"The Dark" tells the story of Nur/Shoshana, a Palestinian girl adopted by the Israeli agent Daliah Tal who coordinated the operation in which the infant's parents were killed and who brought her up in ignorance of her true indenity.
During a stay in Turkey where Daliah is stationed under the cover of being a staff member of the Israeli embassy, a friend of Shoshana/Nur's invites her to a wedding in a Kurdish village near the Iraqi border where she encounters a fighter of the Palestinian resistance and witnesses the massacre of the village people by the hands of invading Turkish forces. These experiences bring a suppressed knowledge back to life and lead her to question the very foundations of her world, a painful process that culminates in her suicide and in the mental destruction of Daliah Tal whose universe disintegrates with the death of the girl whom she -herself unable to give birth in the course of an accident during military training- has come to regard as the centre of her inner world and who -in a perverted sense- provided a justification of her actions.
The play contains a number of parallel-running stories such as that of Senegule/Songul, herself a victim of the repression of identity as Kurdish language, culture and self-awareness are suppressed by the Turkish regime, a girl of about the same age whose courage and positive resistance to this oppression contrasts Nur/Shoshana's self-destructive patterns. This story, in turn, is paralleled by that of Zahavi, a double agent who in the end becomes the victim of his own dealings.
This, again, is a play that centres on the interchangeability of images containing monologues of a documentary quality and calling for border-crossing solidarity and interaction in search of solutions to the great historic conflicts proceeding from an analysis of their roots.
(Copyright with the author.)
Shoshana: In my dream I saw earth open itself to devour me. I was a new born child and blood was in my cradle. I saw a woman who instead of giving birth to a child gave birth to a gun. I cried for milk because I was hungry. But I was alone. Nobody heard my crying and my hunger grew until I ceased and only hunger remained having devoured me and using my substance for its own manifestation. It was grey and faceless its body being the emptiness by which I was absorbed. It had nothing to do with any desire for food. It was the feeling not to exist.
The Story Teller
Story Teller: You have heard the words of Daliah Tal. I ask your pardon. I couldn't spare you that. I saw it wasn't easy for you listening to them and letting them pass without comment. I know. But let me tell you a story about life, the story of an incident that happened to me recently. There was a day I was sitting on the bus on the way from Tel Aviv to Haifa. There were some friends with me and we were conversing in Arabic. Opposite us sat a group of soldiers with their guns on their laps. They were watching us with a provoking obtrusiveness, deliberately ignoring the distance of courtesy our culture demands and threw their nonsensical remarks into our conversation in a miserable Arabic. Doing this, they scanned our looks for any sign of discontent and when we turned away from their eyes, they followed us until their looks again met ours and they provocatively stared straight into our eyes. They were sitting at the right side and we at the left. If we had done as much as one move, if we had lost control for only a second, their guns would have been at us and the judiciary would have been on their side. Red flashes were dancing before my eyes and I felt as if falling into a black smoke curtain. I pressed my nails into thye flesh of my hand's palms until they bled and they were making fun of us and our language laying on wait for the moment one of us would lose his temper. That lasted from Tel Aviv to Haifa. In that time I learnt we learnt to control our emotions and take ourselves back until the time has come to release this potential. Each of us has his own way of dealing with his anger and pented aggression. Some talk, some dance, some play the drum and cry out. Some listen to Um Kulthum's songs all through the night. Some flagellate themselves and some turn it against others. And there are some who are more radical in their ways than others would be. But all of us feel the tension and the strain that lie in the air of this land. And we all are crying out to Allah for redeem. But what I want to tell you, brothers, is that we must not be blind. Our anger and our indignation must turn into wisdom and that wisdom must turn into a strategy, for we must fight the blindness and the destruction to which we fell a victim. And can we do that when we ourselves are instruments of blindness and destruction?
The man from Scene 3 comes back to the stage. Again the spotlights are on him.
The Man(shouting): What I demand is justice! And I will get it. I shall take my rights with those my two hands. I swear.
Story Teller: What is in your hands?
The Man (opens his hands and we see his naked palms. For a moment he is helpless. Then he says irritatedly}: Nothing.
Story Teller: This is the truth, brother. Whether you like it or not. (He shows him his own hands.) My hands are just like yours: empty. You see it. With those two bare hands I must protect my house and the few things I possess against those who want to confiscate them. Against those who have the right to do so because they made the law. Against those who can change it, renew and remould it until it suits their interests while to me it is made a dogma in which I have to believe. With these two bare hands, my impatient brother, I must provide and protect the life of my family, my wife and my children and not give my oppressor more troubles than necessary. And not give up, brother, and not and never give up. What do you say: Can I win a battle with these hands?