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.
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.
Rafael Marques de Morais, Safa Al Ahmad, Amran Abdundi, Mouad “El Haqed” Belghouat and Tamas Bodokuy (Photo: Alex Brenner for Index on Censorship)
When times get tough, freedom of expression can quickly fall down the list of priorities. But it is exactly in these circumstances when the ability to communicate and express yourself is most important. For this reason, we continue to draw inspiration from last year’s Index on Censorship Freedom of Expression Awards fellows and their struggles to keep freedom of expression alive and well.
As we look forward to the 2016 Index awards, here is our latest reminder of just how important a job our past winners do in the fight for free speech.
Tamas Bodoky, Atlatszo.hu / Digital Activism
Last year was a positive one for the Hungarian investigative journalism site and NGO Atlatszo. The site’s yearly report reveals that funding was on the up and readership remained high.
The website’s project for tracking down hate crime gained traction in 2014, and last year expanded to include “violent football hooligan groups and clergymen, who are close to the far-right,” the site’s executive director Tamas Bodoky told Index on Censorship.
“Unfortunately, some people became very hostile to our refugee crisis reporting last year, saying things like ‘go to hell, Atlatszo, for helping them’,” he added.
Atlatszo made 90 freedom of information requests as an organisation — plus hundreds of requests submitted by staff in their own names. Around 50% of Atlatszo’s requests were at least partially granted. Of those that weren’t, the site has initiated court proceedings to obtain the information, with almost half so far being successful, with several others pending.
Going forward, Atlatszo has plans to expand by working with more bloggers and developing a new website allowing Hungarian citizens to “question representatives of Hungary in EU, members of the Hungarian Parliament and — in the long run — representatives of the local governments”. The kepviselom.hu (my representative) project is currently seeking donors through crowdfunding.
“The Index award certainly helped get more international recognition over the last year,” Bodoky said. “As a very small news organisation, we constantly struggle for visibility, and Index on Censorship was instrumental in raising the visibility of our cause.”
Safa Al Ahmad / Journalism With the political crisis in Yemen steadily getting worse since last year, any plans Safa Al Ahmed had to switch focus were sidelined as she returned to the battle-scarred country.
“I filmed events in Aden and then Taiz, which is currently besieged,” the award-winning journalist told Index on Censorship. “I’m going to be producing two separate films for both cities because north and south have very different dynamics.”
Actually getting into Yemen is a real task in itself. Al Ahmed and her crew took a boat from Djibouti to Aden, which took 34 hours, and then travelled for another day off-road and across mountainous terrain, passing snipers along the way.
With the execution of the prominent Shia cleric Nimr al-Nimr, Al Ahmad’s own country Saudi Arabia was briefly catapulted back into international focus at the start of 2016, but it didn’t last. “There is very little investigative journalism being done on the ground, which makes reporting difficult as there isn’t very much to build on,” Al Ahmed says.
Citing the flogging of blogger Raif Badawi as an example of how brutal the Saudi regime is of critical voices, Al Ahmad describes the state of free speech in Saudi Arabia as “frightening”. “The government have passed really wide rulings and laws so they can stop or arrest anyone for the simplest of reasons, including talking about the war in Yemen, which has been banned,” she explains.
The big difference between now and 2014 is that people are currently receiving death sentences, which is “a whole different level of intimidation”.
Mouad Belghouat aka El Haqed / Arts
Last time we caught up with Moroccan rapper Mouad Belghouat, aka El Haqed, in October, he was in his home country keeping a low profile, while looking forward to performances in Florence, Italy, and at the 25th anniversary of the Moroccan Association of Human Rights in Brussels. Since November 2015, he has been living in Belgium, having applied for refugee status.
“In Morocco I felt threatened and under constant control,” he told Index this month. “It’s been hard, because already I miss the place where I grew up; I miss my family and my friends.” The situation in Morocco “deteriorates more and more every day, at all levels”, he explains, but vows one day to return.
He has now been cleared to work in Belgium, and has also turned his attention to creating more music. “I’m trying to finish the album I’ve been writing based on my experiences in prison in Morocco, and — as the last set of concerts have gone so well — I will be performing in Belgium in March and am looking to tour Norway come April.”
There are also plans for a biography based on his experiences from 2011, when his music became an anthem for many Moroccans involved in the Arab Spring, right up to his persecution at the hands of the authorities, right up to his eventual self-imposed exile.
As for the Index award, he said: “Through Index, I met many great people from all over the world who share the same principles as me, and word of my case has spanned the breadth of the world.”
Amran Abdundi / Campaigning
During our last conversation with Amran Abdundi, we discussed the attack in her native Kenya by Al-Shabaab linked terrorists on Garissa University College, in which 148 people were murdered. Abdundi, who knows many students from the college, immediately joined with other women leaders to organise strong community protests against Al-Shabaab.
Last month, Abdundi attended the re-opening ceremony for Garissa University College. “I was happy to meet victims who I offered counselling to after the attack, and see them now back on their feet, ready to study and achieve their dreams,” she told Index.
She has also been busy recently with the upcoming launch of the new Frontier Indigenous Network website and implementing a new social media strategy to foster better connections between Kenyan women and the rest of the world.
As part of this new development plan, 2016 is packed with new projects, including an education programme on non-violence to counter violent extremism and radicalisation. The project will bring together Christians and Muslims together in “preaching peace and reconciliation”.
“All of this wouldn’t have been possible without the Index award and the support I have received from Index on Censorship, which led me to meet key individuals, such as Kenya’s woman minister, Anne Waigiru.”
Rafael Marques de Morais / Journalism
President José Eduardo dos Santos has been in power in Angola for over 35 years and his regime faces criticism on many fronts for, among other things, land grabbing, human rights abuses in Angolan prisons and the divvying up of the country’s resources to his family “like it was their inheritance”. These are just some of the issues Index award winner Rafael Marques de Morais is focusing on his activism and writing.
“This kind of work generates all sorts of troubles, because when you speak out against the president, you become suspect,” de Morais told Index on Censorship.
Being a high-profile activist within the country, there is a misconception that de Morais doesn’t feel the full force of the regime. “I might be ‘free’ but I can’t go anywhere; when I went for a drink recently the person I was with noticed we were being watched,” he explains. When he tried to enter a courtroom in December to observe the case involving the 15 Angolan bloggers now under house arrest, he was denied access. “Immediately the news on television was that I tried to enter the court illegally, because being high profile, the main thing they can attack is your reputation.”
Coupled with the ongoing economic crisis in Angola preventing citizens from taking money out of the bank, times are tough. “How is one supposed to survive and keep going?” he asks.
But go on he does. The attention from home and abroad, including that generated by the Index award, have provided some solace. “It’s always refreshing to know that people are interested,” he explains. “The award provides great encouragement for one to keep going.”
“But that’s it. The next day, you are back to struggling for survival.”
As the annual Index on Censorship Freedom of Expression Awards gala approaches, we’ve highlighted five of those who have won or been nominated for free expression awards, including the Freemuse Awards. From a Moroccan rapper to an Iranian folk singer, these artists refuse to be censored and continue to fight to have their voices heard.
El Haqed, Morocco
Winner of the 2015 Index on Censorship Freedom of Expression Award for arts
Mouad Belghouat, aka El Haqed, faced repression from the Moroccan government, including multiple arrests since the Arab Spring. His music focuses on poverty, oppression and political corruption in his country. He is currently living in Belgium, where he continues to write music.
Mayam Mahmoud, Egypt
Winner of the 2014 Index on Censorship Freedom of Expression Award for arts
Mayam Mahmoud, one of Egypt’s first and bravest female hip-hop artists, uses music to address some of the grievances in her country, from a lack of women’s rights to sexual harassment. After competing on the TV show Arabs Got Talent, she used her prominence to speak out against the misogyny she has witnessed and experienced.
Ferhat Tunç, Turkey
2010 Freemuse Award winner
Despite years of attempted censorship by the Turkish government, Ferhat Tunç has continued to release music and promote human rights in his homeland. He has released more than 20 albums, undeterred by numerous court summons and a prison sentence.
Songhoy Blues, Mali
Nominees for the 2015 Index on Censorship Freedom of Expression Award for arts
A group of musicians that fled northern Mali after the occupation by militant Islamist groups in spring 2012, Songhoy Blues are a rowdy blend of blues and rock. After Islamists banned music in their region, they went into exile and have since gone on to tour with Julian Casablancas and Damon Albarn. The band released their debut album, Music in Exile, in February 2015.
Pussy Riot, Russia
Nominees for the 2013 Index on Censorship Freedom of Expression Award for arts In February 2012, members of the feminist punk band Pussy Riot staged a brief demonstration through music at Moscow’s Christ the Saviour Cathedral, condemning the Russian Orthodox Church’s close ties to Vladimir Putin. In August of that year, three members were sentenced to two years in jail for hooliganism motivated by religious hatred. The verdict was a bitter blow for freedom of expression in Russia, which continues to be under attack today.
Index on Censorship has teamed up with the producers of an award-winning documentary about Mali’s musicians, They Will Have To Kill Us First, to create the Music in Exile Fund to support musicians facing censorship globally. You can donate here, or give £10 by texting “BAND61 £10” to 70070.
With the political crisis in Yemen steadily getting worse since last year, any plans 
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President José Eduardo dos Santos has been in power in Angola for over 35 years and his regime faces criticism on many fronts for, among other things, land grabbing, human rights abuses in Angolan prisons and the divvying up of the country’s resources to his family “like it was their inheritance”. These are just some of the issues Index award winner