A reminder of the fragility of our security and our interconnected well-being

A reminder of the fragility of our security and our interconnected well-being

Last week I had the privilege of attending the world premiere of Silence, the sequel to Carmen Funebre, a street theatre production that explored the impact of war on civilians by the Polish company Teatr Biuro Podróży.

The performance featured fire, puppets, strobe lights, stilts, bikes, music and more to explore the complexities of life for refugees during war. The audience was introduced to the production with the presence of a large Grim Reaper like character, revealing a bus, which would be the main backdrop of the show, with the motionless actors on display in lifeless positions. From there, the story was a whirlwind of emotions, including happiness, grief, hope, fear, anger, expressed through the refugees’ interactions amongst one another, the soldiers, and the embodiments of war itself.

Not normally a theatre fan, I was absolutely blown away by the production. The act was not only incredible, but also thought provoking. The music, props and emotions onstage evoked such a variety of reactions from the audience it made me consider what this type of art means for an audience so disconnected from the trials faced by the production’s characters.

The audience was filled with clean-faced, warmly dressed, seemingly well-fed onlookers. Though one cannot judge a book by its cover, I make the assumption that like me, the other attendees were people of privilege.

I am a privileged American. Everyday of my life I have had a roof over my head, apart from the starry nights I spent by choice in the wilderness. Everyday I have had a nutritional amount of food and water in my stomach, apart from the days gluttony convinced me to consume excessively. Everyday I have had a pair of shoes to protect my feet, apart from the days I play hippy and walk the short two blocks from my apartment barefoot on my way to the beach. Thursday, I had the necessary free-time, public-transportation credit, and cultural awareness to attend Silence. I have more than enough, I am privileged.

The reactions of the other guests further convinced me, that they, like me, are privileged. There were audience members awkwardly laughing, seemingly uncomfortable by the gory drama in front of them. There were couples that turned towards one another using their affection as a distraction. There were critics amongst us, analysing the actors’ movements more than the act itself. And there were guests like me, feeling sympathetic and concerned.

Yet, none that I noticed were consumed by fear. And how could we be? Sitting in the security allotted by the borders of one of the world’s leading countries. None that I noticed were struck by grief. But how could we be? Unknowing of the loss of an innocent loved one to terrorism. And none that I noticed were fully able to comprehend the perils of war. But how could we?

Sitting in my position of privilege, enjoying a cultural event, secure from the threats of war, warm with a belly full, I understood that I would never understand. I could sit and watch, and experience the accompanying emotions, but at the end of the night I would return to my bed, with too many pillows, and 800 thread count sheets, then wake up to a comfortable life with my family, friends, and job.

But is this sense of security and privilege one of ignorance? Are the artificial man-made borders that separate my life from the ones depicted in Silence as permanent as I assume? Are the foundations of the roof over my head as strong as I believe?

With those questions in mind, I realized, advocating on the behalf of migrants and refugees is not unlike advocating for myself. I may write in a place of privilege, but that place is fragile, and my true liberation, true freedom is bound with that of all humanity.

I do say this with much hesitation, as I know the United States has entered more than a few wars for the ‘liberation’ of others, and without making any political statements, I acknowledge the controversy behind citizens of developed countries aiming to ‘save’ the rest of the world.

For now, a passport, a few borders, and some pieces of legislation shield me from the atrocities suffered by refugees. And why? Not because I earned it, but because I was born within the “right” artificial borders.

Nevertheless, I reflect on my statements on my privilege and the beginning of Silence. The beginning that portrayed well-fed, clothed, smiling humans, before they were stripped of all the things I claim as indications of my privilege and the unwilling characters were branded with the label of refugees.

In reflection of these things, it’s clear I am not a privileged person helping disadvantaged people, but a human helping other humans like myself, but stripped of the livelihood I have taken for granted for so long.

For me, Silence was not only a portrayal of the atrocities suffered by refugees but also a reminder of the fragility of our security and our interconnected well-being with that of all of humanity.

So can I 'save' the refugees? No, but I can work with and for them for the sake of us all.