16 Feb 16 | Art and the Law Commentary, Artistic Freedom Commentary and Reports
By Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti, a British playwright.
When I started writing my third play, Behzti, in 2003 I could never have imagined the furore which was going to erupt.
There was an atmosphere of great tension in the lead up to its production in December 2004, and it was indeed an extraordinary time. Mass demonstrations culminated in a riot outside the theatre. I woke up one day to find journalists from five national newspapers on my doorstep. The West Midlands Police informed me there had been threats to my life. I left my home to go into hiding. I was assigned two police officers and came home weeks later to find CCTV installed outside my flat and security railings over my windows. Famous people inundated me with message of sympathy and support. I was offered money for my story. You literally could not have made it up.
Nationally, there ensued a complex debate about freedom of speech, censorship and multi-culturalism. Meanwhile, on a micro level there was both back-biting and solidarity from fellow artists, the now-normal daily interaction with the police and the actual processing of what had happened to me.
I knew immediately I had to write about what was going on. Looking back now, I realise that I was in shock and my mental state was fragile, part of me was soaking up all the arguments, the issues, the various players and agendas.
I knew it had to be a piece of theatre. Any other form would be too simple and straightforward; it was as if nothing else could do justice to the juxtaposing darkness and light of this strange series of events.
Behud was always going to be personal, though never autobiographical. Behzti, for example, is a play about hypocrisy and the pressures of being part of a community, a talk about what’s underneath the British Asian dream. It started out with me wanting to write about my own life as a carer. My experiences around Behzti were complicated, sometimes hilarious and occasionally very painful. My instincts as a writer are dark and comic. I’m attracted to what’s under the surface, and I see nothing wrong with being provocative. The play that came out of all this had to be true to all of these elements.
Behud had to be written, or it would have been the elephant in my head. In the immediate aftermath of Behzti being pulled, I pretty much shunned the media and notoriety. I wanted to get on with my life and reclaim my normality as a jobbing writer. I wrote another two plays commissioned by other companies, worked on my own series for the BBC and also developed a number of screenplays. I found myself being constantly questioned about my feelings about Behzti. People were fascinated, excited, pitying, scornful…it was hard to express how I honestly felt and also to connect with anyone who had gone through anything similar. Again, it was by writing a play that I could pour everything into a fictional text.
Behud had a chequered history from its inception. More than anything I have ever written it divided literary managers, theatres and directors. It seemed as though everyone had their own ideas about what I ought to be saying about the Behzti affair. What I came to realise was that the events of December 2004 had affected the industry deeply, damaged it even. Individuals had their own passionate opinions about that time, so I think it was difficult for people to view it as just another play and it took a long time to get into production.
Everything I feel about that time is in Behud – from my own self-doubt and self-loathing to institutional racism and the friction between artist and state – and ultimately the triumph of the imagination. I wanted the play to be able to stand alone, without the spectre of Behzti behind it. By the time Behud was about to be produced, the rawness of my initial feelings had given way to a degree of acceptance and compassion which I hope are reflected in the piece. I still remain interested in the notion of provocation, the space where an audience opens up and/or closes down, the opportunity to have words heard or to challenge and shake things up – which I expect will always remain a feature of my work.
The fact that the play was going on at all felt like a victory in itself, though not an exorcism or catharsis — that occurred when Behzti was produced in Europe. When the actual production was happening I was of course aware of the various behind-the-scenes conversations and strategising. I too had to get real. In 2004 I had been childless, whereas now I was pregnant with my second child, so I had new responsibilities. My partner and I discussed worst-case scenarios and made plans accordingly. I knew inside I had to be strong and bold and confront whatever came to pass.
Both Soho and Coventry went to great lengths to make sure I was okay about every aspect of the production. I was well supported, and for once I allowed myself to be supported. When any new piece of work is put on, there is always some anxiety about its reception. With Behud, this was heightened to the extreme. As the opening night drew closer, the theatres started to receive letters and protestations from various groups and individuals. A few rogue stories appeared in the press – some Sikhs apparently were outraged that Behud was opening in London on the night of Baisakhi, the Sikh new year. After the first dress rehearsal, Hamish Glen told Lisa Goldman, the director, and me that he had been asked by the police to pull the play. My heart sank and it felt like real life was horribly, weirdly mirroring art. I just kept telling myself to keep going. To his enormous credit, Hamish stood firm but the implicit threat and police presence created an incredibly difficult atmosphere for the artistic team and actors to work within.
As for the question of marketing of Behud – was the image the right one to sell the play? With hindsight, I think it probably wasn’t as it didn’t truly reflect the play’s tone and content. I was of course disappointed that audiences were lower than expected (both my previously produced plays had had sell-out runs). There were comments from people saying that the Asian community didn’t even know Behud was on. I do find it sad that the theatres felt they weren’t able to reach out to an Asian audience. I was thrilled when Soho staged a reading of Behzti during the run. This was a great achievement by the theatre, but it was a shame that the event wasn’t advertised in any form. There is only so much an artist can do, it is also up to the institutions he/she works alongside to meet impending risk with courage.
I was heartened by some incredible feedback on the play from different people who saw it. And it was great to hear the muffled laughter of one of the Sikh men who came as part of the deposition in Coventry. Whether he was laughing with or at the play, it at least elicited some kind of reaction.
The important thing for me is that Behud was produced, and now the published text is out there for anyone who’s interested. The play, production and surrounding strategies were by no means perfect, but they were heartfelt. The fact that they happened at all is a step in the right direction.
At the end of Behud, Tarlochan, the writer, picks up her pen and continues writing. That’s what I feel my role is – to keep on creating drama I believe in, to maintain my true voice, writer from the heart and hopefully make work that is both challenging and entertaining.
And as for Behzti, it’s life too goes on. As well as winning the 2005 Susan Smith Blackburn prize, the play has had readings in Canada and London, been translated into French, published across Europe and toured France and Belgium. It has also become a set text in university drama departments across the UK.
Finally, would it be possible to do Behzti again in the UK? I certainly hope so, as I’d love to work on it some more. Doubtless it would be a tough challenge. I hope one day someone will want to take that challenge with me.
16 Feb 16
By Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti, 16 February 2016
Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti is a British playwright.
The playwright Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti found herself in the eye of a storm that had profound effects on her personally and on theatre as a whole.
When I started writing my third play, Behzti, in 2003 I could never have imagined the furore which was going to erupt.
There was an atmosphere of great tension in the lead up to its production in December 2004, and it was indeed an extraordinary time. Mass demonstrations culminated in a riot outside the theatre. I woke up one day to find journalists from five national newspapers on my doorstep. The West Midlands Police informed me there had been threats to my life. I left my home to go into hiding. I was assigned two police officers and came home weeks later to find CCTV installed outside my flat and security railings over my windows. Famous people inundated me with message of sympathy and support. I was offered money for my story. You literally could not have made it up.
Nationally, there ensued a complex debate about freedom of speech, censorship and multi-culturalism. Meanwhile, on a micro level there was both back-biting and solidarity from fellow artists, the now-normal daily interaction with the police and the actual processing of what had happened to me – *with friends and family and also in my own head**don’t know if thats necessary*.
I knew immediately I had to write about what was going on. Looking back now, I realise that I was in shock and my mental state was fragile, part of me was soaking up all the arguments, the issues, the various players and agendas.
I knew it had to be a piece of theatre. Any other form would be too simple and straightforward; it was as if nothing else could do justice to the juxtaposing darkness and light of this strange series of events.
Behud was always going to be personal, though never autobiographical. Behzti, for example, is a play about hypocrisy and the pressures of being part of a community, a talk about what’s underneath the British Asian dream. It started out with me wanting to write about my own life as a carer. My experiences around Behzti were complicated, sometimes hilarious and occasionally very painful. My instincts as a writer are dark and comic. I’m attracted to what’s under the surface, and I see nothing wrong with being provocative. The play that came out of all this had to be true to all of these elements.
Behud had to be written, or it would have been the elephant in my head. In the immediate aftermath of Behzti being pulled, I pretty much shunned the media and notoriety. I wanted to get on with my life and reclaim my normality as a jobbing writer. I wrote another two plays commissioned by other companies, worked on my own series for the BBC and also developed a number of screenplays. I found myself being constantly questioned about my feelings about Behzti. People were fascinated, excited, pitying, scornful…it was hard to express how I honestly felt and also to connect with anyone who had gone through anything similar. Again, it was by writing a play that I could pour everything into a fictional text.
Behud had a chequered history from its inception. More than anything I have ever written it divided literary managers, theatres and directors. It seemed as though everyone had their own ideas about what I ought to be saying about the Behzti affair. What I came to realise was that the events of December 2004 had affected the industry deeply, damaged it even. Individuals had their own passionate opinions about that time, so I think it was difficult for people to view it as just another play and it took a long time to get into production.
Everything I feel about that time is in Behud – from my own self-doubt and self-loathing to institutional racism and the friction between artist and state – and ultimately the triumph of the imagination. I wanted the play to be able to stand alone, without the spectre of Behzti behind it. By the time Behud was about to be produced, the rawness of my initial feelings had given way to a degree of acceptance and compassion which I hope are reflected in the piece. I still remain interested in the notion of provocation, the space where an audience opens up and/or closes down, the opportunity to have words heard or to challenge and shake things up – which I expect will always remain a feature of my work.
The fact that the play was going on at all felt like a victory in itself, though not an exorcism or catharsis — that occurred when Behzti was produced in Europe. When the actual production was happening I was of course aware of the various behind-the-scenes conversations and strategising. I too had to get real. In 2004 I had been childless, whereas now I was pregnant with my second child, so I had new responsibilities. My partner and I discussed worst-case scenarios and made plans accordingly. I knew inside I had to be strong and bold and confront whatever came to pass.
Both Soho and Coventry went to great lengths to make sure I was okay about every aspect of the production. I was well supported, and for once I allowed myself to be supported. When any new piece of work is put on, there is always some anxiety about its reception. With Behud, this was heightened to the extreme. As the opening night drew closer, the theatres started to receive letters and protestations from various groups and individuals. A few rogue stories appeared in the press – some Sikhs apparently were outraged that Behud was opening in London on the night of Baisakhi, the Sikh new year. After the first dress rehearsal, Hamish Glen told Lisa Goldman, the director, and me that he had been asked by the police to pull the play. My heart sank and it felt like real life was horribly, weirdly mirroring art. I just kept telling myself to keep going. To his enormous credit, Hamish stood firm but the implicit threat and police presence created an incredibly difficult atmosphere for the artistic team and actors to work within.
As for the question of marketing of Behud – was the image the right one to sell the play? With hindsight, I think it probably wasn’t as it didn’t truly reflect the play’s tone and content. I was of course disappointed that audiences were lower than expected (both my previously produced plays had had sell-out runs). There were comments from people saying that the Asian community didn’t even know Behud was on. I do find it sad that the theatres felt they weren’t able to reach out to an Asian audience. I was thrilled when Soho staged a reading of Behzti during the run. This was a great achievement by the theatre, but it was a shame that the event wasn’t advertised in any form. There is only so much an artist can do, it is also up to the institutions he/she works alongside to meet impending risk with courage.
I was heartened by some incredible feedback on the play from different people who saw it. And it was great to hear the muffled laughter of one of the Sikh men who came as part of the deposition in Coventry. Whether he was laughing with or at the play, it at least elicited some kind of reaction.
The important thing for me is that Behud was produced, and now the published text is out there for anyone who’s interested. The play, production and surrounding strategies were by no means perfect, but they were heartfelt. The fact that they happened at all is a step in the right direction.
At the end of Behud, Tarlochan, the writer, picks up her pen and continues writing. That’s what I feel my role is – to keep on creating drama I believe in, to maintain my true voice, writer from the heart and hopefully make work that is both challenging and entertaining.
And as for Behzti, it’s life too goes on. As well as winning the 2005 Susan Smith Blackburn prize, the play has had readings in Canada and London, been translated into French, published across Europe and toured France and Belgium. It has also become a set text in university drama departments across the UK.
Finally, would it be possible to do Behzti again in the UK? I certainly hope so, as I’d love to work on it some more. Doubtless it would be a tough challenge. I hope one day someone will want to take that challenge with me.
05 May 10 | News and features
An unpublicised reading of the cancelled Sikh play proved excuses for its continued censorship have been demolished argues Robert Sharp
This is a cross-post with liberty central
Last Friday, British theatre took a small step in the direction of free speech. At the Soho Theatre, in the heart of London’s west end, Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti’s Behzti was performed in the UK for the first time since it was controversially cancelled in 2004.
Let us be clear: this was no great stride for freedom, more an anxious shuffle. The performance was a rehearsed reading, not a full production, and received no publicity whatsoever. It was completely absent from the theatre’s website, and was only advertised to those who had been to see Behud, Bhatti’s most recent play. Buying a ticket felt a little like purchasing bootleg liquor from under the counter, and the atmosphere in the auditorium was, I imagine, how dissidents must have felt in the 1640s, when religious puritans closed the theatres and drama was performed illegally. Proper free speech has to be more open than this.
However, at the start of the performance, it became clear just how necessary and important this toddler’s step was to those who lived through the panicked, abrupt cancellation of 2004. I was surprised to hear Janet Steel, the director of the original production, say that she “thought this day would never come.” To an outsider, this modest reading was hardly radical. But to those who were threatened, who witnessed the picket lines first-hand, it is as if the cancellation happened yesterday. The first impressive thing about Friday’s reading was how many of the original cast had turned out to revive the script.
The performance revealed just how essential it is to the piece that it is set in a gurdwara. The rapist, Mr Sandhu, has built the temple, and is responsible for extending it. His office is his lair, and he derives his power over the other characters when he is in it. Choose any other setting (as some have suggested) and the key dynamic simply doesn’t work.
Behzti is often referred to as “that Sikh play”, a phrase which suggests a comparison with “The Scottish Play” (indeed, it has a lot in common with Macbeth, including a heightened realism and off-stage murders). This label suggests that it is for the Sikh community alone to determine its worth and relevance. This is a mistake – sexual abuse is, sadly, universal. For example, scenes from Behzti were mirrored in Two Women, which has just finished a run at the Theatre Royal, Stratford East. In that play, too, we see the complicity of women in the perpetuation of the abuse cycle. And we all know that child abuse and even murder within a church setting is a long established theme for drama. Behzti is a visceral play that the British public, all of us, deserves to see.
Six years after its abortive first production, Behzti still feels current and relevant. The actors turned in a robust delivery with very little time to rehearse, as if they were picking up where they left off. They have reinforced the artistic case for a proper revival.
Over the past five and half years, all other barriers to a remount have also crumbled. The blasphemy argument is as incoherent now as it was then. Even in 2004, there was no consensus among Sikh commentators as to whether the play was an insult to the religion. Since then, the very idea that blasphemy is a reason for censorship has been discredited. After Behzti, controversies over the Danish Muhammad cartoons, and the protests surrounding Jerry Springer the Opera have tested the public’s patience on the issue of “offence”. Public opinion is now firmly against censoring art for religious reasons, and it is now broadly accepted that faith remains strong even when religion is criticised. Even the hotheads who might disagree in principle know that, in practice, peaceful protest and counter-speech are more effective than threats. The violent demonstrations outside the Birmingham Rep are a thing of the past.
Moreover, the police have shown unequivocally that they are prepared to guarantee the safety of the theatregoers at controversial performances. For Behud in Coventry, the West Midlands police force took this issue extremely seriously, and allocated their staff accordingly, at no charge to the theatre. They have offered to do the same for future controversial productions.
Most importantly, Bhatti herself is positive about a revival of Behzti. In past years, she was (understandably) reticent about new productions. But on Friday evening she said to me that she “would love to see a new production”.
For too long, the British theatre community has been embarrassed by the Behzti affair. Its response to the crisis was positive but far too slow. Half a decade later, theatre directors can no longer wish the play into obscurity – its continued censorship is a boil that must now be lanced. The only barrier that now remains is the British theatre community itself, which needs to purge itself of the cowardly and ignorant assumption that the play is still “off limits”.
No more of this apathy. Let it be known that, as of last Friday, this excuse of last resort has been demolished. Behzti is no longer taboo. It can be performed, properly and publicly. What are we waiting for?
Robert Sharp is the campaigns manager at English PEN
14 Apr 10 | Uncategorized
From Behzti to Behud was a day of fascinating discussion looking at the impact of the events surrounding the production of Gurpreet Bhatti’s play Behzti at the Birmingham Rep Theatre in 2004.
That production was cancelled when protests from some Sikhs turned violent. The event was produced by Index on Arts, at The Belgrade Theatre, Coventry, either side of the matinee performance of Behud, Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti’s new play which was inspired by those events in Birmingham. Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti made a rare appearance at the after-show discussion and gave her perspective on the “global brand” that Behzti became. Both discussions were recorded and will be available on line shortly.
Two points in the discussion made a particular impression.
The first returns to the 2004 scenario and the thorny issue of the rights and wrongs of consultation — Birmingham Rep invited members of the Sikh community to view the play before the show opened, which arguably ignited the controversy. Trina Jones from Birmingham maintained throughout the discussion that the theatre had learnt from the mistakes it had maid.
A group of women from Birmingham told the meeting how they felt cheated of the opportunity to see their play Behzti. They deeply regretted that they had not been able to organise a counter-demonstration of women who supported the play and they felt they had failed to make their voice heard at the time.
Another member of the audience pointed out: “Would you consult Catholic priests before putting on a play about sexual abuse in the church? “
The Belgrade learned volumes from what happened in Birmingham. What emerged from the discussion in the morning was the role played by the police in putting on Behud based on the possibility or the fear of it causing offence. We heard from Hamish Glen, artistic director of the theatre, that the police had said the theatre would have to pay thousands of pounds to cover policing and security during the play’s run. In the end the police provided the same levels of policing at no cost, but the theatre had to invest huge amounts of energy and resources to head off the ugly possibility of the cost of policing bill scuppering the production the play. In a financial climate of diminishing resources, will the ability of our theatres to put on controversial plays be determined by the ability to pay policing costs, or enter into lengthy negotiations to demonstrate the rights and wrongs of the situation? Belgrade Theatre, the cast and director of the play Behud all displayed iron will in seeing this play through. But as demonstrated by the recent Moonfleece controversy, there is clearly work to be done to ensure that theatre continues to play its role in reflecting contemporary society, and in influencing, shaping, and interrogating our shared culture.
