I haven't been able to write since October 7th.
- Noam Gil - נעם גיל
- Jul 16
- 4 min read
I haven't been able to write since October 7th. I finished a play before the damned Sabbath and since then I've put together some new things I'm working on, but the writing itself hasn't been going well for me.
On ordinary days of imaginary routine, I find myself dealing with two opposing perceptions: My need to confront the reality that surrounds us through writing, and my need to write as a means of escape from that reality and from what is happening around me. After October 7th, these two concepts- confrontation and escape- are further sharpened by their incompatibility.
On the one hand, I can't write about what happened and what's happening now. It's too soon.
With the flames all around me still burning, I'm afraid of getting burned. It's not a choice. I just can't. On the other hand, October 7th has become the giant elephant in the room. How can you ignore it in the texts I write and continue as if nothing happened? I keep recalling Adorno's argument after World War II, "writing poetry after Auschwitz is a barbaric act." The very desire or need to deal with what happened only intensifies the futile attempt to find logic in what happened and is still happening. I can't ignore the inner voice that constantly bothers me with questions: Who do you think you are to complain? Who needs theater now? Why are you sitting on your ass and writing instead of going out and doing something that really contributes to those who suffer? So I try to keep quiet, go out and do good things, but when I get home and sit down in front of the computer, my fingers aren't able to type. Theater has many purposes, but above all, it is a medium designed to give the audience the illusion that everything is fine, that everything is normal, that everything is working, even when what is happening on stage is difficult to watch. If the theater is closed (or other cultural institutions), the country is in crisis. If the theater is opened, then the crisis is probably not so bad. I also feel for the audience, who come to the theater to enjoy themselves, to forget what's happening around them, to return to some kind of routine, of pretending, but none of us can really enjoy ourselves or forget or move on.
From the play Welcome. Photo: Simcha Barbiro
On October 7th, we quickly realized that our play "Welcome", which had been performed months earlier, will not be returning to the stage, at least not soon. The play is about two Arab burglars who break into the house of a Jewish contractor who catches them and decides to teach them a lesson. The play is a celebration of blood, fire, and smoke, seasoned with Israeli nihilism that refuses to see the light at the end of the tunnel of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. This was the most political play I'd written (and most of my plays are political). Despite the cynical despair that the play radiates, in the rehearsal room there was coexistence between Arab and Israeli actors united in a common goal. In writing the play, I tried to reveal the truth about Israeli reality and the disaster towards which we are all moving. This play is now dead. No one is looking for “truth” or “reality” now. The actors will no longer share a common stage (at least not soon).
From the play Welcome. Photo: Simcha Barbiro
Two days after October 7th, we began rehearsals at Habima for my new play
The least political play I've ever written – a detective comedy, a kind of Agatha Christie mystery set in Kiryat Motzkin, which is supposed to provide a means of escape from Israeli reality, at least for an hour and a half.
From the play Shusterman, photo: Radai Rubinstein
At the start of rehearsals, we pretended to be working, when in fact the meetings were a kind of group therapy that helped us survive together. Since the show came out, the audience has been streaming into the theaters and laughing (or at least I hope they are laughing). I am grateful that this comedy of nonsense happened to be on stage these days and not a political tragedy. I am not looking for "reality" right now, I have enough "reality" when I turn on the TV, when I read newspapers, when I talk to people, some of them reserve soldiers who have returned from Gaza, some of them civilians who knew those who were kidnapped or those who lost their lives in recent months. In short, for now, reality and truth and politics can sit aside for a few months. We will return to them when the flames cool down a bit. I don't know if this is the right choice, but I really don't see it as a choice. In short, I don't know what I am writing, the only thing I can say with complete certainty is that I am confused, I change my mind every Monday and Thursday, and today is a Thursday.
Noam Gil is one of the playwrights who participated in writing "Bomb Shelter Stories"- a play consisting of nine different stories set in different bomb shelters around Israel in the moments after a bomb siren sounds.
Comments