From a conservative Muslim community where expectations stretched only to marriage and children, Sakdiyah Ma’ruf has carved a name for herself in comedy, with powerful routines that challenge Islamic fundamentalism and advocate for women’s rights. Index on Censorship spoke to her about jumping over fences, Robin Williams and the censorship she has faced as the first female stand-up comedian in Indonesia.
Ma’ruf places a high expectation on her work and the role of comedy and comedians to call out social injustice. “Comedians, more than other people, should know the danger of comedy, and its potential for harassing people. But they should also fully understand its power to speak for the weak and fight against the powerful and the complacent,” she told Index.
“Comedy allows us to participate in celebration of laughter and celebration of humanity,” she says. “We laugh with you and invite you to participate in resistance, in examining injustices, in looking at ourselves and our society.”
But carving a career as a female comedian in a Muslim country has not always been easy. “Women in general, in many different cultures and traditions across the world, are born with a set of expectations attached to them,” she says. “In Indonesian popular culture, we do not have Muslim comedian wearing hijab taking the centre stage of entertainment industry…most female comedians are placed as the punch line of the act both for their attractiveness and unattractiveness, instead of being given a place to stand up.”
But the difficulties she faced becoming a comedian have in a way contributed to her success, she says. Born to a conservative Muslim family, a strict curfew meant she spent most of her childhood absorbing American TV, taking influences from musicians Lisa Loeb, Sarah Mc Lachlan, Jewel and Sheryl Crow. “They taught me to stand taller,” she says. “I guess this is one of the best things about being prevented to go out of the house after school.”
“I learned that there are hopes and that people out there are living different path of life and most importantly that women can resist!”
At college Ma’ruf became politically active. Rallying against New Order government during the earliest year of democracy in Indonesia in 1999, and participating in voicing a more moderate and tolerant Islam through student organisations – her efforts to keep her activities a secret from her family and father became more difficult.
This political activism informed her comedy, she says, but just not in the way you would expect. Keeping her involvement secret often involved jumping over the fences into her boarding house (because she almost always violated her curfew), and doing impersonations to convince her father she was actually at home with her friends – real life skits that found their way into her routine.
She entered a comedy competition when she was young, but had never seen comedy as having a place in her life, she says. “Contrary to my male colleagues in the industry, I do not ambitiously plan my career in comedy. In fact, dream and passion are a luxury to me.”
“I grew up in a quite conservative Yemeni-Arab descent community in small town on the northern coast of Java, Indonesia where there are basically two stories about the women, the bad story where you drop out of school and marry a rich man from the community or the occasional good one where you finish school and marry a rich man from the community.”
“And then the great Robin Williams entered my life.”
“Watching Robin Williams Live on Broadway stand up special in 2009, I felt like my whole life was flashing before my eyes; the US sitcoms, the comedy competition, the hardship, the impersonation, the struggle at the front row of democracy during college, I knew that I have been in love with this art from way back before I even learned the name of the art. Everything started to make more sense to me.”
In 2011 she became one of the finalists of Stand up Comedy Indonesia, run by Indonesian station Kompas TV, and later collaborated with The Moral Courage Project, telling the stories of people who are fighting corruption in their faith, culture or workplace.
But aside from facing stigmatism as a Muslim female comedian, Ma’ruf has faced censorship on the grounds of her jokes’ content.
“I was working with the Moral Courage team from New York University on a video profile. The editor asked me to send video clips from my performance. I immediately contacted Kompas TV for a clip on my joke about a radical group, taped when I opened for my friend’s stand-up comedy special, to be included in the video.”
“One of the staff there sent the video but not long after, the executive producer emailed me and strictly prohibited me to use it, because it is too sensitive for them and because they did not want to be associated with such a joke. They didn’t air it on TV.”
She cancelled the inclusion of all her televised performances in the Moral Courage video, sharing her off-air performances instead. This also marked her move towards live performances, seeing them as allowing her to share her voice with the audience.
Now an established comedian in Indonesia, Ma’ruf last year won the Havel International Prize for Creative Dissent and performed at the Asia’s Women Empowerment Forum – at the same time as earning a Masters degree with thesis on Comedy Jihad.
“My trip to Oslo to receive the Havel Prize last year was not an easy one,” she admits. “It took me more than three months just to craft the right sentences to ask permission from my dad.”
But the trip was worth it, she says. “As I stood there on stage receiving the honour, I was fully aware that I was not here speaking for myself, but for other Muslim women experiencing the same or even more difficult struggles than me, for my years of jumping over the fence of my boarding house, for everyone who is having difficulty of speaking the truth to power including the power of their ego.”
For now she plans to continue to use her voice to speak for those women, and for all others who can’t. “The world is growing increasingly divided, and the voice of women in comedy will provide the bridge between the divide, by presenting different perspectives sourced from genuine experiences of women.”
Surrounded by a jungle of tents and mud, the Good Chance Theatre was set up last year by British playwrights Joe Murphy and Joe Robertson. The refugee camp theatre has been derided by many, but for the thousands of migrants who have journeyed across the world to Calais, the small dome has been the first and only place into which they have been welcomed, and their voice valued.
“This is hell,” admits Joe Robertson, co-founder of the Good Chance theatre, on a tour of the camp. “It’s been raining all night. It will rain all day. A lot of people’s houses would have flooded over in the middle of the night. That’s if they weren’t blown down by the winds yesterday.” Scabies and measles are becoming commonplace for residents of the camp, he tells us, coupled with an almost constant fear of bulldozers, police and teargas.
“But,” adds Joe Murphy, the second half of the Good Chance duo, “it is made better by the resilience of the people who find themselves here. It’s that energy that the theatre relies on in order to be a place of hope.”
After a visit to the camp that was meant to last a couple of days, the Joes soon returned and, funded by a crowdfunding campaign the theatre was built in late September. The idea gained backing from theatre heavyweights including the Young Vic’s David Lan, Vicky Featherstone and the Royal Court Theatre, and Natalia Kaliada, artistic director of the Belarus Free Theatre.
But the theatre, a white geodesic dome now covered in graffiti and hung with paintings, is not theirs the Joes maintain – it was built by the residents themselves. “We brought the dome over, but 50 people built it with us, from the community. Since then, maybe a thousand people a week use this space. We have had hundreds of volunteers and amazing artists from the UK, and the whole world – visiting companies and organisations who have dedicated time, resources, money, advice. So many people have come together to fill this dome with joy and expression amid the chaos and the horrors of this place.”
And this applies to their awards nomination too, they say. “I think a nomination is a nomination for not even the theatre. It’s a nomination for a community that has happened in and around the theatre. I suppose it’s a nomination for the ability of people from many, many different countries to get on, to make together, and to make do in a situation that is hellish.”
And the residents of the camp have clearly come to rely on the theatre and its founders, in a huge way. The Joes can’t walk more than a few metres without being called over for a chat and a hug from one of the hundreds in the camp who visit their theatre.
When asked what place he thought the theatre had in a refugee camp, one resident replied: “It simply means to me, for us refugees, reminding ourselves what we have been survived from. The minors, instead of drawing the beautiful dreams, they are drawing their cruel lives and hungry days.” A recent census counted 291 children living in the camp unaccompanied, with the Joes campaigning for authorities to safely register them, and help process their UK residency claims.
The capacity of art and self-expression to help process trauma is one of the driving forces of the theatre for Joe and Joe. “There was one chap, actually an actor from Iraq, he provided the voice of Tom and Jerry, I think in the Kurdish TV version.”
“One day he started to work on a physical piece that was telling the story of his journey. With his eyes closed, he was sort of walking around the room on this journey. He would narrate the journey. We were suddenly on the boat with 50 or more people. His sister was on the boat who was pregnant, and her son, his two year old nephew. They were halfway across the Aegean and the boat’s engine cut out. So they were in the middle of the sea. We were sort of performing this with him and helping him. He was putting us in different places.
“He jumped out of the boat with five other men. And they took out their belts, which we did, and then he attached the belt to his body and then attached the belt to somewhere on the boat or a rope from the boat. And these six men swam this boat with all their families on it and 50 other people. Swimming this boat across the Aegean. It was just the most awful story and the most terrifying story. We felt the terror of that experience while we were performing it.”
As well as offering a space for camp residents to stage their own performances, Good Chance puts on a schedule of painting, workshops, music, dance, acting and games. In the evening, the space hosts communal events, which bring all of the camp’s many nationalities together. The theatre has had poetry slams, stand-up comedy, acoustic sets, theatre performances, rap battles and film nights. But they also provide one of the only safe spaces in the camp. “If teargas gets used and people here are on the end of it, a lot of people come to the theatre,” says Joe. “They come because they know that it’s a place that doesn’t associate itself with violence.”
But the violence in the camp is only set to increase. After a recent eviction notice, the refugees in have found themselves once again forced to flee, this time at the hands of the French police – and their water cannons and teargas.
“This is one of the only projects that has ever been nominated for an Index on Censorship award based on a democracy, which is a strange thing to think about really,” said Joe Murphy.
The Joes remain determined however, staying in Calais as the violent eviction happens around them and their theatre. And beyond Calais, their plan is to bring a Good Chance to refugees across Europe and the world. “There are so many people moving at the moment, so many people whose homes are in tents, whose lives are temporary and who are trying to get to other places. And we have something that can help those people, we think.”
“And so now, we feel our duty is to find those people. Because if they’re anything like the hundreds and thousands of people we’ve met here, they are important people, they are important voices, and we’ve got to hear them because it will make us so much better.”
From an artist who had barely used Facebook to the face of #YoTambienExijo, the international online movement for free speech – Tania Bruguera describes how the perfect coalescence of art, social media and politics allowed the world to see the real Cuba at a crucial time in the country’s history.
The beginnings of the #YoTambienExijo movement were born on 17 December 2014, when President Obama announcement a landmark warming of the 53-year chill between the United States and Cuba.
“When I first heard about the Cuba-US reconciliation it had a great impact on me as an artist, but also as a Cuban citizen,” Tania Bruguera told Index. “I was glad about the decision, but at the same time a lot of questions came to my head. Who is going to define that different Cuba? Who is going to be in charge of creating that different Cuba?”
Writing an open letter addressed to Obama, the Pope and Cuban president Raúl Castro, Bruguera demanded for Cubans “the right to know what is being planned with our lives”, also demanding that Cuban citizens gain more from his political change than a place at the table of North American trade.
“Yo Tambien Exijo was one of the phrases in the letter – I also demand. I also demand to know. I demand as a Cuban.”
The sentiment resonated with many Cubans around the world, and after her sister Deborah Bruguera created the Facebook page, #YoTambienExijo, the site quickly attracted thousands of followers.
In the final part of her letter, Bruguera called for Castro to hand over the microphone to the people of Cuba – a reference to a performance piece of Bruguera’s which gives any audience member one minute of unhindered free speech. The idea captured the imagination of #YoTambienExijo’s online audience, who asked Bruguera to stage the performance at the Havana Biennial, an art fair taking place in Cuba’s capital that month.
But arriving in the country days later, Bruguera found her words had not been met with the same level of support by the Cuba government. “I was pretty naïve,” says Bruguera. “When I entered the country, I start behaving as if human rights were being respected. And that clashed with reality.”
A smear campaign was launched against Bruguera, with government-sponsored blogs characterizing the artist as a provocateur acting under the influence of foreign pressure, and even labeling her as a drug smuggler. It’s not uncommon for the Cuban government to attempt to undermine dissenting voices as CIA or right wing, the artist says: “I think one good thing is I’ve worked for 20 years. So people know who I am. Sometime when you are dissident or you are an activist just starting working, in Cuba they are very good at putting in people’s mind the image of that person they want for the rest of the people.”
But in spite of continued pressure from government officials to cancel the performance, Bruguera refused. “I always say I have no money, I have nothing. I have only my word. So I have to defend that. In this case I gave my word to the 12,000 people who were waiting for this.”
Organising collective action is difficult in Cuba, where low internet connectivity and high levels of state security tend to impede any political protest. So the #YoTambienExijo team put out an online plea for Cubans around the world to call their families and tell them about the performance – which many did.
On the day of the performance Bruguera was arrested, along with several dissidents who had expressed solidarity with Bruguera’s project. But the attempt to stop the performance failed; news of the #YoTambienExijo page and the performance had already spread to Cuban people.
Imprisoned for the whole performance (she was subsequently released and then rearrested twice), Bruguera only learnt later of the arrests of several audience members. As these events unfolded, reporting from the #YoTambienExijo team spread online, gathering international support for Bruguera, and after 14 prominent artists wrote a letter to The Guardian condemning Bruguera’s arrest, the hashtag #FreeTaniaBruguera soon began trending, and another online letter began circulating. “In 24 hours, more than 3,000 people from the international art world signed, including directors from MoMa and the Tate.” Bruguera refused to allow her own release until all audience members were freed along with her. The mounting pressure from the global community meant that, eventually, the every person arrested in connection with the performance was released.
These events were an important wake-up call, Bruguera believes. “Cuba was trying to sell itself to the world as the next opportunity for business, and as a good person, as a victim for 50 years. This unveiled the truth.” In reality, Cuban government’s control over media public discussion and the arts has been absolute for over five decades.
But what happened also showed Bruguera a way forward for Cuba. “It was for me a very difficult experience – the most difficult I have ever had in my life. But it really put us in a way that we are all together, and we understood that we can make a change in Cuba. Because we were able to mobilize not only that many Cubans, but we were able to mobilize also a big group of international artists.”
The international reaction to Bruguera’s story turned #YoTambienExijo into a movement capturing more than just the Cuban experience. Around the world performances were staged in solidarity, with arts organisations including Creative Time in New York, the Hammer Museum in Los Angeles, Netherlands’ Van Abbe Museum, and the Tate Modern, all giving audiences one minute of free speech. It also became a form of protest in countries around the world where citizens and artists face censorship.
“It became Cuba focused and then it became more about totalitarianism in the world in general,” said Bruguera. “And it became also about the role of an artist who wants to deal with political issues in contemporary art.”
Last year Bruguera was shortlisted for the Hugo Boss prize and named one of Foreign Policy’s Global thinkers of 2015. She is now planning to return to Cuba to set up a space in Havana, the Hannah Arendt International Institute of Art and Artivism, a place for the Cuban people to advance their freedom of expression.
For over a decade the Belarus Free Theatre have performed underground in Minsk, with audiences subject to raids and arrests while, exiled from Belarus, the theatre’s directors plan their plays via Skype. But an online revolution has seen Belarus Free Theatre, and its new project the Ministry of Counterculture, bring their form of underground activism to the masses in 2015. Index on Censorship spoke to Belarus Free Theatre founder Natalia Kaliada and managing editor of the Ministry of Counterculture Georgie Weedon.
Seeing in their 10th anniversary in 2015, Belarus Free Theatre’s continued existence is in many ways a source of shame to EU and US politicians, the theatre’s founder Natalia Kalaida told Index. The underground theatre group was set up in 2005 by Kaliada and her husband Nikolai Khalezin, in response to censorship and oppression by the Belarusian regime.
The group immediately became a target for the authorities because of their criticism of Aleksandr Lukashenko, and plays touching on taboo subjects like mental health and sexuality. However, despite repeated arrests, brutal interrogations and harassment by the KGB (one of the few intelligence services to keep that sinister Cold War name) they continued to perform underground, using apartments, basements, cafés and forests as their stages.
“We started from just an idea, not having any support,” says Kaliada. But doing nothing was not an option, she says.
“When your friends are kidnapped, killed, thrown into jail, tortured, there is no way for you to just stay and observe. I don’t have such a luxury to be apolitical, and I don’t have time to spend doing entertainment theatre, it has to have a meaning behind it.”
Audience members in Belarus first have to search on social media for a phone number, name and the title of a show. They then call that number to leave their details, and when the theatre has a place to perform, receive a phone call or text message telling them to come to a meeting point, from where they taken to the performance.
“Usually we advise our audience to bring their passports, so if there is a police or KGB raid, people will have less time to spend in the police department while police are identifying them,” says Kaliada. “That’s why we always say our audience back in Belarus is the bravest audience in the world.”
“It’s a very big step for audience members, for us it’s clear what we do and it’s our choice, why we do this theatre, but it’s amazing to have such an audience – every time we get on Skype from London to say hello to our audience, we will ask how many are new, and it will be around 40 percent. Which is just amazing.”
Via Skype is now the only way Kalaida can greet her Belarusian audience. During a tour abroad in 2011, Kalaida and other members of the theatre learned that if they returned to Belarus they would be imprisoned.
This, however, did not stop Belarus Free Theatre. They now have London headquarters – at the Young Vic Theatre – and underground Minsk headquarters. They conceive of new projects and direct their actors in Minsk via Skype, where the company continues to perform in secret locations.
“We survive not because of support, unfortunately, of many different governments, but despite all difficulties that we’re facing on a daily basis,” says Kaliada. The group have now staged 27 productions in over 30 countries.
Having protested the Belarusian regime for over a decade, the theatre have now started to use their unique mix of art, performance and political protest to take on dictatorships and authoritarian regimes across the world, by teaching others their unique model of activism.
“The major point for us last year was to move from an idea of us talking about only Belarus, to start to frame the message that it’s not possible to talk only about one particular country or issue, because then you forget about global context,” Kaliada told Index.
The power of this was exemplified in a concert the theatre organised in 2015. Hosted in London but featuring Ukrainian, Belarusian and Russian artists, as well as many well-known names from around the world, the event was watched online by over half a million people.
“It was that unique evening where you understand that it’s necessary for us to connect all those geopolitical doors and to explain to dictators and authoritarian regimes that, with the help of the internet, we could become even bigger than us physically present in Russia, Belarus or Ukraine,” Kalaida said.
“So we continue to say to those dictators, when we go underground, it’s more dangerous for you – because underground doesn’t have any boundaries.”
Belarus Free Theatre’s new project, the Ministry of Counterculture, also aims to harness the power of the internet, art and activism to effect social change.
Published in both English and Russian, the online platform was launched as part of the theatre’s 10 year anniversary, and the site features interviews, videos, photo stories, and news about art and activism around the world.
“It was launched to broadcast and engage with lots of issues – issues that the Belarus Free Theatre are engaged with, but also other issues too,” says Georgie Weedon, managing editor of the Ministry of Counterculture.” But part of the story of Ministry of Counterculture is to look forward. “The Belarus Free Theatre has achieved incredible things in the last 10 years, and we hope the Ministry of Counterculture will become part of the next 10 years and beyond.”
