In that final scene, the fictional Egyptian Everyman, completely shorn of all hope of finding justice, sends a loud, sonorous, crying appeal to the president of Egypt to descend from high above, like Euripides's famous deus ex machina, and take on the role of saviour. The aged, white-haired spectator convincingly argued that whereas such a plea was a current coin in the political satires of the 1960s, it has become apparent since then that it was definitely out of date. Condemning a whole system of government and absolving the man at the top was no longer acceptable or credible, he said, and I wholly agreed with him. It was much later that I discovered why Rami El-Qattan had inserted this cheaply reconciliatory scene which went deeply against the grain at the end of his black, bleak comedy of errors. The story goes like this: El-Qattan and his troupe, Waves, became involved with the NDP about a year ago through the cultural activities commission of its youth section and successfully staged a series of celebratory performances at a number of Young NDP congresses. Though the Waves troupe, through those performances, automatically became members of the Young NDP, they nevertheless sought to preserve their artistic and political integrity by asking to be allowed to work uncensored, persuading the party, or, at least, the Young NDP secretariat, that self-criticism was not only a virtue, but also a political asset. Rather than have outsiders point out to us our mistakes, we should be the first to voice them, was El-Qattan and his Waves troupe's argument. But, how much self-criticism can authority brook? That is the question. At the first real test, the cultural commission of the Young NDP secretariat got so terribly jittery that they not only banned Fil Balala, (which, nevertheless, was performed one night at a hired private venue, the rent of which was collectively paid by the group members), but also sought to penalize any theatre under the authority of the ministry of culture which thought to host it. As a branch of the ruling party, the Young NDP secretariat could easily rope in the state security agency to harass the show wherever it went, which is exactly what happened at Hanager. Originally, El-Qattan had introduced a personification of president Mubarak as the hoped-for saviour to free the hero and the inmates of the figurative lunatic asylum representing Egypt. When it turned out that representing the head of state on stage was taboo, in the same way as representing sacred Islamic figures, from the Prophet down, is banned, El-Qattan altered the scene and, rather than a dialogue, turned it into an impassioned harangue addressed to the absent saviour. I do not think that president Mubarak thinks of himself as a sacred figure, like a pharaoh or a prophet; he wouldn't have pitted himself in competition with other candidates for the presidency if he did. I also believe that in the case of Fil Balala, the Young NDP secretariat sought to be more royal than the king himself. But, ultimately, the moral of the story can be summed up in the title of a famous film of Adel Imam's called: El-Li'b Ma'a il Kubar (Playing with the Big Guns), or, in plain English, don't fool about with the ruling party. *** Postscript : when I finished this article I switched on the television to ease my mind, hoping for a silly romantic movie. But as I blindly flicked through the channels, what do you think I found? A movie featuring a revolution in some imaginary Eastern European country with a lot of sound and fury signifying nothing but chocolate. Yes, the bone of contention in that film where all the heroes were teenagers was nothing but chocolate. I do not know what the film was called. since I caught it in midstream, or on which channel it was broadcast, or which country was responsible for its production. But it was in English and I saw it at approximately 2 am local time. As I watched it, munching my lettuce, I thought that perhaps 'balala' was not exclusively an Egyptian invention.
