I had not planned on going to this show. I had time that evening and when I chanced upon a street sign advertising the play, I impulsively bought the ticket in the time it took for the light to turn from red to green. I did not know what to expect, but the long line turning around the block when I arrived at the venue was reassuring.
The performance starts with an empty stage and a bright yellow can placed on a bench. Accompanied by these two props, some sound effects and the support of the audience, Alaa Shehada tells the story of a 180-metre journey across a bridge from his home in the West Bank to Jordan, to deliver olive oil from his family farm to his aunt.
Paralleling Odysseus, Shehada’s short trip turns into a complex voyage where, instead of mythological forces preventing the hero from travelling, it is real political forces that thrust the monsters of checkpoints, borders and occupation into his path.
The similarities between The Odyssey and The Bridge do not end there. Shehada is also trying to connect with his people, with those that define him. His jug of olive oil is his Ithaca, the essence of family, childhood memories and homeland.
But where Nolan takes a supernatural journey beset with imaginary monsters and makes it real for the audience in the recently launched movie, Shehada does exactly the opposite. He takes a short trip – that would be inconsequential anywhere else in the world – and shows how it becomes extraordinarily complicated. The depiction of the daily ordeal of Palestinians illustrates how everyday life can feel as difficult and dangerous as a mythological epic because of the humiliations and terror imposed by a political and military occupation. His battle cry, “We are one people, not two”, resonates throughout the performance.
Shehada converts horror to humour, turning fear and frustration into laughter. And so he makes what would be unbearably painful to watch, let alone endure, become more palatable. We relate to his fellow travellers: the old woman he is seated next to, the younger woman with the impeccable eyeliner, the taxi driver and many others. The absurdities and idiosyncrasies of Shehada’s family and fellow citizens echo those of our own: we all have an uncle who calls us at the most inopportune times and with the most ridiculous of demands. We hold our breaths as Shehada and his companions pass checkpoints, and we breathe a collective sigh of relief when the jug of olive oil is finally handed over.
The undercurrent of violence is not far, and there are many reminders along Shehada’s odyssey of the fragile illusion of safety faced by Palestinians every day. We, in the audience, share quiet looks at some difficult moments and wonder uneasily if we are supposed to laugh at some of the jokes. We fear for the safety of Shehada and his imagined fellow travellers. We are told that Palestinians in the West Bank lose their land – and some their lives – every day, to an occupation that has gained force both in its violence and its velocity. And that the cruelty and injustice remain ignored and unaddressed by the rest of the world. But as Shehada himself says, “If we cannot laugh at misfortune, what else can we laugh at?”
The show is about creating connection between humans. It is about the lightness of being in circumstances that are too difficult to bear. It is the sharpest form of resistance, to turn oppression into a joke. We applaud in the end, not only the show, but the strength it requires to continue this epic journey.
The Bridge plays at the Fringe until 16 August.
