This is a response to an assignment given by Meena and Shyamala yesterday to tell a non-animal border story in a European context using our feet.
We worked on writing a fairytale inspired by a very visible border story from the local news here (we used a German article, which was more current and extensive, but here is a short English language context, which is from January: http://www.dw.com/en/deported-afghans-dream-of-returning-to-germany/a-37352655)
We then improvised to a recording of it, framing only our feet. These are two versions of the improvisation:
Fairytale 1:
Feet-Fairytale from Sandra Chatterjee on Vimeo.
Password: Fairytale
Fairytale 2:
Fairytale 2 from Sandra Chatterjee on Vimeo.
Password: Fairytale 2
Here is the text of the fairytale, with some small revisions from the version used in the voiceover:
"It has been many moons since words poured from my poet’s pen, dried out from the painful absence of my love. But now I glimpse the face of my love’s dear friend, bringing me news of my beloved, and my heart quickens in anticipation.
But you’ve never met my love. How could you? -- as he is trapped in a distant land.
He was a handsome young musician with dark hair from a faraway land who sang and played the oud. During the day he brought song and sweetness to the ears of those wounded by war, working with others who believed in peace across borders to heal broken bodies and the hurts of the world. At night family and friends would flock to his cozy home to play music, dance joyously, chat raucously, and share food together.
But then a new regime came to power in his land. They were stern-faced and narrow-hearted and used holy books as weapons, forbidding all singing and dancing and outlawing interactions with people of other faiths and cultures. All those who had sung openly and mingled with outsiders before the regime took power became targets of their policing gaze.
My love tried to hide his passion for song and healing, to make himself quiet and small and unobtrusive. But one day a great bomb fell from the sky and shattered his home and the bones of his brothers. In mourning, he left his land.
After many moons, many border crossings, and many mountains of paperwork, he landed in our Kingdom. He had learned many languages during his journeys, and now he had one more to learn. He wandered through his new town, learning where to buy bread and vegetables, meeting warm-hearted, welcoming people, with the occasional dark glance. After some time, he found himself in a multicolored community of artists and musicians who painted and sang visions of harmony and peaceful coexistence.
We met in one of these gatherings, where I was reciting my poetry. He looked at me with laughing eyes and spontaneously started playing a tune underneath my words.
Our love grew and flourished like a seedling nourished by sun and rain. Outside the circle of our daily sweet existence, however, rumblings of discontent started to emerge in the realm. The borders of my land started to contract from fear, tightening and squeezing the hearts of those who lived within.
One day, a letter arrived at our home stamped with the official seal of the noble lion. Curiously, we opened it. The letter commanded my love to leave our new life and to return to his war-torn homeland. In tears, we held each other tightly.
Knowing that the stone-faced soldiers would come if he stayed, my love started to pack his belongings, to say his farewells sadly to his friends and family.
The people cried out and shook their fists and filled the streets in search of ways for my love to stay. Signatures upon signatures filled scrolls of letters appealing to the officials. After all, the letters said, my love had put his life in danger by fighting for our Kingdom in his homeland. Furthermore, the streets and stages would be poorer and less music-filled in his absence. All our efforts, however, were to no avail. In outrage, my love’s friend, who came from a long line of Alphorn musicians, insisted that he would accompany my love on his journey.
My love returned to find his homeland in the grip of the stern-faced men, stripped of song, ravaged by violence and intolerance. Silently, he and his friend hid in the homes of brave friends, trying to become invisible, unrecognized by the sweeping gaze of the regime. In the meantime, I joined with our friends and family and fellow dancers and singers and poets, working together to try to bring him back. Together, we braved mountains of official paperwork and bureaucratic barriers. Now, with my love’s future in the hands of the officials in power, I take comfort in the news of my love brought to me by his friend."
We worked on writing a fairytale inspired by a very visible border story from the local news here (we used a German article, which was more current and extensive, but here is a short English language context, which is from January: http://www.dw.com/en/deported-afghans-dream-of-returning-to-germany/a-37352655)
We then improvised to a recording of it, framing only our feet. These are two versions of the improvisation:
Fairytale 1:
Feet-Fairytale from Sandra Chatterjee on Vimeo.
Password: Fairytale
Fairytale 2:
Fairytale 2 from Sandra Chatterjee on Vimeo.
Password: Fairytale 2
Here is the text of the fairytale, with some small revisions from the version used in the voiceover:
"It has been many moons since words poured from my poet’s pen, dried out from the painful absence of my love. But now I glimpse the face of my love’s dear friend, bringing me news of my beloved, and my heart quickens in anticipation.
But you’ve never met my love. How could you? -- as he is trapped in a distant land.
He was a handsome young musician with dark hair from a faraway land who sang and played the oud. During the day he brought song and sweetness to the ears of those wounded by war, working with others who believed in peace across borders to heal broken bodies and the hurts of the world. At night family and friends would flock to his cozy home to play music, dance joyously, chat raucously, and share food together.
But then a new regime came to power in his land. They were stern-faced and narrow-hearted and used holy books as weapons, forbidding all singing and dancing and outlawing interactions with people of other faiths and cultures. All those who had sung openly and mingled with outsiders before the regime took power became targets of their policing gaze.
My love tried to hide his passion for song and healing, to make himself quiet and small and unobtrusive. But one day a great bomb fell from the sky and shattered his home and the bones of his brothers. In mourning, he left his land.
After many moons, many border crossings, and many mountains of paperwork, he landed in our Kingdom. He had learned many languages during his journeys, and now he had one more to learn. He wandered through his new town, learning where to buy bread and vegetables, meeting warm-hearted, welcoming people, with the occasional dark glance. After some time, he found himself in a multicolored community of artists and musicians who painted and sang visions of harmony and peaceful coexistence.
We met in one of these gatherings, where I was reciting my poetry. He looked at me with laughing eyes and spontaneously started playing a tune underneath my words.
Our love grew and flourished like a seedling nourished by sun and rain. Outside the circle of our daily sweet existence, however, rumblings of discontent started to emerge in the realm. The borders of my land started to contract from fear, tightening and squeezing the hearts of those who lived within.
One day, a letter arrived at our home stamped with the official seal of the noble lion. Curiously, we opened it. The letter commanded my love to leave our new life and to return to his war-torn homeland. In tears, we held each other tightly.
Knowing that the stone-faced soldiers would come if he stayed, my love started to pack his belongings, to say his farewells sadly to his friends and family.
The people cried out and shook their fists and filled the streets in search of ways for my love to stay. Signatures upon signatures filled scrolls of letters appealing to the officials. After all, the letters said, my love had put his life in danger by fighting for our Kingdom in his homeland. Furthermore, the streets and stages would be poorer and less music-filled in his absence. All our efforts, however, were to no avail. In outrage, my love’s friend, who came from a long line of Alphorn musicians, insisted that he would accompany my love on his journey.
My love returned to find his homeland in the grip of the stern-faced men, stripped of song, ravaged by violence and intolerance. Silently, he and his friend hid in the homes of brave friends, trying to become invisible, unrecognized by the sweeping gaze of the regime. In the meantime, I joined with our friends and family and fellow dancers and singers and poets, working together to try to bring him back. Together, we braved mountains of official paperwork and bureaucratic barriers. Now, with my love’s future in the hands of the officials in power, I take comfort in the news of my love brought to me by his friend."
