Ahmed Masoud's Blog

[image error]My dear friends, Obliterated is Cancelled. There was never a play or a show, I didn’t write it and Maxine never rehearsed it. I am not sure whether I will be able to write or do theatre again. They took our theatre, and with it our play.Not even a year ago, on 09 August 2018, Gaza's only theatre the Saeed Almishal Cultural Centre was bombed by Israeli warplanes and ripped to the ground in seconds.A theatre turned to fire, rubble and dust. Expression lost to hate, for nothing sane.I want to ask questions. Why is art so threatening? Who would find a theatre a danger enough for missiles? What's going to become of the creatives, actors, writers, directors and audiences now?I cannot write, but I still want to protest, to make my voice heard, to highlight what happens when art and theatre are stolen away. Maxine and I want to invite you, the audience, the 2529 people who booked, to be part of this experience, to be angry at this injustice.As a writer and theatre practitioner, I wanted to see how it feels to deny people access to this freedom.I approached Maxine Peake, and together we created Obliterated to express our rage and for us all to participate in this experience of cultural theft. Here's what she has to say, in conversation with Palestinian poet Farah Chamma:Please feel free to add your comments/response directly on the video.I am not sure whether I will be ever do theatre again. I am not sure if I have been beaten down too far by cruelty. Maybe on a far-off day, this play will be born again. But for now, I would like to thank Maxine Peake and Amnesty International UK for supporting this creative response. And I want to thank you for being part of this protest, for getting my voice heard.There's currently a separate campaign running to support the theatre, you can learn more about it hereand pledge your support if you wish too. To those who visited the Saeed Almishal Cultural Centre, please remember it. To those who didn’t, please imagine it.Thank you and stay in touch.

About 100 years ago, a man, living in a little village in Palestine, finished harvesting the last crop of his olive trees on a crisp November afternoon, got back home and had dinner with his wife and children. Little he knew that the following day thousands of miles away another man was preparing to ruin this family's life forever. As Lord Arthur James Balfour prepared to issue the Balfour Declaration on 02 November 1917, my great grandfather put out the candle and went to bed in the village of Deir Snade thinking about which university my grandfather, Mohamed, should go to when he grew up. Then it all started, Britain promised to build a state for the Jews in Palestine without any consideration of us, Palestinians, of my great grandfather, of my father and subsequently me and my children. The British government which was occupying Palestine with over a hundred thousand soldiers (more than they used to invade Iraq and Afghanistan combined) made sure to put together measures to establish the state of Israel which eventually happened in 1948. They encouraged Jewish immigration into Palestine while systematically restricting the civil rights of the indigenous people, forcing farmers to sell of their land to third parties which eventually ended up as Kibbutzes. When the British first invaded Palestine and occupied Jerusalem, General Alenby famously announced that "The Crusade Missions have finally come to an end". This reflected the subsequent apartheid policy the British government implemented in the 30 years of harsh occupation that followed. It's worth mentioning here that between 1917 and 1920 Palestine was under direct military administration, meaning that the British army ruled every aspect of people's lives. A quick read of the Balfour declaration can reveal what the British policy towards Palestine was intended to be in the first place. While promising a state for the Jews, the British government failed to mention Palestinians by name as if we didn't exist. Arthur Balfour announced that building a Jewish state in Palestine should not affect the rights of non-Jewish communities in Palestine. But there was no mention of political rights of Palestinians, their right of self determination and building an independent state. Palestinians took to the streets in 1936 to peacefully demonstrate against these unjust policies by the British government, which crushed the uprising killing over 2000 Palestinians, arresting and deporting many of the middle class and highly educated Palestinians. This left Palestinian vulnerable 12 years later when the Nakba happened, when the British Government again let us down by leaving Palestine unannounced, while continuing to support the Israeli Zionist gangs, such as the Hagannah, leaving them strategic locations, key military equipments, announcing to them the day of departure from Palestine and ensuring that the borders were all locked for external help to come. And then it happened as it had all been planned by the British Government and their cloned Zionist gangs, in 1948 the Nakba (catastrophe) took place.  An empire disgracefully exiting a land they screwed for over 30 years, leaving it undefended to well organised and well equipped ultra nationalist movement and not caring about the local population. My great grandfather died before he saw his farm being burned in 1948, my grandfather, who did see that happen, fled carrying my father who was one year old and they both and subsequently I became refugees in Gaza for the rest of our lives. And since then Britain has never fully supported us Palestinians, never apologised for what they have done to us. On the contrary, when it comes to Israel the British government doesn't want to listen to any criticism about the harsh occupation, settlements, the apartheid wall, the siege of Gaza. They just turn a blind eye and pretend that it had nothing to do with them. Even as a naturalised British Palestinian, I have no help from the British government to visit my aging parents in Gaza. I can't even travel the West Bank or Jerusalem with a British passport. I can't fly to Tel Aviv like a lot of other Brits do and my only fault is that I am Palestinian. My family in Gaza can't easily get a visa to the UK. The last time my mum came to visit was in 2011 and that was after a whole year of applying for a visitor's visa and taking the Home Office to Tribunal. My British Born children can't go and see their grandparents in Gaza, in fact my four year old daughter hasn't event met my mother, father and siblings. Last time she asked me if I ever had parents and it broke my heart. No Britain didn't just betray Palestinians in 1917, it continues to do so now as we speak. 

After years of oppression and enduring so much injustice, there are very few politically motivated decisions that make me angry, exploding a supernova of emotions within me. The decision by Transport for London (TFL) this week to ban a Palestinian advert on the Balfour Declaration on the tube is definitely one of them. The Balfour Declaration itself may not make me as frustrated as TFL's action, maybe because I am too removed from the British Government's decision one hundred years ago to ethnically cleanse Palestine and establish the state of Israel. I'm of course angry about that and lived my life cursing that day when Britain gave what 'they didn't own to those who didn't deserve it'. Or maybe because I would like to focus on the future more, the optimist within me still believes that what's coming is better, that one day we will have peace Palestinians will finally be free, whether under their own state or a one state it wouldn't matter. We would at least have equal rights as anyone else living in that cursed land. And maybe because of this naive faith in the future that I found myself depressed to learn of TFL's decision. Because the future can never be better if we don't reconcile with the past, because my people's story is always silenced, not allowed out, an embarrassing secret that should always be kept in the closet. But it is not just TFL who systematically try to silence our story. As an artist, I go through this on a regular basis. Whether through theatre venues refusing to put my work on without offering an explanation, a newspaper not reviewing my book, a seminar and/or lecture in a university suddenly cancelled in the minute, an arts grants turned down.This is why I am always on the front row of any Palestinian event in the UK, because I want to congratulate those who, like me, despite everything still carry on, they still have a voice, they still have a story to tell and they are not afraid of doing so. One day we may look back at these days and romanticaise the revolutionary artists in us, one day we may laugh when people suddenly realise that they have been on the wrong side of history all the way along, when our work is recognised for what it is, when we are finally able to tell our story. Until then, I will continue to tell my story whether you like it or not. How could I not tell you how much my family in Gaza is suffering, how much my sister is starving, how much my people are waiting for any hope to have a normal decent life. I will continue to shout out loud and tell the truth, tell you a story after another of the young boy from a refugee camp who is now in London, still not angry but hopeful of a better future, hopeful that our story will finally be heard.  

Last week, I arrived at the same terminal in Cairo International Airport. This time, I wasn’t being deported to Gaza like all Palestinians travelling in and out of the besieged Strip. I had been travelling on a short business trip, only a couple of days in the big city.But it was all the same, the chair I sat on almost ten years ago, the same benches, the same immigration desk that I walked towards reluctantly knowing that I was going to be sent to an underground dungeon in preparation for my deportation to Gaza; the same moustached officer asking the same stupid questions. But this time, I was armed with a British passport rather than my usual Palestinian documents which were often useless anywhere in the Arab World.Before I went through last week, I glanced at the benches once more to see other fellow Palestinians waiting there. I recognised them by the look on their faces, the agony of knowing that they were going to spend an unspecified period of time in an underground room at Cairo Airport until the Rafah Border opened again, suddenly and an announced. I recognised that expression of a father looking at his little one with the expression of “I am so sorry to put you through this, but I have no choice”.My passport was stamped and I went through to pick up my bags and then onto the busy streets of Cairo to get to my hotel by the majestic Nile. I felt like a different person as I checked in with my work colleagues. I was excited to be free of course and to escape the fate of deportation.As I got to my room and closed the door behind me, I almost broke down, knowing how close I was to my parents and siblings in Gaza, knowing that I was only a few hous taxi ride to get to them yet it felt like a few light years away. I had hoped that I would be able to continue my journey onto the Sinai and through to Gaza. But the ten-year-old siege on Gaza meant that I was just fantasising.I had also applied for permission to go to Gaza through the Erez Crossing with Gaza, hoping that after my work was done I was going to fly to Amman and cross onto the West Bank, through Israel then into Gaza to be reunited with my family – another fantasy that I’m still entertaining.Gaza has sixteen crossing points with Israel and one with Egypt and they are all closed. Ten years of complete siege from both sides left the Strip on the brink of collapsing into the unknown. Everything is failing, from the health sector to water and electricity supplies. Yet two million people, like me, are living in a void, separated from each other, isolated from the world outside them. So allow me to explain this as simply as possible: for a Palestinian from Gaza, it is impossible to go anywhere. Egypt doesn’t allow us to cross over to their country except for humanitarian cases and others every now and again. Israel doesn’t allow us to fly into Tel Aviv, or cross over through the Allenby Bridge with Jordan. And it doesn’t matter whether I have a British passport or not, this apartheid system means that my ethnicity and Gaza residency ID card trump every other document I may have. Last year I tried to cross over the Bridge to take part in the Palestinian Festival of Literature along with dozen other European, American and other writers, including Nobel Prize Winner JM Coetzee. They were all waved through except me because I was from Gaza.My family in Gaza are under siege and as I returned to London from Cairo I felt that I was out of the siege. Yet that very same siege is killing both of us slowly. I often wonder why people cry over those who face sudden death, isn’t more merciful than watching your loved ones fading away in a prison and you are powerless to do anything?

“Promise me, son, to come backI won’t be able to bear your absence.be merciful to a heart that has barely dodgedthe aches of all the years”She said, fixing her headscarf tighter, voice creakyshe hugged me, but didn’t cryI did.She didn’t kiss me goodnight or read a bedtime storyoftendidn’t bathe or play hide and seekdidn’t push me on a swingoftendidn’t take me to schooloftenHer fingers were always rough,the needle left eternal marksafter nights of fixing the holes in my socksjust after laying out mattresses on the floorso we could all sleep, my eight siblings and Ijust after she collected the washingjust after she wrote down how much she spent that dayjust after she left the door open in case my Father would returnafter finding something to burn while the electricity was outafter she gazed at the sky to look out for dronesafter she found a quiet spot in the house to cryafter filling the water barrels ready for the next day,after doing her night prayerswhile watching me, all of uspraying that she is able to do the same thing tomorrowshe didn’t kiss me goodnightoftenbut I did play cards with hershe often wonand laughedI watchedI don’t want to die before I watch that again

"What does that even mean?" I was genuinely confused"Go back to Gaza" he carried on"But I can't" I bloody can't, I damn can't, I truly and honestly can't.  Israel denied me entry to Palestine yesterday (21 May 2016) mainly because I am from Gaza. That's it, no other reason what so ever.  No further explanation, no details, they didn't give a shit even though I was travelling on my British passport. They took me to a room and showed me all my details on a screen, an Israeli soldier came carrying

photos by Paul Hellyer Last Sunday 15 May 2016 I curated an emotionally charged event entitled على قيد الحياة 'Registered Alive' which took place at the Courtyard Theatre in London and was mainly supported by the brilliant Palestine Solidarity Campaign (PSC). The event featured renowned actor Maxine Peake and the amazing comedian Mark Thomas as well as Al Zaytouna Dance Theatre, musician Dave Randall and poet Sabrina Mahfouz.  It was a special moment for me to hear Maxine Peake read from my

 Come along to my home in London, let's have a bite together and listen while I try to explain to my six year old son why he can't see his grandparents in Gaza. Listen to the tears jamming up my throat as I stop them from coming up to my eyes, as I pretend to be strong in front of my child.  Look into the eyes of the confused child as I tell him that I am actually originally not from Gaza but from a village called Deir Snade. My own grandparents were forcibly removed and Israel has taken our