A Roundtable Review: Returning to Haifa at Golden Thread Productions (2024)

Lijesh Krishnan (Said), Amal Bisharat (Safiyya), and Jacob Henrie-Naffaa (Dov) in Returning to Haifa, directed by Samer Al-Saber. Photography by Najib Joe Hakim.

A Roundtable Review: Returning to Haifa at Golden Thread Productions (2024)

A zoom discussion between Aycan Akçamete, Hala Baki, Marjan Moosavi, and Michael Malek Najjar, recorded on 19 August 2024, edited for length and clarity. The participants viewed the online/livestream recording of the Golden Thread Production.

Hala Baki: Welcome to MENATMA’s Educator Circle[1] review of Returning to Haifa, produced by Golden Thread Productions in San Francisco and directed by Samer Al-Saber, professor of theater at Stanford University. The play, written by Naomi Wallace and Ismail Khalidi, adapts the novella of the same name by the Palestinian author and journalist Ghassan Kanafani. It tells the story of a couple, Said and Safiyya, who were forcibly displaced during the 1948 Nakba and who, in the aftermath of the 1967 War two decades later, return home to Haifa in search of their lost home and son. As the play unfolds, we watch their uncomfortable encounter with the Jewish Israeli family who occupied their home and, unbeknownst to them, adopted their son. We have chosen three topics to talk about relating to this production: dissonance, displacement, and return. Reviewers, in your view, how do those three topics manifest in this production?

Michael Malek Najjar: The idea of dissonance is one that's fascinating to me because displacement and return are very physical. Not necessarily the manifestations of what's occurred within this family, but the notion of dissonance, the dissonance between being Palestinian and the dissonance of what it means when one is still Palestinian, but growing up in an Israeli society where one is expected to conform to Israeli societal rules. The dissonance that the play was attempting to capture was the dissonance between one's internal understanding of oneself and the external pressures that one must conform to while growing up in a society that's highly militaristic, and especially in a time of occupation and war.

Hala Baki: Exactly, and that dissonance is most clearly present for me in the character of Dov or Khaldun when he was faced with the truth of his heritage. He’s a Palestinian child who was raised as an Israeli Jew by those who adopted him after the 1948 Nakba. When he discovers his truth and comes face to face with his birth parents, he asserts himself as a cause rather than trying to grapple with that existential dissonance. He tries to push the truth aside and say “No, I am committed to a cause” and that becomes a point of contention with his biological father, Said. To me, that confrontation begs the question: How willing are two people (individuals and collectives) who are trapped in this existential and identitarian battle to grapple with the vulnerabilities of the gray areas? Take the example of Miriam, the adoptive mother and a Holocaust survivor for whom Israel represents a force of good. She wants to be open to the Palestinian couple and their loss, but at the same time she draws a line because she still claims that land and that house as her home, claims their son as her son. She tries to sympathize with Safiyya as a mother and to leave herself a little bit open to the people she essentially stole a home and son from. So there's that kind of dissonance between living up to your best virtues as a human being, but also being trapped within, as you said, Malek, the societal restrictions that may limit your potential humanity in a lot of ways.

Marjan Moosavi: And building on that, the clash between characters’ past identities and their current realities leaves an enduring mark on their life and identity. Almost all characters experience this in varying degrees. I think in Returning to Haifa, the characters' efforts to reconcile their past with their present and to navigate existential uncertainty revolve around two central themes: continuity of dissonance and a re-turn. Dissonance seems to be a persistent condition for the characters. The enduring presence of certain elements of the home (picture frame, furniture, feather) and temporal fluidity in narrative and structure emphasize this persistence. Such an existential uncertainty is common to all human beings, but we see that in this particular context it continues to be a condition that has repercussions on multiple levels, on parenthood, for instance, on the sense of identity and belonging that characters have developed. So I see the continuity of dissonance on multiple levels and multiple temporalities. Al-Saber’s directorial choice in using non-linear mis-en scenes supports the play’s multi-layered narrative, multiple perspectives, and the interconnectedness of past and present events.

Aycan Akçamete: I also thought that when we say dissonance, it reminds me of the character Khaldun/Dov. I think the scene where his parental heritage is revealed was one of the most interesting parts of the text – the revelation of this relationship to the parental figures, or its lack thereof. It is noteworthy to see that Khaldun/Dov is the embodiment of the violent military and was a tool of it, in a way. He was “adopted” not only by the Jewish family, by Miriam, but also by the army. His character and attitude was a very powerful contrast to Miriam and Safiyya: we hear their stories from the Nakba and the Holocaust, their perspectives on what they went through during and before 1948. Unlike them, Dov/Khaldun didn't have that humanitarian dimension on stage. Rather, he was a symbol of that army violence.

Hala Baki: Almost a dehumanized symbol, or robot.

Aycan Akçamete: Absolutely.

Michael Malek Najjar: What might be interesting is to see Dov twenty years into the future, and ask ourselves, would he have another dissonance after, say he was part of the Israeli invasion of Lebanon, and came back and had a Waltzing with Bashir moment? Would he have another dissonance when he thinks, “Look what happened to me. I was born to these Palestinian parents that were displaced. I became part of the system, the Israeli military system, and then that system sent me to a situation where I was forced to commit or be complicit in the killing of Palestinians elsewhere. And now I'm an older person.” Would he then have a further dissonance? The dissonance of “Of what have I done? What has my life meant? What does it mean to return to Haifa, and which Haifa are we talking about?” I think that that would be another interesting layer to explore, say, in a sequel to a play like this because we're only seeing Dov in this one moment in his life. Of course, we know people in the military often have shorter lifespans, but if he lived that long would he have a further dissonance, looking back as a Palestinian on what he had done as an Israeli?

Hala Baki: I wonder what you all think about the technical aspects of the production and how that may have contributed to that dissonance in some ways. Because for me, one example that comes to mind is the use of sound. There were uses of sound that were, to me, dissonant. For example, I remember when the couple was recounting the story of their first child, Khalid, and there was a soundscape that just took me out of that moment. I remember the dialogue being such a raw and painful recounting of the parents’ struggle of losing Khalid and it being diminished by the sound design. But I wonder if it was purposely placed there to build up this dissonance, maybe because the characters were struggling with themselves— how much to remember or to return to, and how much to let go of the past. I think that moment factored into their decision to physically go back to see what happened to their other son, Khaldun.

Marjan Moosavi: You know what you’re saying reminds me of the subtle shock value that the play had at certain points. And now that you're talking about dissonant sound effects, it rings a bell for me. The sound effects are misplaced maybe  because the play is all about displacement. The sound effects and small surprises that we as audience members experience can be intentional choices. I heard there were moments in which we could hear the shock and sigh from audience members.

Michael Malek Najjar: There are sound effects written into the stage directions in the original script. But the question is, how effective were they within this particular production? For instance, in one stage direction there's a huge clap of thunder which becomes the sound of mortars, and we are back in 1948. So it seems to me that the playwrights Wallace and Khalidi were trying to utilize sound as a kind of punctuation. But I think the question of any type of use of sound effects, especially as you might want to call this a “war play,” becomes interesting. Do these effects take us further into the story, or distance us from it?

Hala Baki: Yeah, it's interesting that you point that out because in the battle scene where they're replaying the actual day or moment that Safiyya left the baby and ran into the streets, those battle sounds were effective for me in creating an elevated sense of fear and anxiety. But I think it drew out just a little too long, and, maybe because of the livestream recording, I didn't quite hear the nuances of like thunder versus shells falling. But maybe there's also this intentional desire to make it less realistic, like a poetic soundscape which didn't translate as well in the livestream.

Aycan Akçamete: This reminded me of the scene where they depicted 1948. There were some choreographed movements alongside the soundscapes. I thought that it looked different from the stage semiotics in other scenes. Those choreographed moves were also poetic, as you have mentioned. And, I remember thinking that wasn't an attempt we saw in the rest of the performance. So it felt a bit odd and out of place, too – in that it was not in unity with other scenes.

Hala Baki: I mean, the writing itself is heightened. Just knowing a little bit about the playwrights, I think that this is a style that Wallace and Khalidi tend to write in. I believe they are both poets as well as playwrights, so they embrace the heightened language which translates to a little bit of distancing on stage. Of course, its combination with those other aspects of choreography and sound is something else. Maybe that was intentional on the part of the director and designers to create something Brechtian in that sense.

Michael Malek Najjar: The question that I walked away with from this production was, how important is it for us to return to the narratives of ‘48 and ‘67 given what's happening in Gaza right now? It seemed, for lack of a better term, “dated” in the sense that, yes, this is an entirely important story to tell, and one that must be recounted to audiences who don't know the actual history. But given what's happening in Gaza today, it felt like a story from another time that was not as immediate as the situation that we're facing right now. How did all of you feel about its relevance in this very moment that we're facing?

Marjan Moosavi: I think that the play, the company, the director, they all wanted to remind us about certain facts that exist. But some people tend to forget. They just choose to forget what the story before October 7 was. My question was why we tend to forget. And it seems that we need to be reminded about that history. Yes, you're right. It's outdated. But it seems that we still need to be reminded about the right to return. This reminds me of that very beautiful and significant quote from Ghassan Kanafani’s novel about how some of us use other’s mistakes to justify the injustice we do. I'm not directly quoting but it’s something like we must not believe that others’ weaknesses or mistakes justify exploiting them for our own benefit. Our existence on land shouldn't be at the expense of others. This is a very crucial statement that sometimes is forgotten. In that sense, I think Returning to Haifa is timely.

Hala Baki: If I could give the quote, because it's in the playbill. “The greatest crime any human being can commit is to believe, even for one moment, that the weakness or mistakes of others give him the right to exist at their expense.”

Marjan Moosavi: Yes, thanks. That's profound.

Aycan Akçamete: I had the same thought as Marjan. And, what Malek said is also very much true – we are beyond that point right now. But, I was thinking about American culture and the mainstream narratives that are circulated about Palestine today. So, my question was “Who is the audience of this piece right now in the US? Who is watching this in San Francisco, at Golden Thread?” This led me to what Marjan said: the play reminds the audience of the facts and history. For example, the play mentions how the British played a hand with the Jewish settlement in Palestine. Today, not many people talk about this historical background, especially in the US. Very few discuss the fact that what we have today in Palestine is an extension of the British colonization of their land prior to 1948. I also think this text was necessary because it humanizes both Palestinians and Israeli Jews. We hear their stories and perspectives, giving the audience a multiplicity of voices. Perhaps, for American audiences, in today's climate, providing that humanitarian dimension is appropriate and felt quite timely.

Michael Malek Najjar: Aycan, you bring up a very good point. For whom are these plays? That becomes a major question. I think whenever we're talking about Palestinian plays, Palestinian theater, are we speaking to an American audience that's ignorant of this history? Are we speaking to an American audience that is cognizant of this history, but should know better, and is choosing to ignore the facts? Are we speaking to other Middle Easterners who know the history very, very well? This becomes a real conundrum, doesn't it? Because, ultimately, we have such a multiplicity of audiences. I've noticed this in my own work. Sometimes I'll have people see my productions and say, “Well, we know all of this! Why do we need this play?” Yet other people say, “Thank you for staging this play. I had no idea this was going on in the world.” So, it strikes me that we're in a very strange space, where we have to speak to many experiences all at once, and the question then becomes, which play is the most appropriate to do so? I believe that more contemporary plays about more contemporary issues might be more appropriate at this time. But, as you said, for people who have cognition of any of this history, then a play like this is absolutely invaluable.

Hala Baki: To add to that, this play’s an interesting case study, because originally it is a novella written by a Palestinian living in Palestine, perhaps not even aiming to appeal to an American or international audience. And then you have these two American playwrights— granted, one of them is Palestinian American— but they are adapting it with their specific historical and cultural perspectives. Right? It’s a question of authority or authorship. The other thing I want to offer is a slightly different perspective on the looking back question of relevance. I wonder if there's still something to be learned from this story, because even as the play is dated and spans the two decades post Nakba, it reminds us that the place stays. The land remains, the homes remain, and it's the people who have to then adapt. And I think the question in relation to what's going on in Gaza now is: What's going to happen the day after, year after, decade after? The people are gonna have to adapt with the destruction, with the trauma, with the literal and spectral scars of what is unfolding. So I think, in that way, the play is a kind of historical reminder of the consequences that we don't think about until after the fact, after the violence. Does that make sense? Twenty years from now we very well may have another example of returning— to Gaza. So, in that way, I think this play can be profoundly future-looking rather than backward-looking.

Marjan Moosavi: Yes. I absolutely agree. Palestinians’ collective struggle never yields to despair or stagnation. It involves re-turn, turn-away, and a U-turn. And if I can connect that with the concept of U-turn. I learned the concept of U-turn in the context of art activism. I learned that when we go back to our past we are actually reclaiming, and maybe subverting, or even resubverting, what we have been doing, the dominant narratives and values. When we do a U-turn, we review them and try to go back, but this is done with a view to the future, you know, because we are hoping that by reviewing the past we are actually setting the ground for a new path to change. It's a strategic shift, that we do intentionally, and I think it has a lot of hope, although this hope is grounded in uncertainty. You mentioned the remains, there are also objects that remain in the play across time. There are fragments. We see some fragmented remains of the past that exist there, the feather, the books, the doorway that is covered with green leaves. So you're absolutely right that there are some remains. And it's the change that happens in the people in their mind and subjectivity that remains there, too. And to connect it with the concept of U-turn. Toward the end, at a critical juncture, we see Said makes a U-turn at a moment when he celebrates his son’s decision to join the resistance. This U-turn is a pivotal moment for Said and his son who I consider as the symbol of futurity. Those remains and their U-turn compels them to acknowledge past mistakes and limitations. Ultimately, and more importantly, they resolve to reclaim hope and a pursuit of a future filled with possibility and promise.

Michael Malek Najjar: At this moment it feels very difficult to talk of hope, doesn't it? When we're seeing what's happening and what has happened since October 7th. I believe that becomes one of the conundrums of a play like this–yes, they returned, but they weren't allowed to stay. And similarly, even if there's a return to Gaza someday, will people be allowed to stay when even graveyards are being defiled, and homes are being obliterated? What will be there to return to aside from just the land itself?

Aycan Akçamete: The land today is a mass grave, full of debris from all the destruction. I don't know what there will be to go back to, and who will remain alive to go back. If we accept that the play itself is a return in itself or like the U-turn that Marjan mentioned – both looking back and also articulating something about the future – then, it just makes me even more pessimistic. In the play, we watch Palestinians going back, even though they couldn't stay, and then having a conversation with an Israeli Jew. This led me to think if it's possible today or will be in 10 or 20 years. And, I doubt it. Maybe I'm a little bit too pessimistic, but I am not very hopeful.

Marjan Moosavi: Yes, the pessimism is there, and it's totally valid. I see your point. The destruction is on another level but it doesn't mean that we, as artists or scholars, cannot or should not do anything about it.

Hala Baki: Well, I think that the difference between the time of the play and now is that we're not talking just about displacement. We're talking about annihilation. Those are different, they're going to have different resonances into the future. And this current moment looks more pessimistic. But, as Marjan was saying, hopefully there is some sort of intentional, moral U-turn at least that's going to happen as a result of being reminded of this ugly history.

Michael Malek Najjar: I'm looking at the end of the play on paper, and it says, Young Said says, “What's that?” Young Safiyya says, “Let's go look!” “They run out of the house to see what made the strange, urgent noise. They glance around, more curious than frightened. Now the noise strikes above them again. It's a thunderous, rapturing sound, both beautiful and frightening in its promise. Said says, “It's coming. Listen!” “The youths look up at the noise with both anxiety and hope, trying to glimpse at what's coming.” He says, “Can you see it? I can see it. It's coming yes, yes.” End of play.Those two contrasts between what is both beautiful and frightening, and anxiety and hope, seem to be what the play is wrestling with. But looking at what's happening in Gaza right now it's very difficult to find anything beautiful or hopeful. The play seems to have that contrast, but in this moment can we find a similar ending? That’s what I felt the dissonance was between the play we watched and the historical moment we’re facing today.

Hala Baki: Yeah, as you read it, I was trying to remember if that moment even landed emotionally for me, and I don't think it did.

Aycan Akçamete: Same. I did not feel that either, watching the play.

Marjan Moosavi: And looking at how Ghassan Kanafani's life ends, we see how his voice was silenced by assassination. This is the most violent sort of censorship.

Michael Malek Najjar: It's much like what happened with Refaat Alareer, the Palestinian poet who was killed in Gaza recently. The need to silence the poets, to silence the writers in such a violent way. It's horrifying. And the question then becomes, what now? When you're erasing, not only the landscape, but the living and the dead upon it? We use the term genocide, but within that there is the notion of cultural genocide–the erasure of museums, art, theatres, universities… and the very poets and and playwrights themselves.

Hala Baki: And poets like Kanafani preserve both the culture and the soul of Palestine even when their lives are cut short. Their work lives on to cure people of whatever despair they may have over the situation. It reminds them of the resilience of the human spirit and of the Palestinian people. Palestinians may be physically threatened or obliterated, but their memory will always live on in the land itself and beyond. And that's not something that anyone can take from them.

Aycan Akçamete: And that is really valuable – just like what Golden Thread is doing with their season dedicated to Palestine and other events like 24 Hours for Palestine. Even though the destruction is ongoing and brutal, the legacy of the culture can live on through performances, texts, and events. Such cultural venues and sites are incredibly important right now to resist that destruction.

Hala Baki: Exactly, not just as a space of cultural perseverance, but of community building and solidarity creation, especially because what is happening now in Gaza is so unique in comparison to previous crises. We are seeing it all unfold in real time, unfiltered, and there is an unprecedented amount of awareness and sympathy and shock globally, for things that most people were ignorant of before. So yes, it's important that these cultural events are happening, not only for the culture in and of itself but for building an international movement for justice in Palestine. The event we mentioned before, 24 Hours for Palestine, was impressive because it did just that— bringing folks from all over the world to tune in and present. It’s quite moving to see that much global mobilization led by theater artists.

Marjan Moosavi: It’s moving and valuable especially in the face of media imperialism and propagandist outlets that exist and want to dehumanize and silence the voices from and about Palestine.

Michael Malek Najjar: So what, then, is the long lasting effect of this production in your opinions?

Hala Baki: Honestly, in my opinion, I think it was a reminder of and a testament to the power of theater to show us what is possible, in some cases what we haven’t actualized yet. Where else are you going to see a Holocaust survivor and the Palestinian couple she displaced have a heart to heart about loss and trauma? Where else can we see the physical embodiment of the struggle with identity and for the land of Palestine manifest with all of its complexity? Because, no matter how you put it, this land is going to exist, and it's going to exist for both Israelis and Palestinians, whether it's now or 50 years from now or 100 years from now. Theater can help us imagine what the world will look like when reckoning and coexistence inevitably happen. I think it's just that, the power of art to bring these seemingly intractable issues and impossible futures to the forefront when we're too caught up in the current political and historical moment.

Aycan Akçamete: Overall, I loved watching this play – partly because the media and discourses dehumanize Palestinians, erasing and obliterating their voices and narratives. So, I think, at times, theater and performance function like an archive of those silenced and erased histories and resist and refute those mainstream discourses. For me, this is what this performance achieves, as well, and that is where its power lies for me.

Marjan Moosavi: And following these. I also wanted to highlight that sense of belonging to a community of witnesses that the play creates for us. A community of witnesses that also sees there is continuity. The play was written based on a novella that was written decades ago. The play has been staged, I think at least three times in London and Minneapolis. And as witnesses to this history and to these stories, we can ask what our ethical positioning would be vis-a-vis all that's happening. And we need to ask these questions, no matter where we are and from what background we are here, as a community, to watch the play.

Michael Malek Najjar: Also the fact that Palestinian artists were part of this production was a beautiful thing. In the American theater, directors like Samer wouldn't be hired. A play like this would be given to the mainstream directors, who are predominantly not Middle Eastern. So here we are with the Palestinian novelist, a Palestinian American playwright, a Palestinian director, and Palestinian American theater artists all working on the same play. There's a beauty in that in that kind of bringing together of those voices in a unique way that literally would not happen elsewhere.

Hala Baki: And that's something that only a team like Golden Thread Productions could really pull off.

Michael Malek Najjar: And that's the function of these MENA theaters. They're allowing these voices to be heard, and to be also transmitted through people of similar cultural backgrounds. That alone makes them absolutely necessary and unique in the American theater landscape.

Production Photos

Michelle Navarette (Miriam), Lijesh Krishnan (Said), and Amal Bisharat (Safiyya) in Returning to Haifa, directed by Samer Al-Saber. Photography by Najib Joe Hakim.

Diala Al-Abed (Young Safiyya) and Amal Bisharat (Safiyya) in Returning to Haifa, directed by Samer Al-Saber. Photography by Najib Joe Hakim.