The Translated Works of Rab'i Al Idrissi (The Prophet Yusuf in Opera)

Preface


Religion and art coalesce. Religion conveys a universal message of Knowledge. Art conveys the same message in divert forms, one of which is theatre. Through religion, theatre can be understood and practiced (Norman Bert) since religion and theatre exist to teach and trigger thinking. The rendition of religious messages into artistic performance is concomitant as long as Man is after his quest for knowledge. What makes of a religious message more preponderated is the fact that it contains aesthetic faculties that may defy Man’s perception and understanding of beauty.



Theatre has always been inspired by religious themes. The examples are in plentiful supply, starting with Gurdjieff (1888-1949), the spectacular dramatization of Hindu Epic poem “The Mahabharata” in 1985, the Dzieci Troupe of 1997, “Caiaphas” by Mike Sparks in 2009, “Anna of Nazareth” by Sue Gordon in 2010 and “A 21st Century Nativity” by Peter van der Sluijs in 2010, and others.



Religious theatre moves beyond the simple role of entertainment to compass the human transcendent awareness and essence. In “The Prophet Yusuf in Opera” by Rab’i Al Idrissi, the aesthetic message is communicated on stage. The Opera displays the story of the Prophet Yusuf as it is mentioned in the Holy Qur’an. The purpose behind such artistic work is to bring the issue of religion, art, knowledge, human achievement and every debateable matter into a discussion of favourable results.


Fayssal Chafaki

فيصل الشفاقي




“If We had sent down this Qur'an upon a mountain, ye would have seen it humbled and coming apart from fear of Allah. And these examples We present to the people that perhaps they will give thought.” Yusuf Ali (59:21)


The Prophet Yusuf in Opera



Why such creative work?


This artistic project, “The Prophet Yusuf in Opera”, which abides by the conventions of theatre and art in general and which is subject to the humanitarian and tolerant Law of Islam, has come as a creative work that aims to build bridges of dialogue across cultures, using semiotics or sign language, either on stage or on the screen. Non-Arab Artists have also taken the stories of prophets (particularly the story of the Prophet Yusuf) into consideration when they attempted to render such religious stories into artistic works, each artist according to his or her perspective.



In our professional artistic workshop we decided to present the story of the Prophet Yusuf in terms of opera. The opera follows the Arabic and Islamic inherent heritage which confirms the existing events of the story and differs with other versions. For this reason, the Holy Qur’an, which is distinguishable by the ability of conveying the main events of the story of the Prophet Yusuf without any flaw or endurance, is the basis upon which this project operates.



In order to be open to non-Arab cultures, we have also decided to include the translation of the meanings of the Holy Qur’an into the major world mass communication languages, such as English, French and Spanish, jointly with the performance of the opera and with each translation accompanying the sequence of the events of the story.


Brief Profile of the Artistic Workshop


The artistic and theatrical workshop of ‘Abbas Ibrahim was first known as “The Mask 21 for Artistic Theatre”. Before this, the workshop was called “The Little Mask”, the idea from which “The Mask 21” was born and so later was “The Artistic Workshop of ‘Abbas Ibrahim”.



These three main stages in the development of the workshop have enriched the theatrical movement in Morocco and ‘Abbass Ibrahim has revived this movement by following theatrical and artistic conventions. Thus, and since the 1970s, “The Little Mask” has been able to reach the level of proficiency, both in Morocco and abroad, as this workshop consisted of the best graduates from Rabat National Institution of Theatre. Among the works that have caught the attention of Moroccan spectators during that period are: Al-Babu Al-Masdud (The Closed Door), Al-Qonbula (The Bomb) and Al-Qadi fi Lhalqa (The Judge in the Circle).



By the late 1980s, a member of “The Little Mask”, namely ‘Abbas Ibrahim, has travelled to France to accomplish his training in the field of drama and theatre. After few years, ‘Abbas Ibrahim came back to Morocco and established a centre for cultural theatre. The main goal of this centre was to train young actors so that they would fill the vacancy in Rabati theatre and provide the national theatrical arena with professional training.



In four years ‘Abbas Ibrahim has been able to establish “The Artistic and Theatrical Workshop of 1986” beside other young artists who performed series of plays that have gained the public satisfaction, such as Afrika Muhajir (Afrika Migrant), Snadek L’jeb (The Boxes of Wonder), Sdaft Hemmadi (Hemmadi’s Button), Mihrajan Lmhabit (The Festival of Mhabit) and Hikaiat bila Hudud (Tales without Frontiers).



This group of young artists has been open to the experiences of other young film directors, such as Jamal Din Dakhissi and ‘Abdulwahid ‘Azzuzi who found the necessary artistic elements that would meet their perceptions in film directing and would provide them with what an academic film director requires. ‘Abbas Ibrabhim, therefore, handled the torch of artistic theatrical training just like did ‘Abd Allah ben Chaqrun and Farid bn Mbark before.



Now Rab’i Al Idrissi follows the path of ‘Abbas Ibrahim in order to discover new talented actors, theatrical composers, directors and technicians and contribute to the progress of national theatre in Morocco. The artistic works of the late ‘Abbas Ibrahim are characterized by ardour towards the Moroccan Theatre and pure national conviction.



The actors who have received their training under the supervision of the late ‘Abbas Ibrahim are now honorary members of “The Artistic Workshop of ‘Abbas Ibrahim”. These actors are Rasheed Al Wali, Muhammad Khoii, Muna Fattu, Hassan Mkiat, ‘Abd Lkabir Rgagna, ‘Azeez Al ‘Alawy, ‘Azeez Al Fathi, ‘Azeez Al Khallufi, Muhammad Al Ja’ii, Qaiima Bel ‘Ushi, ‘Abd Raheem ‘Allam, Mustafa Mazwar and Munia Al Harti, among others.



“The Artistic Workshop of ‘Abbas Ibrahim” has trained a second generation of young Moroccan actors. These new actors have been able to produce a series of theatrical pieces, such as La Hna La Lhih (Neither Here, Nor There), HanZala Gate, Lkunji (The Vacation) and Atakrim (The Ceremony of Honour), which is considered as the last artistic work ‘Abbas Ibrahim organized and directed. Some of his students have participated into Atkrim, among whom were Mustafa Mizwar, ‘Abd Raheem ‘Allam, Ghizlan Mttghari, Rab’I Al Idrissi, Shiraf and ‘Afrae Al Hadri, Sa’id Al Khalfi, Shakir Lkhelfi, Muhammad Al Iazidi and Maryam Zwin.



“The Artistic Workshop of ‘Abbas Ibrahim” has also produced a play covering the subject of house maids, entitled Huruf mina Lbidaia (Words from the Beginning). This work came during the period of ‘Abbas Ibrahim’s sickness and was directed by Rab’i Al Idrissi. Actually, “The Artistic Workshop” is dedicated to the production of “The Prophet Yusuf in Opera” with an innovative style and fertile imagination.



A Religious Opera



This type of creativity comes within the artistic and technical employment of the Holy Qur’an into theatrical pieces. The idea of artistic employment of the Holy Qur’an is part of a research project I have conducted on the relationship between religion and theatre since 2006.



Before presenting “The Prophet Yusuf in Opera”, I would like to refer to some technical and theatrical terms used in this piece of work so as to familiarize those who do not appertain to the milieu of theatre with some particular concepts.[1]


Ceremony:


A formal act or set of acts performed as prescribed by rituals, customs, or etiquette, ME cerimonie, Lat. Caerimonia, meaning religious rite


Declamation:


The fact of delivering an elocutionary recitation; to utter and recite with rhetorical effects, ME declamacioun, Lat. Declamation, meaning recitation


Opera:


A form of theatrical presentation in which a dramatic performance is set to music; a work of opera; a theatre designed primarily for operas, Lat. Opus, meaning work


These three short definitions have been presented in order to make the project clear for the reader of this work.

In “The Prophet Yusuf in Opera”, I have decided to rely upon the Surah of Yusuf as a text without interfering with the holy verses of the Qur’an. Considerably, I apply this procedure to all my artistic works. Within the holy verses of the Surah of Yusuf, one may find implications, directional indications and settings that would bring the whole picture of the story to steal the focus of the audience. These characteristics would also make the viewer more likely able to admire the Surah of Yusuf.


The aim of this artistic project is to add visual aspects to the reading of the Surah of Yusuf. Since Muslims are commonly known to listen to the Holy Qur’an and as the world has recently turned into a digital and audio-visual place (metaphorically speaking), we are presenting this opera with the attempt to show the artistic aspects of the Holy Qur’an.


During my work on this project I encountered indications and references in the Holy Qur’an that urge the reader to consider the visual aspects of life, as well as its aesthetic side, in verses where expressions such as “See” and “Hast thou not seen” are abundant.


[1] The definitions of these terms are taken from The American Heritage Dictionary, Second College Edition, 1985.


Written (in Arabic) by Rabii Al-Idrissi

Written into English by Fayssal Chafaki

The Translated Works of Rab'i al Idrissy (A Prank Phone Call)

A Prank Phone Call



Introduction



When Rab’i Al Idrissy, artistic and theatrical director, wrote this play, he was on a train. When Rab’i Al Idrissy, friend and dear companion, asked me to translate this play, I answered him with glee. I was not on a train. I was sitting home and waiting for A Prank Phone Call to be sent to me via electronic mail.



A Prank Phone Call is a play written with a Moroccan spirit. There are three major characters that give the story strength and beauty. There is a father who is an artist and there is a mother, who is a housewife, and her young daughter. The story embodies some of the issues that question the Moroccan social living, particularly within the household. The story moves beyond these social limits to ask questions about the artist, men and women, birth rights, self-determination and the essence of the human being, among other subjects, in its Moroccan context.



I was asked to translate this play but I found myself writing it. The language that is used in the original work of Rab’i Al Idrissy switches from Arabic to colloquial Darija. The concepts, the ideas, the meanings and idiomatic expressions are typically Moroccan. Considerably, I have refrained from colloquial usage in the translation of this work into English. The reason lies behind the fact that the playwright used both forms of Arabic to address his readers and audiences, in an attempt from him to show how closely related are Arabic and Darija. The standard usage in the English translation of this work is altered for the sake of conveying the aesthetic message of A Prank Phone Call to the world.





Finally, this play A Prank Phone Call is devoted to Moroccan women, young and adults, who still think that their rights are denied. A Prank Phone Call provides an answer to the question of some women’s rights in Morocco beside other things.



Fayssal Chafaki





A Prank Phone Call



Scene One Act One





In the stage centre stands a simple desk on which there are papers and different files. In stage right appears a big shelf. Paper signboards are scattered around this shelf, each one containing an expression such as artistic theatre, fine arts, classical cinema, modern cinema, tourism, economy, religion, human sciences, geographical manuscripts, history, philosophy, natural sciences, physics, medicine, plants and astronomy. Generally, it is a strange shelf that is formed according to the needs of the main character of this play, the artist ‘Abd Al Mubd’i.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i is seen standing by a wooden mast near the desk putting papers on his right, putting the last paper, reorganizing all his papers again and starting to read:



“The flasks, take it with ease! Hold on! Without these flasks it wouldn’t be what it is by now. It is not easy when you love her, and when you really love her. Yet your life is better than hers.”



‘Abd Al Mubd’i is talking to himself now! No, no, she deserves more than these words. Because it’s the International Women’s Day, any person who thinks he or she possesses a word or two in his or her brain would be ready to express anything without giving it sense. I need something exceptional, something which fits the status of a woman. Many of them will flatter women and many of them will play hypocrites: they will say we are against violence; we are for the freedom of women. These are the enemies of creativity.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i reads from his papers again:



“You are a woman, and though you will reach the period of climacteric, do not feel despair.”



(Still talking to himself,) No, no, they do not appreciate such words. And then the word despair has nothing aesthetic in it. Let me read this!



“I love women without the use of cosmetics and makeup. You are better this way without allowing the hairdresser to touch your hair. You are a flower. You move freely; you make noise; you keep moving around. You are a kind of flower! You clean the house and you cook the food.”



“No, no,” ‘Abd Al Mubd’i is still reading: “if there are no women, cosmetics and makeup won’t be sold. And if they are not sold, the companies of cosmetics and makeup won’t sponsor this artistic work. This work will remain a prisoner of the shelves. And if I happen to know the person who is behind the production of these cosmetics, I would have suggested for him or her to use these cosmetics and makeup on cats and dogs instead. This person would better organize a competition for the best terrier-dog hair cut, the best makeup for cats, rather than trading in human beings. These cosmetics destroy the skin of women. Women become addicts, just like I am addicted to cigarettes, and if women do not find their makeup, their skin will wither.”



“This is none of my business,” still reads ‘Abd Al Mubd’i, “and precisely, makeup comes from petroleum, and I can not compare to the market of petroleum. I just want to write something, just anything, and just how to write anything without saying lies. Well! Let me talk about dress!”



‘Abd Al Mubd’i carries reading (with enthusiasm this time): “My Lady! Your body gives dress a meaning. This dress exists among other creatures. You wear a hat, a garment, a shawl, or a soft tissue around your neck, and a light dress tampered by the wind, resembling a leaf during autumn season, and you wear your shoes with long heels.”



“Shoes with long heels are dangerous for women. Medium size shoes are worst. All these fashionable clothes cause sterility and lead to whoredom.”



Wait! (‘Abd Al Mubd’i is talking) If I say that all fashion is nothing, they will call me a backward person. The wise guy is the one who thinks more than seven times about the word he wants to say before he says it. Otherwise, he would stay writing for the rest of his days, and after five-hundred years his creative writings will reach the mass that will say he was a great writer one day.



‘Abd al Mubd’i comes back to reading again:



“This is the time when writers are hindered and blocked. The creative artist who is not appreciated by these fake artists will not receive help and support. They will leave him feeding on himself. I was a dump ignorant and a jerk as I did not know the rules of the game. Mix anything that may look like food, give it a small round shape and then present it to the blind. This way you become an artist.”



“I want to swim in the opposite direction of the current. A long time ago I was making fun of Saddam because he defied the United States and England. He was so stubborn. He did not hear the words of wisdom saying: “The Union overpowers the Lion.” He was surrounded from everywhere and yet he was still wrongheaded. His forehead always preceded him. Unbelievable! He did not even find a toothpick by which to clean his teeth. Obstinacy nowadays is a calamity. You must lower your head till the storm subsides. This storm seems to destroy anything that comes on its way. It will start with those heads that are like rocks and then finish with those that are down to earth. Everything will be like blown in the air. May الله take us somewhere, but where there is less humility!”



“I was making fun of Saddam and forgot about myself. Today the whole world stands against intellectuals. I mean real intellectuals but the word intellectual is between brackets (meaning the word is between quotation marks). The whole world also stands against those in Power. You tell them you well-positioned people know nothing. You just piffle. You read nothing and you understand nothing. And above all you understand nothing in art. Your aims end in possessing a big farm. I mean a big farm of stolen money. Every time you find an excuse by which you hinder me. I am too left with no toothpick to clean my teeth from the dirt that is stuck between them. My canines have been demolished and caries have even found no other tooth to destroy.”



“I look like a lion. I sold tomatoes in street markets. I dressed like those Holy Wood film directors, those ones who produce blessed movies, for the sake of the United States Dollar, a movie or two. When it comes to their home-targeted productions, they do that with trust and perfection. For them the aim justifies the means. For me, no! I do not possess of two faces.”



“I respect women and I hold them with high esteem. I do not follow the idea that says women have their rights and men have theirs, but rather both of them have the same rights. They do not need to treat each other with too much courtesy. Wait! What if both men and women were just hallucinating? Probably, from the perspective of a woman, she would have reached their ears and told them that man himself is a human being too. Man also has feelings. And man (for you women) is also your father, your brother, your son and your husband.”



‘Abd Al Mubd’i still reads the last paper:



“This play is written by an unknown playwright, whose aim is to create conflict, playing the game of ‘are you with or are you against?’



I am with women to go to work.



I am against women to go to work.



Bow-wow! Bow-wow! Bow-wow! Bark! Bark!



I am with women who rule and decide.



I am with men who work and decide.



Bow-wow! Bow-wow! Bow-wow! Bark! Bark!



Smack! Spit! Spit! Look at them now they are fighting.”



“This is in a sense a civil war. We are swimming in the same pool. I have been the victim of violence on the part of women as well. How many times have I been beaten by my mother? How many times have I been annoyed by my sister? How many female teachers have applied Falaqa (feet whipping) on my bare little feet? These teachers hit me on my small fingers, during the month of Mars, when cold is severe. And how many girls have manipulated my feelings? They tricked me. And if I keep counting how many incidents like these have happened to me, I will never know how to stop. The problem is that we, all of us, have just had the habit to see women who are victims. At school we were fed with this idea: we boys are the foxes and they girls are the bunnies.”



“Believe me we must make an end to this war. This is a genocide using good terminology. We must talk about neither man, nor woman. We must talk about neither child, nor adult. We must talk about neither white, nor black. We must only talk about the human being. Human beings are the same. The feeling of pain is the same. Being offended is the same. There are no disputes over these facts. The only difference is in the means of expression.”



‘Abd Al Mubd’i now has finished reading the last paper and starts talking to himself:



I need to put an end to this ridiculous lecture and rather write a play that will be accepted by organizations defending the rights of women. I need to provide myself a piece of bread, pay back my debts, for the hell how many bank cheques I have given without possessing a cent in my account. If these cheques reach the court, I will go to jail. This way I will find peace, chase away this headache and take time to write. I may create a theatrical group, play some pieces and take a tour around prisons. Anyways, I am just hallucinating.



The telephone rings. ‘Abd Al Mubd’i notices the phone, moves towards it and picks it up. The call is unknown and ‘Abd Al Mubd’i gives ear.



Ghania: (A female voice is heard) Hello, Hello! This is very unfair. Is that all? You took what you were looking for?



Ghania: (The female voice is heard again) Feel pity on me! Please! You can just marry me and spare me scandal. Look! You worry about nothing. I will labour hard. I will go to work. I will bring all my earnings right to your hands. Do not just let me down. If my brother happens to know about this, he will kill me. I know that you are listening to me now. I asked the Imam and he told me it’s forbidden to go for abortion as the baby has got soul in it. Look! Let us just marry first! Then we procure a civil status for the baby. Then we leave each other if you want. Listen! I know you and I know everything about you. I know you are afraid of your family. I know you are afraid of your mother and your sister. Then when you are but your mama’s boy, why were you always following me? It’s really unfair what you do to me. I even borrowed the money by which I am calling you now.



Look! We marry without the knowledge of your mother. I do not want to commit a murder. I got a strange feeling about which you men can know nothing. I got the feelings of a mother, and if I were not pregnant, I swear, I would have attempted suicide. I have fear concerning what’s inside of me. The poor baby has done nothing wrong. Is there no more mercy left on earth? I am not the kind of persons who go to courts, and even my family can not bear such humility. If my brother knows about this, he will certainly kill me. Look, look! You can just find a house for me to hide until I give birth. I will go away afterwards. You can just find any job for me, even cleaning toilets in cafés, sorry for this, waiting till things improve. Please, please! Consider me a Jew who has just turned into a Muslim between your hands.



You are my master. You are my husband. Remember you told me you will never let me down. Isn’t man the word he gives? I see that your heart does not want to show mercy. So, on this sacred day of Friday, I wish you have the worst problems of your life. I wish some dire misfortune befall on you from the sky. I wish you face charges and that you find no way out, except by execution. O Lord! I want to see you dismembered in front of me. And look, I swear! Never a woman will be happy to take you as her husband. I will turn you into a mad person and destroy all your damn family.



The phone call has been interrupted.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i is now sitting in front of his desk where he uses to write. The door bell is heard. Knocks on the door are heard. Police sirens are also heard. The police shouts: surrender, the whole place is under siege! We will blow up the place if you do not cooperate with the police.



The telephone now rings. ‘Abd Al Mubd’i picks it up but hesitates in answering the call.



Ghania: Look! I am really sorry I insulted you. I am but a stupid woman. Nothing harmful may touch you, even a hair of yours. Please! Only marry me! I want nothing else from you.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Hello! Tell them please to leave me in peace!



Ghania: Who are them? Why has your tone changed?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: It’s the American police.



Ghania: Why has your tone changed? Why are you speaking this way?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I am scared.



The voice of the police: Nobody is here. Let us see the other apartment!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Who sent you like a curse upon me? The number you are dialling is wrong.



Ghania: Woe upon me! You are not him! Damn, what a scandal! You are his friend then. Call him for me! I want to talk to him. Tell him it’s not reasonable every time he gives his phone to someone else to answer. Why does he put me in shame?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: No, this is really the wrong number. This is nobody’s phone. It’s my own.



Ghania: You too are like him! I wish you both disappear from earth.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: No, no, please, do not curse me with these words. No, no, don’t! What do you need? I can help you.



Ghania: I need a husband to save me. I will be his housemaid. You know now my story. Help me!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I can give you the phone number of some women’s rights organizations. They will present your problem to people.



Ghania: Do I need someone to spare me scandal or to make it public? Are you…? Anyways, what is your name?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: My name is ‘Abd Al Mubd’i.



Ghania: And what is your profession?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I write.



Ghania: So you Noble, write a talisman for me. Turn him into a dog! I will make you rich O Noble. Show me your blessing! Look! There are thousands of women, girls, whose husbands ran from them. And, you know, they will do anything possible to bring their husbands back.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Isn’t it said that the aim justifies the means? I am against what you say. A noble aim necessitates a means nobler than that.



Ghania: Ah, you have that kind of witchcraft that is godly, not the one that belongs to Satan. What matters for me is that he comes back home and we marry.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I have no authority over him. I can not force my opinion on him. I am with your right for marriage but I am at the same time against the way you want him to become, a dog or a hyena.



Ghania: What is really important for me is marriage, O Noble.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Wait! There is a misunderstanding. The concept of noble is related to a particular and ancestral kinship with the Prophet. With time this concept changed so that every savant is a Noble, then every man of authority is a Noble and then every wealthy person is a Noble. Personally, I have none of these characteristics. So, please, I want you to take away this description and no more call me Noble, as this name has been stuck to hush smokers these days.



Ghania: Alright, do not be upset, I will call you directly Fqih.



‘Abb Al Mubd’i: Shame!



Ghania: So, it’s the Saint.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: You easily distribute titles and assign posts. In truth, the problem is yours. You did it with your hands; you come out it using your teeth. Just leave me out of it!



Ghania: You men are the same. The same blood runs in you. You care much for your gender. Think of me like your sister and help me!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I sympathize with you. I am nothing but a creative story writer. I also write plays, and that’s all.



Ghania: Ah, so you are an artist. I like art. When I was a little girl I participated in activities during the Feast of the Throne. I even received an award but I did not carry on. I would have become famous now. Tell me, in which city are you?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I am now in Rabat.



Ghania: Oh, I love people from Rabat.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I am not from Rabat. I just live here.



Ghania: Where were you living before?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I was living in Marrakech.



Ghania: I love the special food of Marrakech. Tanjia, do you know how to prepare it?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: No, I have not stayed in Marrakech for a long period.



Ghania: Do you like couscous?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Of course, I do.



Ghania: And the soup?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Of course, yes!



Ghania: I am skilful in cooking. You shall one day taste my food. I swear you will feel vertigo. Does your wife know how to cook?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I am not married.



Ghania: You found no female artist to understand you!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I found none.



Ghania: This means you live with your parents.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: No, I live alone.



Ghania: But! Who cares for you? Who washes your clothes? Who cooks for you?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I do all that alone.



Ghania: You do that all alone: poor one! Look, ‘Abd Al Mubd’i! From now on I don’t want you to waste your time on cooking and washing things. Just give time to your writings!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: What would you get in return for this?



Ghania: Just be the artist! I am a fan of your works and I want to help you become famous. It’s not fair to keep this energy hidden.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: But if I bring you here to live with me, I will be accused and said to reinforce the idea that women are but made for the household. As if to say that cleaning, mopping the floor, washing and cooking are a must for women.



Ghania: Dear sir! I send to you my CV. I find myself in washing clothes. My favourite hobby is cooking. Don’t let me talk to you about mopping and cleaning! I love water to death. I keep all day beside the tap.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I am against wasting water. And I have written a number of plays…



Ghania: One bucket is enough for washing, and just another bucket for washing the second time. When shall we meet?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I don’t like phone conversations. I don’t like too much talking. And I used to live alone.



Ghania: I was just kidding with you. It’s me who will call you on phone. I feel safe when I hear your voice. I like the way you deal with things. You are the first one who treated me without greed. You treated me with respect. You were honest. You are even so kind. I swear you are an artist. In short, you are a human being.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Thank you! I am but a simple human being.



Ghania: I feel bored staying at home. I want to spend a beautiful day with you.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: My door is open to everyone. The house is little bit like a mess but I will arrange it.



Ghania: If you want me to be angry with you! Touch nothing! I am the lady of the house. Please respect each one’s duties!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Yes, my lady!



Ghania: Tell me a beautiful word!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: A beautiful word!



Ghania: I like your funny ways. I love you, bye.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Bye!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I love you, so quick like this!





End of Scene One Act One



Scene Two Act One



The same house appears with the same shelf. Home furniture, some makeup on a small table, a vase for flowers, a small corner for some books, a European table in centre stage, and a kitchen are all on the scene.



The artist sits at his table with a book in his hand. He is reading to himself. Ghania is trying to fix the stick that is attached to the mop. She is now during pregnancy.



Ghania: (‘Abd Al Mubd’i) Take a look at this stick! It does not want to fix.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i puts the book on the table, handles the stick, fixes it and utters not even a word. He takes back his book.



Ghania: Thanks to you! Anyways! A man is but a man.



Ghania carries mopping the floor. After a while she grabs a curtain and tries to hang it on the wall. She seeks the help of a chair but she can’t make it.



Ghania: (‘Abd Al Mubd’i), please! See if you can reach this height and hang this curtain for me!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i takes a glimpse, looks at Ghania then looks at the curtain and does what he is asked to do.



Ghania: There, yes! Move little bit over there! Yes, that’s it. Look if it’s really fixed! That’s fine. Listen! Lunch is ready. Empty the table from your books!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i takes his books to a little corner. He then fetches some white papers and a pen. He starts writing. Ghania appears with a plate in her hand.



Ghania: I prepared rice for lunch. Truly, I don’t know if you like it or not. There are no more tea and no more sugar in the house.



Ghania steps closer to ‘Abd al Mubd’i.



Ghania: Is this a new book you are writing?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i nods.



Ghania: What is it about?



‘Abd al Mubd’i: It’s about Pollution.



Ghania: Pollution is not your business. You studied literature. Why don’t you write about love? Make people laugh! People like fun. What is the story about?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I do not know what will come out of it.



Ghania: You just said it’s about pollution.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Look! Even if I know about the subject I write, I have no idea about the details. Sometimes I write just for the sake of expressing what is inside of me and for relief. I don’t have the intention to publish such things.



Ghania: Speaking of what is inside of you, why don’t you reveal your feelings to me? This way you will feel good.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Papers are trusted for carrying those feelings. Papers do not forget and do not interpret.



Ghania: Me too I want to write. What shall I do?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Write!



Ghania: I really want to write.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Here are papers, start!



Ghania: I don’t know how. I mean how to start. I mean I don’t know what to write. How shall I do?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: You need to have an idea about what you want to write.



Ghania: You ‘Abd Al Mubd’i, how have you become a writer?



‘Abd al Mubd’i: I really don’t know how. I tried plenty of times to understand this. I really don’t know.



Ghania: This book that you read now, is it about pollution?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: No, it is not.



Ghania: Then it’s about Science.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: No, it’s about the History of Civilizations.



Ghania: You were just writing about pollution, weren’t you?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: No, it’s not some research about pollution. I want to write about something that annoys me. Everybody is interested in environmental pollution. Nobody pays attention to “the pollution of tastes”. I want to ask a big question here. Isn’t psychological pollution more dangerous than environmental pollution?



Ghania: Look at yourself! You have bought this pack of paper sheets just to ask a question of “is this more dangerous than this” but where is the solution? I feel as if you do not want me to become a writer.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I don’t want you to be an imitator. Become whoever you want to become, but just know what you want, and I am supporting you.



Ghania: Thanks for the advice, doctor!



‘Abd Al mubd’i: I am not a doctor.



Ghania: You are a genius. You are a brain.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I just know what I want.



Ghania: And what is this thing that you want?



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I want that all cafés turn into libraries and restaurants into printing houses. I want the sea as ink and the trees like pens. And I want to write about love.



Ghania: You see! I told you this. This is what the market needs: writing about love.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: No, the market needs works about prostitution. Good that you reminded me. Read this book of that Moroccan writer. It’s here.



Ghania: No, it’s not here. Here I put books that cover cooking. The other books I put them in boxes.



Some silence reigns over the place. Ghania is still talking to ‘Abd Al Mubd’i.



Guania: That’s because I saw you did not use them lately.



There is silence in the place again.



Ghania: I think because you read them all.



There is again silence in the place.



Ghania: I thought about moving the shelf.



Again silence takes place.



Ghania: I said to myself why not changing the look. I feel bored if I do not change the decoration of the house. (there is more silence in the room) The books and the shelf only gather dust around them. I even found some cockroaches and spider webs all over the place. These cobwebs have made the books hidden. If you want I will put the books back where first they were. Why not putting them back now! Say something! Talk to me! Why have you become upset? I didn’t do that on purpose. I was just kidding with you. I wanted to see if you get angry or not.



Ghania: (still talking) Phew! I am fed up with this cold war of yours. I didn’t know that you too are so mean like this. In truth, you have no reason to be angry. More than this, I don’t even read to those dump stupid writers. They just cheat. And look at those who produce theories! They don’t even agree. The falsify each others. Some of them say yes and others say no. Sometimes they just do it for the sake of contradicting each other. One said we have nine planets, Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, and so on, and so forth. Another one came and said we have ten planets. He said that just opposing the first one. Each one speaks what’s only in his brain. And you, why are you burning your head with all these things? You must see a psychiatric. You become all the time nervous. You do nothing but sitting home and reading, reading, reading. Go outside and walk a little! Meet your friends! Go to a café! Look for any castings! Work! Provide some provisions! Too much reading will turn you into a mad person.



Ghania: You shall not be mad of me, especially during my period of conception. Be glad I don’t have cravings for food. I rather feel mad with those silly writers, not with you. If it were against you, you couldn’t even go to bed beside me. I feel like I want some coal. I am not going to use some incense, just feel safe. I want those pieces of coal that are used for smoking Shisha. They leave a good smell in the house. Ouch, ouch! I feel pain. I am going to give birth now.



Screaming is heard and the room becomes dark. The sound of an ambulance siren is also heard. The cries of a baby are now heard.

End of Scene Two and Act One





Scene One Act Two



Luxurious furniture and a moderate one are arrange in a beautiful manner. Other beautiful decorations are displayed on stage. Hiba is a young girl, who appears in stage centre, sculpting on fresh coal. A voice is heard from inside the house.



Ghania: Hiba my daughter! May you win the Contentment of الله! Can you please put the lunch on table? I can not move a toe. I am so tired.



Hiba: Mother, come and see what I have done! It’s a sculpture nobody ever thought about.



Ghania: You did it again? Has your father arrived yet?



Hiba: No, not yet!



Ghania: It seems another woman is the reason why your father is late. Today he acts strangely. I don’t like that. He is in and out with that civil status document in his hand. (Ghania, with her white hair now, appears to walk slowly towards the stage) And wearing his suit, shaving his face, for there is no trust in men.



Hiba: Don’t you say this, mother! It’s not just. I swear there is no man like papa. He knows only one thing in his life, and that one thing is art.



Ghania: Look at yourself! How ridiculous! Are you selling coal now?



Hiba: No, it’s not for sale. I conducted a research on coal and I found that it helps control humidity in homes and reduces bad smells. And coal is also used for cooking.



Ghania: Ah, you see now! You did it. You are under the effect of pregnancy. The bastards fooled you. That’s it, you lost your virginity. Who is he? You know his home address? How many times have I been telling you not to trust men?



Hiba: The birds that you have in your head will never fly one day. You gave me such a complexity called men.



Ghania: You think you fooled me with your words. Tomorrow we will go together to the doctor to give me a certificate.



Hiba: Don’t you know this?



Ghania: Know what?



Hiba: There are some doctors who are bribed and give that certificate to anyone.



Ghania: Really! It did not use to happen in our times. And the one who has no money, what she may do?



Hiba: Give a cheque!



Ghania: And if she does not have a cheque?



Hiba: She becomes the cheque. The doctor checks her and then she’s a virgin again, with a certificate of honour. As far as I am concerned, I need some one to take care of me. I know what I want.



Ghania: Now I am satisfied but for your father who is late, it will be a day to remember.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i enters. He looks old. He holds something.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Have a good day my lady!



Ghania: That’s it, you are smiling! Where have you been until now? Look! Don’t tell me in the café. We agreed you take your cup of coffee home.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i keeps smiling and moves towards the table.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Oh, regarde moi ça! This is extremely wonderful. Art gives art. Now the room has turned into a portrait. This is a lovely surprise.



Ghania: This is my daughter.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Is this related to your research on coal?



Hiba: Yes, it is.



‘Abd al Mubd’i: I have never admired coal until today. I have never thought that the colour black is also beautiful. Oh, can you hear me people? Things like this can even be made out of coal?



Hiba: Stop here! The search is complete.



Hiba turns her coal sculpture, which looks like a tree, towards the right. Now the other half yields some books and a form of a library.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: You have such a wild imagination!



Ghania: You look alike, both of you.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I have a surprise for you Hiba my daughter, first on the occasion of accomplishing your artistic project, and second on the occasion of your eighteenth birthday.



Hiba: Oh, by الله! I swear I was forgetting it.



Ghania: You always forget about yourself Hiba. ‘Abd Al Mubd’I, life without you is nothing, and as far as these occasions are concerned, I can always count on you.



Hiba: What have you brought to me as a gift, father?



Ghania: He brought you fuel by which to burn your coal.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: It’s you who, during your time of conceiving, asked for coal.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i presents a cake, or some confectionary, beside a series of books, one about the history of Morocco, one about the history of art and the encyclopaedia of the year.



Hiba: Thank you, father! You shouldn’t have brought confectionary at all.



Ghania: And if suddenly a guest comes to visit us! You Hiba have nothing in mind except books.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Now, let us celebrate!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i and Hiba sit around the table. They look serious. They start a lengthy discussion. And this way, (it has been explained to Hiba that) a prank phone call has resulted into a family that is now hers.



Hiba (after there is some silence): Now this means that I am a foundling.



‘Abd Almubd’i: No!



Hiba: Now this means that I am of rotten origins. (She starts to cry.) Where has he gone, this father? Who is he? Has he ever asked about me? Is he dead or alive? O Lord! Why is it only me among my friends to whom this happens? Why haven’t you told me this from the beginning? Why have you done it this particular day? Where is that saint mother who bombarded my ears with her too much advice? Be aware of men! Guard your virginity! Be bright like your mother! If you were bright, I wouldn’t have been born to an unknown father. Why didn’t you tell me? O Lord, I want to die now. O Lord, may some car hit me. I want it to be over. (She yells loudly.) Why have you lied to me?



Hiba: You organized a plot against me. You made my life such an illusion. (‘Abd Al Mubd’i slaps Hiba until she falls to the ground. She gazes at him.) You have no right to slap me. (He slaps her again.) You are not my father. Why do you hit me? (‘Abd Al Mubd’i slaps her for the third time.) You don’t want to get it. I am not your daughter. Don’t make your hands touch me!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i slaps Hiba one more time. She runs to her room and closes the door.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Open this door! (He hears her weeping.) I am sorry because I was very frank with you. I am sorry because I wanted you to be conscious and knowing your story. I am sorry because I wanted you to be who you are, to know your past, and to know that it’s somebody else who is the cause of your existence, not me. I have only guaranteed the conditions of your living. I have no right to change the events of the past; I have no right to say lies about the past. If you were my real daughter, I would have told you that.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: You need to understand that you were behind my marriage with your mother. My message has been conveyed to everybody because of you. Nobody used to know me until you came. I really loved you. I really gave love to you when I brought you up. I have fulfilled my duty and have done all that I could do and was possible for me. If you think that I am one of those who manipulate human beings, no, stop, I am not. Now go out and face me like you always do! I have never prohibited you from expressing what is inside of you.



Hiba (talking from her room): You have never slapped me.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: You know pretty well that you entered into a dilemma. I helped you to be out of it. I knew that you were not yourself and had consciously no idea about what you were saying. You were unconscious about your deeds. Come out and let us talk! The way will be clear to you.



Hiba (still behind the door of her room): Everything is clear: you lied to me, both of you. I will look belittled in front of my friends. You made an end to my dreams. You destroyed me. You are the direct cause of all this. You wouldn’t have accepted to marry my mother. I will never forgive you this.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Let me tell you something! I really apologize. I have done you harm. I have done harm to your mother. I miscalculated the matter as I did not know how to bring you up.



Hiba: That’s it, insult me more!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I thought I could be the first person to treat his daughter in a just manner. I thought I made of you the woman every Moroccan dreams to see: a woman who is well-bred; a woman who is creative; a woman who is independent. I was mistaken about the fact that you became a powerful woman, self-confident, aware of the things that you want to do and in full control of yourself. I challenged many persons who underestimate women, giving the example of you. I also bet many of them that a woman can be like a man if she receives the same education he receives. I had an equation in mind that if there are equal opportunities for men and women, there will be no difference between the two. My friends used to make fun of me and tell me that a woman keeps being a woman. You have been done no harm. And you have no reason to think your life is destroyed. Here is your mother beside you, you know her. And your father is also known.



Hiba: You ruined my life. You exposed me shamefully.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Now I’ve realized that I was doing it the wrong way. Of course it will be scandalous for you. And that’s because you are not a free person. You are a slave, and a slave who worships people. You act according to their will. You wear according to their taste. You breath the way they want you to breath. O people, servants of الله! Wretched he who lives just to satisfy the others! To be happy is not the fact others say you are happy. Happiness is when you are happy. Truly, the happiest person is he or she who is content with his or her own self, and who frees his or her brain from such an illusion called the other. How important you are in society is how important you see yourself. In the past it was said that if you give yourself importance, you become important. This is the first time I discover that there is a microbe with the name of impossible. I used to believe that there is nothing called impossible. I used to be smart enough to calculate what would happen in fifty years to come. Indeed there is something called impossible. It’s impossible that a woman becomes better than a man. It’s impossible for a woman to succeed in her work outside. It is impossible for a woman to be self-confident. It’s impossible for you Hiba to use your brain. It’s impossible for you Hiba to control your feelings. It’s impossible for you Hiba to fulfil your dreams without lowering your head in a humiliating way. It’s impossible for Hiba to reach her goals without losing her dignity. It’s impossible for Hiba to belong to those noble spirits who say no to humility, no to offence and no to exploitation. It is really impossible for Hiba to be a woman who is happy with herself. This thing really can not happen.



Hiba: No, please! Don’t say this! Shut up! This is not fair!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: Thank you Hiba! Your name really conveys the meaning it has. You Hiba are a gift from heavens. You helped me wake up and realize that the weak person keeps always weak. You are really a gift from heavens, Hiba! You provided me with a great lesson in life. A woman will always keep being a woman even if she turns into a man. I praise الله that He created me a man.



Hiba: Shut up, shut up!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I am happy as a man. I am proud I am a man. For times I had a simple wish if I were somehow a woman, I would express, loudly, what a woman feels, what are her deep feelings and what she herself makes sense of, not what the society wants her to be. I have gone now. Enjoy your birthday party alone!



Hiba: Father, papa! Don’t go away! (Hiba goes out of her room.) I am really sorry. I don’t like to see you crying like this. I want you to forgive me. It’s only the shock, nothing else. That is all. I will become the person you want me to become. I will be strong and self-confident. I will tell people this is who I am. I will do anything to make you satisfied. I will make your dreams come true.



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: I want you to make your own dreams come true. I want you to achieve what you want to achieve.



Hiba: You will forgive me I caused your tears!



‘Abd Al Mubd’i: There is no shame in a man crying. It’s not disgraceful to find a man grieving. What is disgraceful is when a man offends a woman, only because she is a woman. There will come time when things are going to change, if I may stay alive to see that day, we will say the opposite: it’s a shame for a woman to offend a man; it’s a shame for a woman to take over what is a man’s right. “He who is with glee in a certain period of time, other times will come to show him sorrow.” This war must know an end. War shall be waged against degradation, poverty and misery, and so on, and so forth.



End of Scene One Act Two





Scene Two Act Two



There is darkness on the stage. The school yard appears on the scene. It’s the day of graduation.



The Head Master: We would like to thank the Association of Schoolchildren Parents and in loco parentis for its participation and preparation of the ceremony so that this occasion is not considered in vain. We would also like to thank the Ministry of Education and its representative for material support and for its encouraging and valuable prizes designed for excellent students. I leave now the floor to the student of the year. The first rank belongs to Miss Hiba ‘Abd Al Mubd’i, please step forward to receive your prize.



Hiba takes a stand on the podium.



Hiba: Thank you all! I don’t have…I am really sorry because I cry. I owe this moment of joy to my spiritual father, the famous, kind, creative and great writer, ‘Abd Al Mubd’i, who is not my true father, and who has done his best for my upbringing. By these words, I am also addressing those girls, my classmates, who wrote on the doors of the toilets that Hiba is a foundling. Indeed my real father is unknown. I am truly the production of prostitution, as everybody says. Yet I have never committed a crime or something forbidden by religion. My classmates used to treat me as if I am a criminal; whereas, I am the victim. And as stupid as I am, as weak as I am, I used to hide my face in the dust, just like an ostrich does. As if I have committed a real crime. I have done no mistake but I came as a mistake. The mistake is that of a man who does not possess a single hair that belongs to men. He left my mother. My story was unknown to me. My mother was looking for protection and was seeking a title of matrimony. She has done all this to protect me. I am grateful to her that she did not kill me and let me live. She took pain for the sake of me.



Hiba: Before I came to this ceremony, and that was yesterday, I met the person, the male, who was behind my existing biologically. He wanted to attend our ceremony as my real father and benefactor. Of course I did not accept that. It will be my shame to bear the name of a pleasure seeking male. I refused to give honour to a certain man without principles. It will be my shame if he steps here in front of people and think with pride that his daughter is a hard working student. I am a hard working student (Hiba cries), thanks to a real human being. He is a real human being who keeps long dietary habits so as to secure provisions and books for me. My success is due to this real human being who cares for the welfare of others. He knows the meaning of responsibility, the meaning of tender and the meaning of love. He used to give my mother and I the impression that he is under hunger strike and that he supports a certain person in his or her struggle for freedom of speech. He argued that he was also joining the protests if anybody around the world is arrested. He pretended all this so that food and provisions may suffice.



Hiba: I am a young woman who is proud of being bred and fed under the protection of a man who taught me one golden rule: be who you are, do something that is beneficial for your homeland and raise the national flag high above the sky! I was born here and so I will die here. Dignity is far more important than just living. And every Moroccan is a man and a woman of pride and dignity. I would like to present these books that have been gifted to me, not to ‘Abd Al Mbd’i or my mother, but rather to those fathers who left their children. They can read the books. The books are not for them to bargain. The books are there for such fathers so as not to repent their deeds.



There is darkness on the stage.



End of the Play, A Prank Phone Call



Written into Arabic by Rab’i Al Idrissy

Translated and written into English by Fayssal Chafaki



Copyright © 2011



N° de depot legal: 2011 MO 2349

ISBN: 978- 9954- 30- 493- 8