 He said the live stream of the audio was low enough. Yeah, for now, for the closing, and tomorrow. So welcome, everybody, to the Martini Siegel Theater Center here at the Graduate Center CUNY. My name is Frank Henschkern. I'm the director of the Siegel Center. And I put this together with Anche Uegel and our friends from the Gorky Theater. Many of them had to leave yesterday because already they took out a week of their life, which is a lot in Berlin terms. And we have with us here Dimitri, who was here on Monday night in the evening, and for Yal's play, we'd walk on the dark side before. And he also was part of the play, which we will hear now, and co-created it. So we will have a discussion with him after the work here. He's one of the great and most recognizable actors at the Gorky and Staple in the Berlin theater scene. So thank you for staying with us and being with us. A few words about the Penn World Voices Festival is the most significant literary festival in North America, perhaps in the Americas. It was created by Esther Allen, Simon Rushdie, and Michael Roberts. And they at the time really thought when George Bush Jr. came to the White House that the tunnel vision of the Americans would only get longer and darker, and that not enough voices from the outside are being heard. 95% of all books printed in the English language come from America or the Britain. The other half of the 5%, maybe French and German, because there are lots of help to publicize books. So there's one or two books from the other 100 or 200 nations. And this is, of course, scandalous and wrong. And as I always say, any musician, self-respecting musician, listens to music from all around the world. And it's vitally important to hear what his colleagues and people are doing and to be inspired and also to inspire others. And I think we all have to work harder to make that happen around the world. And in America, especially, I think, it's such a big island, of course, but still it is an island. And we all have to try harder. And I think this festival, and especially from the outreach also, Chip Rowley did this year. The Festival Curator is one more step into the direction. And we are truly honored as a Siegel Center. Our small center here is part of it. We've been with them for over 10 years and printed many, many places. Normally, we always have them from different continents, different countries from Australia's, Africa, North Africa, Arab world, India, the Caribbean. We really support minority languages. But this time, we really highlight the Gorky Theater. Monday evening, we had a great talk about the mission, the work of the Gorky, which was taken over in 2015 by Sherman, Langhoff, and Jens Hilger. And their idea was, let's just get everybody who is a migrant or identifies, whether they came for work or they had to leave, whether they were refugees or they are first-generation immigrants, let's give them a theater. Let's not write plays about them by clever people, but let's give them the space. They create the work. And they developed a new collaborative way to create plays with sensational results. Everybody said, oh, my god, no one's going to see all the problem plays who wants to do that. But it was truly a lot of energy is coming out of that space. The real working, as I said, place is wonderful to see when theaters are like this. And it's a shining example of what a theater can do in a city, what a place can be. And on the way, they also discovered a way of collaborating, of writing in a way, as Ebrecht has said, we need new forms of theater for the new times we live in. And they found new works, new ways of writing and creating plays in ensembles around the table, focusing on a theme, not having a playwright changing up to the day of the opening, what is in and out. Actresses like Dean Mutry said, I don't like these lines. I'm not going to speak those from the writer, but I have a monologue idea. They say, OK, fine, let's try it out. We don't think it's work, but why not, but then it does work. So it sounds all a bit casual, but it's a traumatic change also for German theater that this is on the main stage, what normally is done by groups. New York downtime groups, of course, work that way for a very long time, create writing in that way. But to have it in a big theater is as unusual as it would be in the Broadway show here when someone said, let's change the opening scene or the end scene the day before, or maybe the musical that the singer said, I'm going to write my own song. I don't want to sing this song. It's unthinkable as it was before. So they really changed. And now in all theaters in Germany, and now understand, now we need to have the people whose voices we hear on the street in their dialect, in their kind of accents represented on stage. All those other actors come from Russia, Israel, or from Syria, and then you will hear how they speak as they do in real life. So it's quite a fantastic concept. And we had here Yael Ronan, Sibian Ben-Yashai, Nora, Abdel Masoud, Falk Richter last night. And today we have Nikati, Ziri, and then Sibyl and Berks, or two more. And these works, the six works we present here are representative for all the other works, of course, too. But they're also a great selection. And so we really get an insight about that unique work of the Gorky. The Stegelsender Bridges Academy and Professional Theater International at the American Theater. And of course, this is right at the center. And then here with us is Ashley Kelly Tata. Here's the director who put the reading together. You want to say a few words or shall we start right away? We should start. I already spoke way too long. That means what she says. She is right. Now it's time. Take out your cell phone, please, and see if a ringer is off and I'll do the same. OK, now get Deutsch or die trying and by Nikati, Ziri. Thank you. Get Deutsch or die trying. Side A. Imagine you're dead and I'm at your funeral. I go to the lectern and then I talk about journey, about this great country, about my friends, about Maydays at the Central Station, about our last summer. You're sitting on your bench and you not know a few people. You know him, you know him, you know him too, him too, and him. Know them well enough to see that not friends but brothers. They snitch on you if they had to and you'd snitch on them if you had to. Order, come on. You sit on your bench, four, five, maybe six hours. The station clock is smashed. Someone smashed over the baseball bat. You know who and you tell if you got asked. One bench further on. The goblets are jerking around on fields. Air Max, Lonsdale Jacket, Pitbull, Monkey. Monkey has a can in one hand and his dick in the other. Beef and neck are dancing their rear heel dance. March on the spot, shuffle to the right, shake your skin head. Shuffle to the left, march on the spot, shake your skin head. They're not Nazis, not real ones anyways. They buy from you, you buy from them. Two benches further up, the Russians. Well, Russian Germans really. Immigrants, Kazakhs, Uzbeks, Polaks, refugees, never on the bench, but always squatting in front of it. But they don't buy anything, they just drink. And our father's forever in the bags, under the bench. But they prefer to all share one at a time. That's communist for you. Arthur, what's up, are you in? Guys, leave that shit at the cops come. Shit, boy, you being pussy. You sitting on your bench, four, five, maybe six summers already. Danny is with you and you sit on your bench. Boyan is with you, you sit on your bench. Savas is with you, you're at home. You wearing your crescent moon outside your shirt today and you shook your mustache. And since 9-11, no one thinks it's cool anymore. Girl, hey girl, that's hoops. It's a Friday night, your brain is as sloppy as your walk. What'd you say asshole? You're 18, nearly, and your blood is boiling. Delicata, you're 18, nearly. And the world belongs to you. Fuck, I punched him. Savas punched him, the fucking asshole. Arthur, did you see that? Come on, let's get out of here. Your mom's your birthday and this is probably your last summer together. Hey girl, nice hoops. Baby, what's up with you tonight? Danny loves women. Come on over here, sugar. Every single one. We're about to have a birthday party and we still need some cream. We just appreciate everything about them. Hey you, gorgeous eyes. But especially... Here she comes, behave. Behave yourselves, you monkeys. Hi, hey, check that out. There is a God. Hi, hey. But Danny especially loves... She's not even looking over her. Who does that bitch think she is? That's right, keep walking you cunt. Who do you think you are? I just love her bro. But Danny especially loves Susanna. So bad. So bad. I love her so bad. Susanna, never Susanna. Never call her Susanna. There's a legend about that, right? A guy right in the middle of it. Oh shit, Susanna, you're the best. She pulls his head back. She sticks her chewing gum between the hair and his balls in his ass and stumps her cigarette out on his forehead. She gets dressed and she leaves. Fuck, she's just got it. So Susanna, you told him plenty of times, believe. Leave if you said, stay away from her. 0.6 meters, 53 kilograms of pure walnut baklava in hot pants and the top. She comes and flowers shoot up out of the field with a bum's hangout. She comes and the God bless start dancing ballet and the pit bull's howl at the moon. She comes and the station smells like vanilla. Her tits are too big for her age because of the pill. Glitter sparkles on her cleavage in red and white, the colors on the Polish flag. So Susanna, the reason Dan hangs out in front of the church every Sunday, followed 48, 3000 city taxing. Two brothers, 48, 3000 city taxing. She has to make it. When her school counselor fails her, she says, Mr. Headmaster, sir, he made a perverted offer. She will make it. So Susanna, you told him plenty of times, believe me, believe it if you said, stay away from her. But Danny loves women, especially the ones we know good for. He got that from his mom. Danny, hello. Danny actually is in a specatino. His mom does this really into arrows from my toe. Grata, sunbed, brown skin. Danny sits in front of the play station. His grass, the drawing behind it at the console is fake. Danny, hello, are you there? Hello. Danny, sweetie, can I come in for a minute? What are you doing here? What do you mean? Where are you? I'm better already. The fuck you are. Danny, I'll have you talk to me like this. What do you want? I want to introduce you to Robert. This is Robert. Ah, I'm wrong. You can call him Roberto too. Hi, Robert. Go fuck yourself, Robert. Listen, you little shit, you're going to say hello properly now. I just did. Hello, Robert. Roberto is going to be around more from now on. Cool. Me and your mother, we met recently in the office. Good for you. Now fuck off. Since Danny's father came home, they closed the door. And then disappeared. Danny, look, this is Mike. Oh, yes, this is Mike. Danny, look, this here is Thomas. Here we have him, yes, Thomas. This is Robert. Where is Robert? Ah, here we have him. Robert, this is Robert. Give me Robert. Give me Robert. Later, Danny had thousands of fathers. One for each cold turkey. So Suzanne. Hey, Suzanne, say hi to your brother for me. You told him plenty of times. He's sitting two benches down, say hi to him yourself. Believe me, you said... Did you hear that? She's definitely into me. Stay away from her. Then, backseat action. One whole summer long, Danny has his hands in Suzanne's pants. Besides you and me on the bench. Punch me. Ha! Harder. Three months later, you see the two of them near the McDonald's on the way into the bump field. Punch me. Ha! Harder. And you get it. Her tits weren't just bigger because of the pill. Punch me. Ha! Harder. You know she has two Polish brothers and Mary didn't know where Jesus came from anyways. Harder. Ha! You know he really fucking loves the smell of vanilla. Harder. Ha! And notice his fist slows down right in her belly. Harder. Ha! Fuck's sake, that won't do anything. You know he actually wants to keep it. Harder. I can't! Hit me harder, Danny, please. And Susanna pukes her big mac up. Augusta Wynn goes through the corridor and scatters Danny around the station. And Susanna's brother's picking him up. His name is Damien Now. He celebrates Christmas in the church now. He left school and he's training to be a rooftiler. They called it Tommage. Roof is tied and sucked. Now he's a tattoo artist. Tommage is tied and sucked. Now he's doing a money-euro job now. Her father gave him a job in Warsaw. Wait. Go back. Let's start again from the top. Hey, Arda. Listen, tell Mom to finally transfer me my fucking children's allowance. That's my fucking money, mine. She can drink all her money if she wants or whatever, but that's my money. I'm entitled to it. If she can't get her shit together, fuck. For a year I've been saying, if she can't get her shit together, then she should set up a fucking transfer order. It can't be that hard. Same shit every month. Or she should just give me my account at the welfare office, but it's my money. Sorry that I... You're always stuck in the middle. How are you? How's school? I'm fine. Family here are a bit of a drag. Pretty nice actually, but a bit boring. They leave the radio on all day. The tablecloth is yellow and everyone has their own plate for their eggs with their own name on it. You can imagine them all eating their eggs off them every morning. I don't know how much more I can stand it. Listen, I'll be in town this weekend. Maybe we can hang out for a bit if you feel like it. Oh, shit. I almost forgot. Happy birthday, bro. Fuck. 18. Crazy. I love you so much. You're probably out with the guys. Take care of yourself. Hopefully, I'll see you soon. Call me. But he punched it. That asshole, Savas, punched it. Come on, let's get out of here. You start running. You start running down the station, under. Under the underpass, out to the bump field. Along Vismarch Street, you lose your smokes. You start running. You're standing there in the queue. All around you nothing but baseball caps and coconut wax. You can feel the base from inside the place. And you try to keep your head down as long as possible. So look down. To hide from the blue Nike cap in front of you, the grass in your sock. You're standing there in the queue. I'm going for it, Chris. You go first. Order goes first. It's always like that. You're old enough. Well, nearly. But you don't have any ID. No, not with you. You don't have one because you never did. Because you don't have any ID. You don't have any ID. Just act like you're normal, OK? You go first. And if you don't get in, none of you are going. You're standing in the queue. Someone behind you taps you on the shoulder. A scar above his eyebrow. Grading the response on his cheek. Maybe Turkish. Not German anywhere. Is that little you go with you? That little you go is with you. He's just gone for a piss. But in the wrong corner. You start running. You start running out of the queue behind the building. Get out of here. Fuck off. And you only get it later that that was real high vine. It's really dumb. Guys up here from the bushes, like they're going after the land. Wallets out. Scar above his eyebrow. Grading the response on his left cheek. Butterfly in his right hand. Danny gets hit. Wallets out. Jackets off, too. You take off your jackets. Is that a real jersey? No. It's from the bizarre, important Bodrum. Take it off anyway. You put your jacket on the ground. And pull your socks up a little high. Hide your crescent moon under your shirt. Then you get hit. Give me that chain. Give me the chain now. Your hand on the crescent moon, you look at Boyan. His eyes looking down at the ground. His mother's recipe for survival. Give me that chain. You look at Danny with his undershirt. His eyes. Forget it. It's no use. Give me that chain. You look at Savas. His eyes. I'll wait. If you count six guys, that's too many. And you. Where are you from? Normally when someone says that, you say, you're wrong. If a German asks you, you say, if a butterfly asks from Konya, you never would have said that yourself. Who was talking to you? We both come from there. ID. You don't have any ID. Not with you. You don't have any ID. So never had one. Where exactly in Konya? My father and his know each other from Karmala. Yes, Dunyaya, go to Konya, yeah? And you don't have any ID. You're not. They were at the protest. You get a punch. And then you stuff his, and then you stuff his five again. Your three. Look at you, at him, at you. You couldn't keep your chain. The stuff in your socks, too. Happy birthday. But the money stays with me. You're not. Then the Konya I'll give you. This girl is dead. Korfistan was once on my ID. You're not. We've at least got to stick together here, right? You're not. Say hi to your dad for me. She'd like to take off your chain and strangle it. And then stuff it in his mouth before you send his coffin into the Konya Salt Desert. But you're not. No police, or any shit like that. You start running. You start running, back to the club, past the queue. The Blue Nighting Cap comes towards you. The guy in the door is a Turk, too. You keep running. It's past 12. You keep running. What you don't know yet tonight in four months, you'll get a letter. It'll be lying there on the coffee table between beer-stained little brochures and credit checks of court summons for you. Your mom will ask you. What have you done now? Tell her quickly. She didn't get that from me. And then go sleep. You wait outside the courtroom. The summons in your hand, across from his mother, and praying. She's praying and begging for you. Don't testify, please. Don't testify. You're the last man I have. That last comes towards you. Wink City, you go into the courtroom, scar above his eyebrow, tears on his cheek, class action, armed robbery, multiple charges, hands folded, a suit jacket too big, and he's in Germany, Jersey underneath it. And how much money did you have in your wallet that night, Mr. Yorkelas? You say double the amount. That was actually anything you think. You guys couldn't do any of you. You're going to do any of you. You're eight. You're eight, and you have no clue about the world. You come home, you throw your bag down in the kitchen. Your mother is those who know the couch. On the floor in front of her, two bottles of Yeltsin Bata empty. The TV's too loud, Columbo is questioning a suspect without the suspect realizing. Wait. Again. You come home, you're eight. You throw your bag down in the kitchen. Your mother on the couch, the Yeltsin Bata in front of it, Columbo's questioning a suspect. Suddenly a car explodes. Your mother jumps, the bottle's clad. Columbo saves himself behind a truck. Out, everybody out, Arda, quickly. Now, again, you're eight. You come home, bag in the kitchen, your mom in the couch, explosion on the TV, the bottle's clad. Arda, out, quickly, out of the house, everyone. She grabs. What's wrong? Your sister in the door in front of her room looking at you both. You look at your mother, your mother at the burning car on the TV, you look at your sister at the car on the TV, and then at your mother. You're really fucking nuts, mom. You're really fucking, nurse great. Wait, home, bag, couch, explosion, clad. Your mother. Out, out! Your sister. What's wrong? The TV. You're really fucking nuts, mom. You're really fucking nurse great. When will you finally stop with this shit? Beneath my cigarettes? I don't know. You stole my cigarettes again? I didn't steal your fucking cigarettes. Get it, job, you buy your own if you really want it. You don't have your fucking cigarettes. Your mother runs into the kitchen? No, to the toilet. She runs to the toilet in bonnets because you just ate something bad. Then she goes into your sister's room and comes out with a pack of cans. Little piece of shit. What's this? They're mine. And what did you buy them with? My own money. They'll give you cancer. At least they don't make me think the house is collapsing. When you were 16, you could do whatever you want. I'll go fuck yourself. Go to your sister and you say something. You say you're hungry. That always helps. You say that you weren't at Serkan Amca's today in the Mevlana Grill, where you chill with Savas at school, where you do your homework. You weren't there today because you were afraid to go because Serkan always shouts too much because Merva Teza is again sick again because they were closed today. Both of them looked at you. Come on. I'll make you something. No. That's wrong. You say nothing. Not this time. Your mother comes back with a pack of cans. Little piece of shit. How many times have I told you they'll give you cancer? At least they don't make me think the house is collapsing. Your mother gets her a bitch slap. You're 80. And you don't know what a bitch slap is yet. I'll go fuck yourself. Your sister goes to the door? No. She goes to her room, goes some clothes in her easepack, then she goes to the door. Where are you going? One day I'm gonna push you down the stairs. If you're a voice in the stairwell. Quiet out there. We're not in the bazaar here. Your sister kisses you on the forehead and whispers. I'm sorry. Into your ear and slams the door behind her. I really thought it was a North Creek. You're eight. And you don't know when the earthquake is before that Eileen will only come back long after she stops smoking. It's your 18th birthday. One for Gerta, one for Maxine, and one for your mother. It's your 18th birthday and you swear you are dying lies born on in swear under oath. You never knew your mother? Yep. Never spoke to him? Yep. Never found him, although you looked everywhere for him? That is the most important lie of your life. Jackpot. Forget yesterday. You don't need a driver's license. Forget the over 18s club. You don't get it anyway. Forget the strong alcohol. You have better stuff. In your hand, damp the 318. It's your birthday, your 18th birthday, and everything's perfect. Just like you always imagined. Long hall, green tiles, glossy sunflowers. You stare at the picture. They got more faded. You think over the years, number 318 flashes. This is your 18th birthday. And you're really gonna party with Mr. Kosminski in the immigration office with a Polish accent. Kosminski explains all the papers you need to become a solid German. A family photo in the shop behind him, also glossy. His son has probably bought stuff from you. Thank you. It's your day. One for Bismarck, one for Hitler, and one for your older sister. Sworn declaration above known whereabouts of father. Jack. Mother's residency permit. In your face. Mother's birth certificate. Yes. Proof from the consulate that you don't have Turkish citizenship. Here you go on my mind. Wait. What? There's something missing. You focus on the slow, up and down bobbing of the head of the dog toy on his desk. Just kidding, everything's fine. And now, the written language test. Small text down here, please. You write. I'll fuck your daughter till she seeps out of her eye. I'll steal your son's citizenship and am addicted to drugs and sell his organs at the Turkish market. At night, I'll break the star of your Mercedes and wear it with my present moon chain. I don't want to be a doctor or a lawyer. I'm going to be a superstar or an employee. I'm the German dream of wet German women. Very funny, Mr. Yomas. You put a little X beside. I do not intend to change the democratic or elementary system of the federal public attorney. And sign with your dick there, there, and there. Never lose this. There's no second chance under no circumstances. Forget yesterday, if you have better stuff now and the boys are waiting outside. And? When you show your certificate of naturalization, they show their naturalization present for you. It's your 18th birthday. One for Ozea, one for the scar under the eyebrow, and even one for your father. Hello, Arda, hello. Shit, not again. Where are you anyway? So like, what I wanted to say was someone was here and you know, because of that thingy, we'll get the stuff back later, definitely, he said, but first he has to take it. He has to. He can't do anything about it. And yeah, from your room too. So basically you have to decide between the TV or the thingy, the PlayStation. I told him the TV for now, because we still have one in the living room. You can play there now, but I wasn't sure. And he asked me what we bought it with. Can't remember at all, I said. You bought it yourself. You have a job. That's what I said, right? I couldn't remember anyway. You can still change the sticker, whether you prefer the TV or the PlayStation, depending. And what I, someone else I wanted to say. Ah, if your sister gets in touch with you, tell her things are really tight right now. Well, they always are, I know, but at the moment it is really tight. Tell her she's still gonna get her money this month, but you're not with your people double. Power, power, two uniforms all the way up there. Stay cool. You're hidden everything behind the trash can. You haven't done anything. You can't do anything, you still feel bad. Boy, young is beside you, small head, always up and down. He always jumps when there's a bus or a car beeps, brown hair, skinny arms. Suddenly, last summer, Boyan is sitting beside you. You think, was he here yesterday? You didn't notice. He was here last week. You didn't, last month, he was here, right? You didn't, you didn't listen to him. You ask if he wants to buy some stuff. He looks at you and he doesn't answer. You ask, what's up? He understands, but he doesn't answer. You ask if he's the son of a whore, if his mother is the third-year of a whore, who sells herself money. Sometimes there's no other choice. He says, and you get it, he's not the son of a whore, but I'm Bosnian, non-Croatian. Serbian, I'm Serbian, whole family Slovenian. Serbo-Croatian, you go Albanian. And then he says, whatever you want doesn't matter. Anyone who's whatever you want is definitely not one of us. Hi, I'm Bojan. Sure, man. Don't hurt your mom with everything. The dudes who come mealy, two uniforms, all the way up there. They're coming. Bojan takes your smoke. He actually does the smoke. Let's not be out of here. Nebukchati, nebukchati, nebukchati, nebukchati. Don't shoot it. He's a genius. He speaks four, five, maybe six languages. But not one word too many. All he ever says is, keep your head down. Three summers long. What you doing, Bojan? Keep your head down. We're going to be, buy you some stuff? Keep your head down. Let's go to the media market, play around with FIFA? Keep your head down. We're going to the drug store to the water dispenser. Keep your head down. Dude, what's the matter with this shit in your brains? Just keep your head down, OK? Bojan's mother's recipe for survival helps at every checkpoint. Even better than, keep your head down. His only. Let's get out of here. Two uniforms are coming. Pass the Russians, pass the Gabas, straight towards you. Of course. Hi, officer. No suspicions. Stop and search, boys. You get searched. They grew up in Danny's back pocket. Right here, officer. You show your certificate and you win. But you still don't have any ID. So you apply for it. Bojan has six passports. He can use one of his, can't he, officer? Negre, Neuude, Nehile, not possible. What do the two cops ask a Sergo Croatian, Albanian, Bosnian from Slovenia? Where do you come from? When did you come to Germany? Is your mother here? In the station. In Germany. Yes. And your father? He keeps his head down. And the other one? Who? A man who married your mother so you don't have to go back. Bojan takes the deep drag of your cigarette. Come with us, please. Three weeks later, Bojan won't be sitting beside you anymore. He'll be back. And you think he was still here yesterday. But you're not sure. He was still here last week, right? That dude's a comedian. You didn't notice. The marriage fraud is marriage fraud. And you go land it safe again. Arda? Sorry, I got cut off there. What did I want again? Oh, yeah. She'll definitely get the children's allowance. And if she wants, I brought Sarmas from Grandma. Maybe if she wants to come by, because I don't know where she is right now, just for half an hour. She doesn't have to, only if she wants to. Grandma would be so happy. They're really yummy. Or you could take some for her. You could do that, too. But we can do that when you get here, right? And there's still drinks in the cellar. When you come, bring them up with you. Fine. See you later. Get your stuff out of the bin. Up his work street. Join his burning and Danny's hand. The last drag he takes. The wrong way around is in his mouth. And it gives you a kiss. From Marie and Johanna. The best shotgun of your life. You have to watch out. You don't fall over. And then you split the split away. And it's off to Melvon and Grill. Munchies. Turquoise tiles. White table cloths. A yellow sign over the door. Yellow gal. No loose front. All in a gale. Second, on the counter. Red hot sauce on his huge hands. Turkish engineering degrees. Spraying over a wall. You look up at your naturalization certificate. And back up at the degrees. And in that second, you understand that those engineering degrees are hanging there because they're worth nothing. It's your 18th birthday. And you're thinking of the past of graduating school when the donor bought shop and book the grease stains on exercise books. And a whole afternoon, stirring mayonnaise in buckets in the garage out back. Of football in the courtyard. Of kids' birthdays mixed with real plates. Of Mervez, Sabah's mother, who you were secretly in love with because she puts her healing hand over your ears while Uncle Sepkan shots at her. Because of her hands, never smell of grease, but of earth. And you think of Mervez's eyes, green like olives, behind swollen skin, purple like plums, or a red sauce again, and the second uncle's huge hands. Yikiyo dumar adashim. Two men come through the door, two men with guns. Come through the door and pull their guns. And you scream. Watch out. Too late, Serkan Uncle's apron turns red. Dude, are you completely fading? Sabah's gives you a fish slap. Get yourself together, man. We're dead if you notice it. Wait. Again. Yikiyo dumar adashim. Two men come through the door with guns and uniforms. And pull their wallets out of their back pockets. Serkan Uncle wipes his hands on his apron and shakes theirs. Officer, I'm seeing you for ages. Two men, everything, hot sauce. Medvet leaves the room, so the uniforms stop making eyes at her. It's your 18th birthday, and they're a mixed girl place for you and your boys, and no one knows that the police will be back in two months and that the Lebanon grill will be closed forever because something's dripping in the garage out back. Can you hear it? It's dripping. It's dripping red into the maintenance. Stripping gloom, slashed arms full of hot sauce. There. From fingertips. Can you hear it? That smell like the earth. From slippers hanging in the air. It's dripping. There it is again. It's your 18th birthday, and you look at the sadness as eyes. Stone dies. No sign that his father will take down the degrees to take them back to Karamangri. That sabbat will go back with him. And that medvet will not, because all of you in this world, all of you are just stupid fucking guest workers. You're chilling, you're chilling on your bench because, you know, the revolution will not be televised. Are you up for it? No way you're gonna miss that. So you're chilling on your bench. Four, five, you already know for like six summers now. And you know, you sense it's gonna happen today. Tonight, the whole station will be dancing till some say everyone's there. You know that guy, you know that guy, and him, and him, and him. A to the R to the D to the A. Revolution superstar. The God wants from further up to congratulate you and give you a pitiful puppy with a red bow with tears in their eyes. Oh, youngest friend of you. And you give them your chain. I'm the dog's sing and the pigeon's fuck and you hand in hand march on the spot. Shuffle to the right, shake your heads. Shuffle to the left, march on the spot. Shake your heads as if it was the last one. The refugees from further down. Russians, Kazakhs, Uzbeks, Poles, handing out rounds for everyone in the field. Walk up for everyone. And perestroika inside you. So you chill on your bench because, brother, you know, the revolution will not be televised. Not from the Mevlana and not in school, but only here, here on this street. And that's where your liberation is. And you're up for it. Boyan tears a page out of one of his passports and rolls a joint. Only the sky is the limit. Takes a drag and passes it to two policemen. Susanna and Danny are sitting beside you. On his shoulders, this little Roberto drooling and puking his baby face covered in red and white glitter. Because the chisel just got fat. Your mom calls. When are you coming? Eileen and her are waiting, dinner and stuff. At the bench, on the very end, Medved and Sevkan kissing like they were 17 and it smells like Izet. And you chill. You chill on your bench one final summer long because you believe the revolution will not be televised. But something's not right. And you realize no one's there. You realize you're alone. You realize you're 18 and your friends are dying. In the papers with black bars covering their eyes. In the parks on the benches, in TV shows, as numbers and in the statistics, your people are dying. A generation on street corners begging for an eternal view. You're 18 and you get it. You lost and you scratch into the bench with your key. A to the R to the D to the A. And A to the L to the M to the on here. So that you never forget where you came from. 5B. Imagine you're lying in your grave. So sad. Dead. Don't know how, let's just say, you're dead. Because a nationalist offer took revenge for his granddad who rode the wrong bus at the wrong time. Or because a young revolutionary climbs into the bedroom of your house one night with a gun. Because you betrayed the ideology but left after you left prison. Maybe you just choked on a grave and your frustrated wife, your second wife watches you slowly choke as she smokes. Or imagine you're dead because you were drooling and demented. How old are you? 70? Couldn't understand the graffiti in the streets of Galata anymore. Couldn't understand the world being tweeted from Guessing Park. Couldn't understand the people in the streets of Ankara on tanks and prisons leading the country and you make your final exit. Quiet and uncomprehending in your bed on the Aegean. So imagine, you're dead, doesn't matter how, there's one day it'll happen. What I know, what someone would tell me, I didn't even know you were alive the last 18 years. The opposite. I had this way of cheating, kidnapped. That no one knew who you were. I traded your life for my citizenship. I'd probably find out somehow. I mean, that you're dead because of my half brother. Same as Oswald, right? Because he photoshopped your face beside Akatortz, slightly transparent onto the Turkish flag and posted on Facebook. And now I'm here at your funeral in Konya, uninvited in, let's say, a white man's suit. And with me I bring your heirs, my mother, my sister and me, 18 and stateless because I'm a terrorist kid related to your revolution. And then that one asshole that no one should mess with the immigration office. I'll also bring social workers who told our teachers we had no perspective, but we had too much perspective. We saw things other kids should never see their whole lives as they hit their parents pumpkin soup. I'll also bring Sabah's blood brother, twins joined at the head, my best friend, your best friend's son, all the others who disappeared gradually, one by one, without growing a single stone. The guys from the asylum seekers home across the road too, they call me the son of a dog every day on my way to school. And I agree, Merve, Sabah's mother wouldn't be there. Tell her I said hi. And I'll bring your mustachio friends who pat me on the back at Turkish weddings who tell me I look so much like you, who tell me that one day I'll be like you, the son, the hero of a revolution. Okay, what's all this about? About a guy who runs away from Germany and then back again. So what, forget it. It's about him going to prison for 17 years voluntarily. Forget it. Forget it. It's about her and about him. About him and about her. About real true love. All that stuff, but it's not that simple. Let's go. In the year of the lords of the guest work and the cold war. New Year's Eve, 81, 82. He, alone, from above. This first new year is in Germany. Fucking freezing. So cold, so cold, so cold. She. Not even 20. First time out at night with the girls. Lipstick in the rear view mirror. Shouting. Woo! Loudly. Teenager backlight is great. He waited, especially until all the others were finished. Waited until all the people really, everyone in the home had gone to the bathroom. So he could shave in peace. Sideburns, chin, the whole shebang. He's still got a few cologne samples in his jacket pocket. He uses them. Now, but don't mix them all in. Keep. Good for later. He, freshly showered, ironed shirt. Smoothly shaven, doesn't want to be taken for tellers. Why not? Don't conform to the cliche. Don't conform to the cliche. Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it. She looks great anyway. In her Ford Fiesta, her and her girlfriends. Girlfriends, Nolan, Chanon, Aidan, and Aishan, and Medivin. She's there too. Conversations about Rosa Luxemburg's hairstyle, suitcase child trauma, and white boys' asses. Into the women's car park and into the bar. He knows whatever happens, don't dance. Don't start them, Hailey. Don't twirl a white handkerchief. Better off not even looking at the dance floor. Because that just looks like when you're standing in front of the meat section in the supermarket with your food stamps. So instead, he blabbers on at the dreadlocked-out bar keeper. Why? Because you look like a tool to cycle hanging around their bar on your own. Until she blocks through the door. Hey, baby, hey, baby, hey. I remember a ghost at the bar. Believe me, I seen photos of my mom. She looked amazing. She looks, he looks, she looks again. He sees that she looks again. She looks away quickly, and straight away he feels that's his girl, that's the love of his life, and it's her or suicide attack. Hey, baby, hey, baby, hey. She actually only looked because she's short-sighted, but is much too vain to wear her glasses tonight. He has already learned. That doesn't mean anything yet. Looking over means absolutely nothing at all, even if she was sipping on a damn straw at the same time. Stay cool. Women in the West and so on. In the West and so on, and so on, and so on. She up to the bar and drink first. Knows he has the following options. One, she's German. A German woman will give you a proper handshake with a vacant smile and talk to you for hours before her work, about her work, about her asshole boss, about her sister's career, and so on. You nod every now and again. And even if you don't understand a word, you're understanding, funny, cheesy. And if it goes well, you use the icebreaker. You look right at her. You look right at her chest briefly, really only very briefly, a millisecond. And then look deeply back into her eyes straight away. As if it was an accident. As if you didn't mean to do it. As if you just couldn't help it because she's so incredibly hot. And you're an Anatolian monkey completely controlled by your instincts. You love Anatolian monkeys in there. A, if a German woman drinks an alcoholic drink. Beer, then she's working in class. Summer jobs, public transport to school, or wine. Then the child of employers, probably guests, who work at employers, a pool in the garden, but parents are never there. B, if she's German and has a normal alcoholic drink, forget it, much too stressful for one night, even New Year's Eve. Two, she's Turkish. A Turkish woman, kiss on the left, kiss on the right, will tell you how much she hates the Turks in Germany because they're always shouting. The way they all have accents, which is why people always tell her how good her German is. But that, she still loves her mother's summers, correct her alamnik, so she knows you're not a koy kablosisi, not a guesswork either. You're an engineer from Konya. By the way, we've had definitely don't do the looking at the chest number. Hey, if a Turkish woman has a non-alcoholic drink, then you say, You need some alamnik in your drink. It doesn't matter what you're drinking, Turkish women just love alamnik, and you say, That drink is from your big alamnik. It doesn't matter if it's true, Turkish women just love guys with big alamniks. B, last option, she's Turkish, but drinks an alcoholic drink. Then, chat bot, she goes to the bar in orders, the first vodka and lemon of her life. Chat bot, he. Okay, go and talk to her, but don't screw it up. He knows, there's only one golden rule. You fucked up the opener. You fucked up the opener. Bet everything on one card. He goes over to her, looks deep into her eyes and slams down four marks, 15 and five pence coins on the bar in front of the dreadlock guy, his entire own savings for her vodka and lemon. I said he was announcing, girl, get in. I'll take you to the moon. Girl, I'll take you to the moon. Girl, to the moon. Girl, to the moon. Huh? Mm-hmm. What's that supposed to be? So much, forget it. He, the sura bakma, alamonya seni. She answers in Turkish, too. Booneşinde. But for our fellow citizens with a migration deficit, what's that supposed to be? She, turns around to go right away. And now comes that one moment, inexplicable, a little bit too kitschy, but essential for every good story. He holds her back by the arm and tells her everything. The whole story. The Hades started a student movement called the Brunchi Sol Depsol for short, where the members of the audience not so talented at languages, the revolutionary left. That, actually, all they did was whistle after girls. But then there was actually a few attacks. Nothing crazy. He says, a bomb in a political party. A little shooting. A bus stop and stuff. There was a crazy drive. And yes, actually, a few people died. Not bones, maybe. Four. But there was a civil war going on. Geopolitical interests. She must have learned about it. The civil war, the Cold War, and stuff. So cold, so cold, so cold. And ideologies are still at a premium. Human lives are cheap. And anyway, he wanted to overthrow the government, the Turkish government, the Turkish dictatorship, and replace them with more than just Turkish left-wing dictatorship. Hi. Had to jump out of the shower one morning when he heard on the radio, that the army has seized power for the welfare and the unity of the country. Had to drop everything. Packed his backpack and was gone. Because since the last coup, like the coup last year, a very few tanks in the streets, messy business. So messy, so messy, so messy. Just no chance of a further trial. And since then, he's been waiting here in this bar all alone for his trial. His trial that will decide if he can stay in Germany. He never says asylum in case procedure. Asylum sounds like people who aren't worth anything. Trial sounds like power, literature, and suits. And he's been waiting a damn long time. And today, he was very close to just drinking himself to death in this cold fucking country. With these cold fucking people. And this stupid 68 student movement. Hit the bartender. If only he had the money. Until she walked through the door. And now there's this heat in his lungs, this wobbly feeling in his thighs. Because in that moment, when she looked at him, this whole life that led him to this shitty dive bar suddenly makes sense again. Because now he suddenly feels like a schoolboy. Taking a detour home just so he could see his childhood sweetheart around the next corner. Because for the first time since he fled Turkey, he felt like a human being again. Say something, please. So she's standing there, listening to all this, let's remind ourselves, not even 20. Slightly perplexed, in front of a guy telling her what the disarming honesty only murderers have, telling her that he's a terrorist, a hunted enemy of the state in Turkey, illegal in Germany, buying her the first vodka lemon of her life. And she says. And that would take too long right now. But it's clear what's going on, right? And this vodka, for first ever, tastes so damn good. And while this guy is standing there in front of her like that, she thinks, mother would give her a slap right now. Because she didn't come to fucking Germany so that her daughter could hang around with some criminal and some filthy dive bar. So she looks at him, puts her hands on his head, which is a little too large, and kisses him as if they were deporting him tomorrow. What? So while his comrades are playing Elia's beer and getting their balls electrocuted in high security Turkish prison on New Year's Eve, he's smoking his first cigarette after sex in Germany. So umi's in love. From the top of her curls to the repainted veins. So what? But something's not right about this guy. File number 19791214A1B06X004 I-000-T-03-N-002-S640-R-M-E-P1413 date December 2nd, 1979. We present the following evidence. Due to membership of the terrorist organization, the state prosecution is investigating the following person. Firstly, name and age of the accused. His name? Mr. Murat Yilmaz. Actually, Mehmet Murat Yilmaz. Born on in. And his mama? Mr. Mustafa Yilmaz, officer with the Khabar Kubeh military on Nassau, before the sun. And then his day-day? Mr. Murat Yilmaz, soldier in the Third Army at the last summit. I'm named after him, Assau II. What the hell? Imagine, dinner at home with the Yilmaz. Monty with yogurt above the dining table, a picture on the wall. Mustafa Kemal shaking Murat's hand. And his father told little Murat what his father told him. What his father told him. What his father told him. Something about the Turkish War of Liberation. Khabar Kubeh, son with the Khabar Kubeh, Yilmaz, son with the Khabar Kubeh. OK, OK. Murat would really like to ask, which of these three was actually responsible for the Kurds? For the Greeks? For the Armenians. But he doesn't ask. For my mother's sake. Then with 18. But now, I'm not joining the army. Since then, my old man doesn't look me in the eyes anymore when he's talking. So, studied in Konya. Konya! With his best friends or car. Step out! 40 square meter apartment, loads of frozen borax, getting stoned all day. Both of them get goose pimples about fast cars and mechanical engineering degrees on the side. Little side cats. The first Turkish car model was called a depri. In German? Revolution. At its first lap of honor at the parade in 1961, with President Gürsel at the wheel, the cars stopped moving after a few meters. A megadot. So what? People can't make any progress in this country. And until then, our brains will all stay from the convention. Secondly, the psychological development and maturity of the youths. When he was still a student, membership in an activist group. Wake up, wake up, damn officer. Is that an accusation? That already counts as terror? Actually, they were only involved in the group because of women. Second side fact. Remember. Boys, left-wing students jump into bed with you much quicker than their conservative fellow students. They read Karl Marx, a start of sentences. Argue about which make of car will survive after the communist revolution, and whether Mao, Che, or Lenin had the biggest balls. Oh, what a question everyone knows. Lenin for life. In the reading group, the name Mahir Shayan is also mentioned for the first time. Have you ever heard that name, Mr. Yalmas? Of course he's heard that name. Mahir Shalmas. Rob a bank in 71, and then handed out the gold to the poor in the Ghese Kondas. Mahir Shaman. Carried out numerous robberies and kidnappings. And the last one in Kizidiri on a mountain, four NATO radar technicians were killed, nine other terrorists were killed. Gorillas. Four NATO radar technicians, nine other gorillas, and he himself. You don't die in Kizidiri. In Kizidiri, you live forever. You admit to admiring the actions of the criminal. Well, let's say I can, Mr. Sun-Y, some people lose it and can't just sit on a bench and watch. You organize demonstrations. Which of the police dispersed? His father doesn't even want to talk to him on the phone. He tells his monarchy has nothing to do with it. But then the chicks from the reading group look over. He shouts the loudest. Hey, Devrinchi. Hey, yo, Direnish. You distributed illegal panhellis. Because they banned our magazine. You occupied the university. Because they arrested our professor. You threw stones at shoppers, ATMs, buses, and cars. Not true. Never had cars. We never threw them at cars. What's all this about? About this, stones? Is that the accusation? Thirdly, be accused, please. Look out there. Our people are dying on the dry fields of the desiccundice, on the outskirts of the city, in the torture basins, under corrupt judges. They're dying everywhere. And out of church spaces, on the flags, and on lyric banknotes, in the crying screens of Kurdish children on taxing square. In 77, during Bloody May, they lock everything up in everyone up, students, Germanist teachers. Doesn't matter. Our comrades devoured by the gray wolves, kidnapped and held captive by their own government. Drowned in the NATO's blue. Drowned off the coast of Cyprus. Drowned in dirty old walls. Our people are dying here, going on about stones. Umi's backstory. Smyrna in my head. Every water I see, every sunshine. Every sunshine. Smyrna in my legs, with every single love. Every single love. Just for you, Murat. Umi, please. Mom is washing my back. First my arms and my shoulders, then my calves. Suddenly we hear glass smash, but very short, not long. Mom looks up and then back down. And then the water in the bath is making waves. Dad in uniform, black and white, pushes himself along the edge of the shelf and jumps down onto the foamy tiles. And then glass smashing all over again. And mom pulls me, pulls me by the hair. Out! Get out of the house! My eyes are burning. I step on dad's face, and we run out, out of the house, onto the big square in the sun. Smyrna. Smyrna. Do you feel that, Murat? That's Smyrna. Smyrna. In my dreams, with every cup of chai, every shower. In my dreams. Smyrna in our sentences, with every song, every step. Every step. All our neighbors are on the square too. The boy from across the road, right at the front, holding his mother's hand. He turns around and looks and smiles at me. And I smile back, like last night when we were playing in secret. My legs feel wobbly, because the ground is wobbling. And the boy is smiling. And suddenly, the earth opens up, and one house after another, including ours, collapses into dust in the sun. And this earthquake with Almania. Almania. The land across the great sea. The land of zombies. Everyone says they have no arms and no legs there because of the war. That's why they need people. They say, you'll have money for a new house there. But mom, don't go to the zombies. Mommy, we don't need a new house. Mommy, what am I supposed to do with the neighbors? Mommy, stay with me. Mom, stay in Smyrna forever. Smyrna. Smyrna. I say Smyrna. Smyrna, in my eyes, with every name, every tear. Every name, every tear. Smyrna in my legs, my only love. My only love. You still there? Has everyone got enough drinks in their hands now? And Smyrna in their blood? OK, so Umi's mom goes back to Almania. The plan, make money, new house, go back as soon as possible. And sure, we know that one. And our Umi will stay with the neighbors for Smyrna until she too, five summers later, one first love and a childhood later, was standing all alone and motherless in the airport at the land of the zombies. Umi asks where her mom is. First in grief, then in Turkish. The woman just stares. She puts a headscarf on Umi and falls silent, because suddenly she realizes that that's her mother. They hug and they kiss and they're happy. But really, Umi's legs are shaking, because suddenly in that moment, they both realize that the earthquake was Almania. It tore through Smyrna. And because of it, and from then on, both of them know that they'll never really know each other again. And so, Smyrna. Smyrna. Smyrna in my head. In my head. Smyrna. My youth. Every water I see. Every sunshine. Every water, every sunshine. Smyrna in our legs. Our only love. Our only love. But the way things go, we weren't finished yet. Fourth, to the circumstances of the offense. Cats in the city, you know how we're doing. The lazy calls at night, you know how we're doing. We fly into this tower, you know how we're doing. And entertain us, play with us, die where Smyrna here, and we'll follow you. Baba, I set off for war last night. Baba, these are my last words. I was a soldier last night. And thought, who knows, maybe you're actually proud of me. Sparkles on the water, you know how we're doing. The sunshine in the sky, you know how we're doing. Black mushrooms in the sky, you know how we're doing. Entertain us, play with us, die for Smyrna here, and we'll follow you. We are thousand. We walk through the streets, pamphlets into the air. Hammer and sickle on the flags, secar and decided, rage in the space. Stones in our hands, the police are waiting. Up there, on the big square, I go to throw it. Suddenly, someone is holding my hand. Mustaches and turtlenecks, jeans of leather boots. Baba, I swear on my mother he looked like Mahir. He said he had been watching us, and that he knew a few people. Didn't we want to take part in something real? I was still tightly holding onto the stone in my hand. Baba, if they forbid everything, what will you do then? Known us in the streets, you know how we're doing. Stinking in the alleys, you know how we're doing. Cars as candles, you know how we're doing. Entertain us, play with us, die for Smyrna here, and we'll follow you. Me, on a corner street, keeping watch for birds, that might snitch on us. Me, been on, look out, four or five, maybe already six hours, across the street, circling in a blue Ford escort, stolen last little thing. The only light is street black. Two men coming along the street, who never wear masks, always just mustaches and turtlenecks. They go to work a shop across the street, the party office of the powerful. They use a screwdriver to open the glass door and disappear inside. No screams, no shits. We wait for five, maybe six minutes, but then, sir Ken gets out of the blue Ford escort and he looks at me, I said to say, let's get out of here, right now. I look back, I said to say, Rock, pull yourself together. A second look, I'm getting out of here. Come with me. I look back, no, we're finishing the job together. The glass door flies over. Sir Ken runs away, I go to the escape car. The two men with mustaches and turtlenecks run out of the building. I'm behind your wheel. But suddenly, I see, there's no key in the ignition and the two men get in the car. I know only four, five, maybe six minutes until the fireworks. I briefly close the car, briefly, quickly stick one of our stickers onto the lamp post. My hair was here. We need a bigger audience and then I drive away, calmly, but fast. The moon above the roof, you know how we're doing. Not a soul in the park, you know how we're doing. Outlines on the ground, you know how we're doing. Entertain us, play with us, die for us, my dear, and we'll kill all of you. Then they said they were going to steal a bus for a special mission. They already know that I know how to steal cars. They said, it would only be very simple. I say, but Baba, once you're in, here's an eye witness report. Fifth witness statement. Blue Ford S4, it stops close to a military bus station. Two men and two women get out and take position behind the car. Another car, model unknown, parks around 30 meters away. After two hours, a military bus driver drives into the station. When the driver gets out and goes to the trunk with two men, short hair and mustaches, sweaters and jeans, and two women, long brown hair, one with sunglasses, come out with an AK-47. One of them orders the four officers to get out of the bus. When the first comes out of the bus with his hands in the air, the driver suddenly runs away. One of the women, this one with the sunglasses, opens fire. She hits the driver in the back, he drops. She runs over to him, three shots, short range. A retired Turkish army officer who lives nearby witnesses what happened. He runs on with his balcony with a shotgun, shoots the woman. Three officers run off to and are shot by the man. The woman with out glasses, fires at the balcony. The men carry the wounded woman to the blue Ford Escort where there's this young man, younger than the others, sitting at the wheel. They drive away. 17 years imprisoned, mama. As demanded by the state of turn, I wanted to go to the police. I could have said I didn't know anything about the plan. Could have said I was only the driver and if I turned myself in, but then when the junta seized power in the morning, ba-ba, they brought Serkan into the hall at night just because he was a member of our association. They blindfolded him, gave him cold showers, beat him with sticks, electrocuted his hands and his groin tied him to a plank, hung him in the ceiling. Waited a last. Where was his friend hiding? Where did he get the guns? How did he help him? They said they could do whatever they wanted to do. They could throw him out the window and say it was a suicide. They could shoot him and say he was trying to escape. And when they find you, they'll put you on a stool with a noose around your neck. And if you want, you can say one more thing, some shout, down with the dictatorship. Most say nothing. They check the noose again, aim your guns at you and order you to kick the stool you're standing on, out from under you, yourself, before the blood shoots into your eyes. Terror, need and audience, solo executions. They send you the video. But by kiss and from me, I'll be in touch again from Russia, Cuba or China. The wind is warm, you know how we're doing. See you all slide low, you know how we're doing. The water flows quietly, you know how we're doing. And take a chance, play with us, die for us my dear, and we'll be following you. Okay, I heard that there was a wedding here today. Yeah! Did I hear someone say yeah? Yeah! Effendi? Yeah! I can't hear you? Yeah! Okay, okay, the happy couple under the dance floor please. And you, where are you people? Get out your lighters and men, dry up your sweaty hands and take your darlings by the hand and get closer at their knees. Yeah! Now men, this is the moment you have to apologize to all your chanlaus for all the nights you never came home, for all the arguments about household money, for tearful children's birthdays, for all the barfights, the wars, the terrorist attacks, the genocides, single ladies, if you're there, close one eye, get on the dance floor. Let's go! Let us tell you about she. Who will probably never be as carefree as today. And he who will never again have residency issues. Who visits him every day for three weeks in his room, in the home, which only consists of one bed, to translate his 132 page charges file word for word. And he who can stop kissing her in the thigh as she does. Yeah! Okay, it's coming folks. Let us tell you about she. Who somehow feels that the second little line means a girl. He who's going to slug the three lambs, if it's a boy or an old. She who thinks Eileen is a lovely name. Oh yeah. Who else is there? He whose father came especially from Cognac to slug the papers to prove his son is a married young lady. She whose mother didn't turn up for the wedding. Mom and dad, come on a little bit closer for me. She whose mom says she is much too young, too naive and too stupid for men, marriage and children. He's only after her passport anyway. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. So what? Harumi anyway, this marriage means getting away from home at least, away from her mother with smear not in her head. She slammed the door and was gone. Let us tell you about he who can finally work. And already has a job offers. Yes, 14 hours of production line of a slaughterhouse. Yes, it doesn't matter because he's learning German. Sure. He's going to finish his engineering degree. Definitely. Has a family now, a little flat and his first one. Non-stolen Ford Fiesta, which usually drives this family to the liquid and eats a shishak sandwich there. What more do you want? She is going to finish training as a secretary and then smoke Havana's and Cuba and then make out in the streets of Bangkok. With a baby? Why not? With a baby. But before she goes to Cuba, the little one goes to the park behind the bomb field first. Breathe people, don't forget to breathe, are you still there? Yeah. What? I said I can't hear you. Yeah. Okay, now we're gonna take it down. Come on, take it down. Just the hips, very slowly. Oh yeah, back and forth, just like that. Hips against hips. Oh mom, back and forth. Come on people, no false monesties. You know how it ends. We're staying down, okay? Where are the groomsmen and the bridesmaids? I'm sorry, I'm not the mom, okay? Madabé with a family at the table. Bye, bye, bye. They don't know each other, but a short Turkish, let me be your kind, my player, look from said gun is enough. Mervé excuses yourself briefly from her family and the two of them kiss on the left, kiss on the right, menem ol dung, me too. Disappeared to the back of umis, not stolen for fiesta, faster than a happy couple can say. Yeah! Daniel's proud of you. Zekker builds car doors in Cognac and actually wants to stay there. But Mervé doesn't know anything about car doors and just can't handle 35 degrees Celsius in the shade. So Zekker comes to Germany for her. And they open a five star restaurant for Anatolian specialties, named after his cousin, Kouta. All right, we're about to go back up again. When we're up, I want you to shake everything, really everything out, okay? Yeah! We're going up, we're going up for a dance. Dance, after all this shit, dance for a few life goals at last. Dance for a job, for a car, for a wife, for a child. Dance for what can happen to you now. Dance for freedom, umi. Dance for your new life, muda, for your second life in which all will be well and nothing can happen. Dance the night away, dance away the cool, dance away the revolution, dance away your passport, dance away your parents, dance away your youth, dance away Alemania, dance away the cold, dance away the war, oh baby! Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance! Okay, thanks a lot folks, that was enough dancing for me. Well, if you know how it ends, thanks mom and dad. That's all for now. Good night. My aint got no home. Allah, she has no gold, has no silver, has no perfume, has no clothes. Allah, her soul really knows no wrong. We ask you, understand her right because I often get dizzy. Haven't been feeling well the last few mornings. And Allah, if I'm ever in happy circumstances then I will always, always be grateful. But right now, I think I want to be unhappy. I got a car from Melon yesterday, the Eiffel Tower at night. She started university. She's doing well and asks how I am of course. She says I should visit her and I really like to. But Allah, she has no money, has no rent, has no friends, has no dreams. Allah, her soul really knows no wrong. She knows all that's not important compared to life. But if she were ever in happy circumstances then she'll always be grateful for another child. But right now, just now my boss told me I can leave the kitchen soon. I'll get four marks more at the counter. And I think I can do it. I know I can do it. If I work hard and I am good to my boss, we just can't manage a second child right now. Allah, maybe mom's right. He works hard. It's not like that. 14 hours a day. He doesn't make enough. He isn't what he studied here. Allah, she has no free time, has no sleep, has no dreams, has no home. Allah, her soul really knows no wrong. But I went to mom's last month to see the little one. She's doing well, healthy and stuff. Eileen is staying with her just for a while until we've saved enough money, maybe a little flat. But you know, don't get me wrong. She screams. The baby, when I take her in my arms, I drive four hours there and four hours back just to see my child one day a week. But when I take her, she starts to cry. She doesn't recognize her own mother. Allah, she has no baby anymore, has no family, has no dignity, has no love. Allah, her soul really knows no wrong. I work and save and drive and Eileen, she doesn't recognize her mother and that. We ask you, understand her right because that disgusts me. And if I, if I'm ever in happy circumstances, then I'll always, always be grateful. I think right now, I want to be unhappy. You give up, cut through the neck. It's dark, hang it up. You have a dream, open up the reactor. Mahir is still stuck. Skin it. In Kizilderri, in that hut on the mountain. Cut it open. Surrounded by fascists. Cut it. But he was hostage himself and was calling for you. Next one. Breakfast with Umran in her seventh month. Cut it through the neck. Always slices of cheese. Hang it up. Hang it up. Ramon called yesterday. Open up the reactor. Eileen's first day at school. Skin it. You get up. Cut it open. Ignore the bills on the table. Got it. You walk to the station, take the bus to work. German rain on the window. Next one. If you're late, they say he's gonna get fired. Cut it through the neck. And you have to go to the toilet a lot. He's gonna get fired. Hang it up. If you ask for a raise. Open up the reactor. For your first car. For your child. For a holiday. He's gonna get fired. Cut it open. At the pigs with yellow caps. Poles and Hungarians. Got it. At the turkeys with green caps. Romanians and Bulgarians. Cut through the neck. At the beef with red caps. Turks. The rest of the world and you. Hang it up and you break it. You get up. Break it. A thermos flash of chai. Break it. Slice bread with sliced cheese. Break it. And you're broke. Break it. Welcome, Germany level one for losers. Break it. Last week's pictures in the cow's blood. Break it. How they're even selling stones. Break it. How they stole the supermarkets. Break it. Last week freedom won. Break it. Last week, Mahir, your death was for nothing. Break it. Last week, Deutschland had win in the end. Break it. Last week, your youth was judged. Break it over. Cut through the neck. Dog outside. Hang it up. Empty bus, German rain. Open up the rectum. You get into bed. Skit. Your wife mumbles, you smell like dead meat. Cut it open. And goes back to sleep. Guard it. You dream. Cut through the neck. Mahir stills stuck. Hang it up. In kizildari, that hut on the mountain. Open up the rectum. Surrounded by fascists. Skit. But he's a hostage himself. Cut it open. He calls out for you. Guard it. You wake up. Cut through the neck. You wake up, drink and sweat. You take a drink and notice. Hang it up. Smells funny, like dead meat. Open up the rectum. You think it's the four officers. Skit. But then you remember. That's you. Cut it open and guide it. You leave the bed where Imran is breathing beside you. You don't pack a bag and you don't leave a note. You take Eileen's picture out of the frame of the night table and put it in the inside pocket of your jacket. Leave the house dark outside, German rain. OK, now drums. And bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass. Are you filming? OK. OK, drums. And bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, drums, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, bass, drums. Face, face, face, face, face, face. Speaking to you are the sons of the revolution who are still waiting for books from social services in the first week of school. The daughters of those who led the crew born in the German fall. The daughter of the children of the persecuted, tortured, the hanged parents who celebrate their birthdays in government offices. The future enemies of Germany doing their homework in the toilets of the asylum seekers homes because it's the only quiet place where, the only quiet place there. Those who always get scared when the police is nearby no matter what they've done. Who can't go back because they don't come from anywhere. Speaking to you are the lonely mothers who've had to save the world alone without the failures who never came back from getting cigarettes and planting bombs, who keep their heads down at checkpoints, who keep meeting new assholes in rehab, who wait for their sons in the corridors of courthouses. Speaking to you are the wannabe Che Guevara's who wanted to make the world a better place but were stranded in kebab shops, in toilet factories, behind taxi steering wheels and production lines, who heard the fall of the Berlin Wall on the radio and suddenly realized that they'd lost. The bomb makers and the hostage takers, the into the crowd shooters and the over the pile drivers, the unimprovable losers of history. Manu, gil gil, n' al usuh al iin i gil. Run Murat, gil gil, n' i gil, Run Murat, gil gil, n' i gil, Run Murat, n' al usuh al iin i gil. You ram. You stop running for your second life for driving a 4-S for one more time, for a holiday again on the Black Sea and last for your children who will see you on tv. You run out from the house. Run Murat, down the street across the field behind the station Where the scar above the eyebrow is sitting since it's been out of prison Run to her Murat, talk to her Murat, ask her if the scar was worth it Murat Ask about if the Kurdish childhood in Germany Murat Whether it's still active Murat the Kurdish childhood In Germany If it's been radicalized The Kurdish childhood In Germany Whether we have soon as soon as something here In Germany You run up Bismarck Street to the Melgona Grill Where Sifan's waiting behind the counter to say goodbye We're police, we're police like kebab murderers while eating kebabs Take a last taste of the mayor You further down Bismarck Past the immigration office where your case is still being processed Because Minsky is only deporting people now since his wife has been swallowing antidepressants Because the Nazis from the Easter are arriving now Keep going Murat You keep running past the meat factory Where the refugees 333 are working now Keep running, get in the car A blue fort escort further Mahir Shakan's ghost on the passenger seat Further the trunk full of swamped calves and on through Yugoslavia Say hi to Bohan if you see him Dropping some beef on the street corner What do you want there Murat? What the hell do you want in Yugoslavia? It doesn't exist anymore Murat Keep going Murat Keep going Drenstangun Where 4 dead officers are lying to Smyrna Where there are cracks on the ground To Kells desert Where you throw Mahir out All the way to Konya Get to Nyai And you want to fall You want to fall You want to finally fall to your knees Go to Nyai But you can't Get to Nyai You can't, you can't do it Go to Nyai You can't stop your legs Get to Nyai And you keep running Go to Nyai You just keep on running further Run Murat Run like we used to run after the earthquake Run like we need it to Smyrna Don't teach it Run like I need it Run like us Run like we ran into rot And then I stop Do you hear that? That's your youth Murat That's your youth and mine The day will come when we will be heard The day will come when we will be free The day will come when we will be needed The day will come when we will arrive The day will come when we will be heard The day will come when we will be free The day will come when we will be needed The day will come when we will be heard My glance over you briefly Cause you're not bald So I won't compare and follow this The younger people don't know Who's that boy? The older ones start to realize Shit, a little blip That's back now Your old comrades recognize me? The bastard? Cause I really do look like you? You wanted to slaughter three lambs When I was born To thank Allah herself You went back to Turkey Two months before that And now I can't stand touch You went back Although you knew Hey They were waiting for you with handcuffs And maybe I even say I can understand it Really What are 17 years in prison Compared to life and exile? Compared to always being on the line Compared Who knows? Maybe I'll go somewhere To fight myself tomorrow Against the Turks Against the West Against the Kurds The Islamists Or the Comunists Or the Germans I don't care who it is Maybe at the end I would ask you Why do you never call Just once A short call Just this day That you survived prison To ask How are we? But then I go up to your second wife Freshly made widow in the hall Who reminds me then With a cigarette in the corner of her mouth And I express my condolences So thank you We're gonna have a talk You can sit stay here I know you will have to go Shortly before six But Dimitri may be come over And We just sit in front of them So She will have to go to another rehearsal Or another play At six Leave here about quarter Ten to six So maybe we start Maybe we start a few So Is this on? Yes Is this on? Yes So tell us a bit about the journey Of working and discovering the play Journey, well it was a brief journey It was really I think we got the first half Of the play translated A couple of weeks ago And then the second half translated last week And then Cast it accordingly But I think It was just really exciting to get the To start to realize what the What the piece really was Because it kind of Reads plays a lot And to actually start to realize Oh it's set up like a tape And there's a side A And a side B And the side A is like this Kendrick Lamar And all this hip hop work that I really like And then the side B is Nina Simone And all these other people And that also frames the time The temporal landscape as well Was really exciting Just to be exposed to that work And it's also just a piece that I kept on saying in this very brief rehearsal process That if we were actually doing it We'd do da da da da da da da da So that's the energy of this scene So just do that with a stand in front of you And try to feel that I think it's a really really great piece And I was just hoping that we do some sort of justice that could be heard in some way by an audience because I think that it resonates very strongly to an American audience. And I think that the distance of it being specifically about Kurdish Germans, that that can allow us to listen more carefully and hear something that's more about our immigration problem that we have here in a really impactful way, I hope. So I didn't answer the question, but that's something. So what was difficult to work with? And what do you feel would be different as if it would be an American play dealing with some themes of migrations and changing identities or divided identities also? Sorry. But how do you, could you sense something that's different from American play? How it's structured, how it's done, or do you feel it's kind of a universal play that could have been written here in the US? I'll create it. I think the American playwrights who I like, this didn't seem very far from me, the kind of the structure. I mean, I don't know. I think that there are a lot of different types of plays. I don't really know how to answer that question. Sorry. I think the references are, you know, the references, there are a lot of references that we just don't have the history of. And so like the drama, you know, I sent a file with some dramaturgy ideas and things. But there's only so much that we can do in a rehearsal period. So there's a lot of history there that I think is more known. I mean, there was a moment where like the gavas, the dancers, I have a video from YouTube of these guys and I feel like that's a reference that is known in a culture that's not known here. So I kind of like, there was a moment where I was like, we should just put the video up of what that looks like so there's some sense of it or actually do it. But we also didn't have the time for that. So I think it's only the references. But I think that thematically it, I think thematically it makes sense. And for me, I actually was able to better understand, you know, this whole thing about immigrants here getting licenses. I mean, I was able to understand that, what that means as far as stasis and mobility for a person living in this country more because we're working on this play at the same time that I've been listening to that type of conversation. Also didn't really answer the question, but yeah. The questions are mostly not meant to be answered. It's Hannah Arendt's thinking without banister, like hold on. So it's also the same, it's like talking without it. So it's like a banister you don't really need to move forward. So Tia, you of course, you were part of the work. So first of all, it's very, very, so you did a very great job because it's so tough, even us and really, because Turkish people are the major minority in Germany with three to four million people. So we know a bit about the very, very highly complex history of Turkey, but even for us we needed really to have workshops where we get to know these different coup d'etats and revolutions which happened there, it's super highly complicated because once there's some leftist generals who take over, then there's a right wing dictator who takes over, then there's a brief period of democratic elections, then again something happens which is really super weird. And this just to get to know that and the complexity of that. Plus then the complexity between Turkish and Kurdish people, plus the complexity of Turkey being before that the Ottoman Empire, which was really big and a real empire and then collapsed after World War I and left a scattered Middle East and South Eastern Europe and was basically the collapse of this Ottoman Empire was then like 70 years later, it led to the Yugoslavian wars. So it's really the most complicated parts of European history that you could get are combined there and kind of just in one sentence which you completely, which is so tough to follow. Plus that there are a lot of information about really about so Germanish things and especially which are connected to the 80s or early 90s and this is really, really tough to hear and it was really even for us very tough to work on the text even though we had several weeks to work on that and we needed to really get a restructure of it to get it somehow that people could understand it and get it. We really put it upside down and mainly I was, I'm playing the Arda character and basically the way we restructured it is that it's one huge long monologue of him that you don't let the other people, the other perspective speak but this is the kind of remembrance of something that we start, we, because this is a highly autobiographical piece by Najati Ozeri whose father actually was in the Vimchi soul in this left wing, leftist, radical left movement fled to Germany, then went back and this big question about a revolutionary who was a terrorist and this is already so strange because nowadays we think that terror just comes from religious groups or something but these times in the 70s with the RAF in Germany which were left terrorists. The Bader-Meinhof gang. Yeah, Bader-Meinhof gang and also in Turkey and then this whole question about a guy, this myth about your father coming briefly to Germany, get your mother pregnant and then just leaving back and just going back there to go to prison because he can't bear life in exile and this was so strange and so we try to make it more about this personal conflict of a guy who is trying to retell his story, who is trying to say you know one day, one day we'll meet when you're dead and then I'll tell you this whole shit, the whole shit you put me through and maybe I'll understand so much of what you did because me myself just sitting there and just wasting my time, it's so fucked up and I wanna do something with my life, maybe I want to do the same thing you did but the only thing I'm really pissed off about is that you never called to even say that you're all right. So this very, very complex situation then of a guy being born in Germany but constantly being treated as not being German and having this father who is not there and the necessity to lie about him and never to get to know him and just to, and we tried then that this whole second part is a reconstruction which he tries to play out in his memory and it goes terribly wrong. So while in the text it works out, for us it was always kind of this thing that me being the impersonation of Nejati of the writer who has written the text to say this is how my dad and my mom met but he doesn't actually know. So then it was okay, so now I stage a play of how they met and it goes terribly, terribly wrong because you cannot reconstruct and reality in your background history is much more complex and much more fucked up. So this is a really tough, tough, tough thing to do and a very highly complex text and this is also something which we would call the post-migrant theater. Yeah, Willie, thank you and especially the translation process was much longer than we thought. The translation also translated to play so you got it late in your hand. But true, it is interesting to have such a complex multi-layered collage of something cryptic almost. It's a capitalistically hidden, hermetically close but full of references. How was the reaction of the Berlin audience? It was actually, since we really molded the text into or tried to stage the text in a very, very different way, it was quite good because it represented something which is far more, so making it an evening about how memory works or how reconstruction of history works made it, added another layer of perception that was not just the story which would already have been enough for a German stage to stage a play about Turkish migrants and having it been played on the main stage but also adding another layer of the complexity of how to reconstruct our own history and how fragile this whole process is and since we got so many evenings in the Gorky where we also use our own biographies and try to make it as authentic as possible here to add another layer of complexity and to say authenticity in the eye of your memory is very, very difficult because everything we say and we try to narrate about ourselves is in the end kind of a lie and tries to be more beautiful than it was and to have him say a beautiful poem about his mother who in the end is a drunk and about his father who then says yes and they try to imprison me, this is why I need to flee but this is something which the author tries to put in his father's mouth whom he never met and whom he is angry at so the reaction was quite good but it's also even to see it it's a tough evening for the audience but it resonates especially highly with the Turkish audience because they know these references even better of course than the German audience and it's kind of, it reminded me also now to hear it of Huno Diaz, the brief and wondrous life of Oscar Wao I guess it's called like that he tried to make it the kind of the same structure with the side notes and so on and so on and so on and the underlying curse of the son who actually then has to suffer or deal with the sins of the fathers and grandfathers Yes and especially one more thing which adds another complex layer because nowadays we are all used to the smith of poor people coming from other countries and coming to Europe or to the USA so they're people who are just poorly educated but here we have another migration story of revolutionary people, of Marxist people of highly educated people who had to flee due to their beliefs and this is something which is quite unique so that you have, yeah, so that there was actually a decline in their family not you know, rise to money but actually being somebody there having to flee and then have a decline in your wealth and in your status Yeah, being local, is this in Rappach Bastille? Yeah, it is so I know you are going to Berlin tomorrow I am, yeah so maybe you're going to catch it I know you have to catch your train so you should go now again thank you for your work Thank you We looked it up 610, you know and 7th, 7th, 7th Avenue entrance left side so tell us a little bit more about this before you all leave maybe we should, anybody wants to say something before you leave I love to play I can say something really cool I mean we only got the script for this a couple days ago so seeing it was a super fast process of learning it but I immediately connected to it thinking about the US history of colonization and the US history of having other people in our country who we rendered to a second class citizenship I'm Puerto Rican so it was really really easy for me to see a lot of parallels between the like in being American but not really being American and it was just this is one of those plays where it felt like the themes could be really transparent to an American audience that it didn't feel like that despite all of the references and the thing the specifics, the tones and the themes feel really accessible even from just the first read and from the first couple of reads so nice to hear Hello everyone, thank you so much for joining us on this wonderful day my only commentary on the play I'm also from Ghana I just got my citizenship in this country so being an acting and acting and doing good work I'm starting to realize that there are specific inherent similarities regardless of race, color, gender, sex that we all go through so the idea of identity and nationalism and homeland or motherland is a very interesting topic that I like to explore in plays and this is a great place to explore that in what does that mean? Is that a subjective question or answer subject to what you believe in because you grew up in this environment with these people or in these situations so yeah it's a very interesting understanding when we try to explain to people identity are we explaining when someone says who are you and who you are or where you come from so that they can identify you are you explaining that so that you can identify yourself and I think that was the question that I got I think it's a very... So yeah so it is a complex play it's a pinballed voice festival it is as close to literature also to kind of a cinematic kind of novel or a stream of consciousness but highly orchestrated, composed put together like almost like a musical piece so tell us a bit I know we talked it with the other plays also about it but the way... how was it created? Did Nekati, did he sit in a room and he wrote it, did you rehearse it everybody brought something in since it was so custom tailored from him and again I would like to point out this is not some playwright who's been hired to write about someone else so he created in the ensemble something about his life, his work and it was then put on with the ensemble and it was a very big theater for a Turkish audience where in Berlin till a long time ago there was nothing for a Turkish audience that's three to four million a lot of them are in Berlin they do pay taxes, they are part of the landscape you hear them, see them, you go to the restaurants but there was never anything you would really in depth identify or engage with them or something would see about them or kind of a fantasy someone who you know but it was never such a creation so how did you do it how did it really work from in the rehearsal room how was it written on a computer videotaped, what did you guys do it was written by Nekati and it was during a workshop phase which he did also with other with other playwrights and all of those plays actually then were published and done somewhere so it was highly productive Gorky had a group of writers of writers and and every one of them has written a play about about exile and they were all stage some even other cities so not only at Gorky but there was a Syrian playwright there was a woman, a very very talented woman who was born in an Iranian prison which she realized much later and she actually done a documentary movie now about that also about this story and one of the Berlinale highly prestigious prize and she's written it in Nekati started to write this first part this site A and then the chiefs of the theater liked it and said well then write the site B and then he's written the site B and also added this history of his father he's he composed it the way these wonderful colleagues just read it but when we tried to stage it then we realized oh it's so tough because it has so little scenes in that so and then if you start and then all of a sudden there's a choir of people or why does he say that now and so Nekati gave us the possibility, the author of completely rearranging stuff what we did on stage it looked like we have one deserted kind of room and there's just one guy basically sitting there and everything else comes out of his mind so we experimented a lot with movements which are looped so the same thing like he reloops his own biography and the bodies on stage like move in loops and then all of a sudden a scene kind of emerges from that but just a small part of the scene and then it goes fade again or that he rewinds it again and says okay so this bitch slap from his sister to his mother and then he's just saying yeah rewind that again see it again so having this Arda character of somebody who really also acknowledges in this remembrance of his traumas or what he has seen and then the second part we try to do it like a shitty La La Land kind of musical that he tries to stage it and say okay okay okay so I'm sorry I'm sorry this whole thing went completely out of hand and I don't want to be angry because this is actually a love story so now we'll make it a love story and then people try to come there and have like really like a deformed kind of musical like a crippled musical which doesn't work and when he tries to stage that and to say so and now and they look at each other and the mother says oh no I'm sorry I'm just looking because I don't have my glasses on I'm too vain to put them on and he says what the fuck it doesn't matter just stand there just you know get in touch with him why and constantly trying also when the father is trying to speak being like so really that this act of creation of creating a play is actually the only chance of getting in touch with the father and of interviewing him and to say well who did come to this wedding who did come here and having so we try to really have have a you know scenic design for that which is not in the play we try to make it with how we construct the play on stage and that this is actually everything which he says to his own father which is strange because his own father appears as a character on stage but still to have him trying like yeah this is how I imagine it this is how I imagine you to be this is how I imagine how you met because I just don't know so nobody told me the invisible father almost like a Hamlet theme you know what do you do where you are in the staging of exile is in such a complex story I think this is truly a significant also for Germans who are kind of mostly used of stories that come out of the Holocaust or writers were to leave and but to say now also to see a representation in a complex manner you know of what they as you said Turkish you know immigrant but they might not even suspect such a complex back story so I think it was a fantastic addition to that experience and in defense of Germany people said there are so many problems here they took over over one million people from Syria I think the US took two thousand or three thousand yes of course their problems of course there are things to deal with but also because they did that so I think it country won't get the respect perhaps for that what it deserves but I would like to mention that we have time for one or two questions a little bit over time at 6 30 the next thing starts but still I would like to ask it there a comment take the mic because we are recording how were the choral unison text sequences staged in at the Gorky we took them completely out they were gone they were gone because because we realized that they're there they work on the table read but then if you really start to start rehearsing because that really did the difficult part and is that he's written a play which is basically meant to be heard and not seen so that so you spoke so I spoke it and I try to to make it that it's a personal thing of of yeah bam nice you see that nice and so on and so on so this is what we tried to do then because we thought oh this we then completely this is what we found and we actually found it maybe three or four days before opening night that with that it works that it works if you have an emotional you know an emotional center with an emotional overcoming his inner flaw of being angry at his father and then through this scenic process being able to talk with them and that this whole thing this last thing also what you heard the text of the father when he says it put it as a question by Arda and to have this this father like figure on stage and to ask him why the fuck did you leave why was it was it so you thought that you should just answer me just answer me but he doesn't answer and then the father is left alone and so it's kind of an inversion so that the whole story told by Arda's perspective about the father is now in the father's head imagining his son asking those questions and so we thought that for the scene it's much more you know it's it could be more emotionally touching for the audience to really to really have one single person telling that then a choir which is artistically masterfully done especially in German where he really he really did did a very rhythmical highly rhythmical very very well composed text but then when you put it on stage you kind of feel okay so now you listen for like 30 minutes or 40 minutes of this text but you don't feel anything how long did you rehearse it as a choir before you cut it quite long I also tried to have this written the rhythmical thing for maybe two or three or four weeks and then and then even other things which we I mean basically I had to push the director of stage like 10 minutes before the audience got in on opening night and just to see you could just get the fuck down I'll do it I'll do something with that we really really had to juggle it with that. Another question comment yeah. I'm so glad to hear you speak Dimitri because this actually is the continuation of the play and the clarification I found the choir to be quite distracting so I'm glad to hear that that was I have a question about the audience especially the German audience what their response was when they saw something that gave them an insight into maybe the Turkish experience or the other immigrant experiences. Well first of all in general it's very interesting to have not only with this play but with many plays that people describe it sometimes that just getting robbed of your of your white privilege so to hear stories you don't understand to hear words you don't understand and also like this beautiful words when he says migration deficit so being in an audience but being treated not like you know like Turkish people or Russian people have been treated by Germany like to say well you know you're kind of a bit stupid you don't know how it works here but it's not made for you you're excluded and the white audience being excluded and of course for the smarter audience it has this interesting effect of okay now it's not about me it's about somebody else it's a perspective which doesn't refer to my perspective and so some people describe it as a quite revealing effect of feeling powerless and feeling stupid of not knowing history of not knowing the perspective of another person and some people don't get it and they just say I don't get it someone said that last night and I think it's an important comment he said when I go to the Gorky as a white whatever I'm in the minority I'm not fit I don't fit in everybody is from somewhere your question LGBT whatever I'm not it's the only time say it's a good thing but it's a theater where you realize there's a different world out there yes and some even react aggressive to that so they say why do you always need to you know about exile and about other I mean why don't you make a piece about German history and everybody else does it go to any other theater but it's really sometimes very very interesting how this being robbed of your privilege of you know of your supremacy gets people really really pissed off and then you can just you know try to in a discussion to point it another way and to say well now you see how those people who now have a stage felt their entire life of not being taking serious or feeling inferior to a culture which is presented to them as well this is the leading culture and if you don't get it you're out or the drama the narrative is never connected to the experience of their life one last comment or thought Jim this has been a really amazing three days because I feel like I just had this immersion in knowing so much more about the Gorky even though I've been there in person a number of times one thing that I'm trying to grapple with a little bit is but I'm beginning to understand is that the impetus for the shows and coming from a wide variety of cultures is that primarily coming from the writer like as it and if that's so what is the case with actors who are not of that culture such as yourself playing the Turkish role is that is there any form of what in this country we're kind of bollocks about cultural appropriation and saying we should have that yes of course this is something which we deal with and which we try to find forms with if I'm playing the character who but he's a Turkish character and how can we do that that I don't just speak stupid Turkish words but that you try to find cynic solutions for for example in this case there was the scene when father and mother meet and and both are played by Turkish actors but I'm not Turkish so they start the scene in Turkish and I'm kind of like translating it like like you know like DVD commentary and then after sometimes just say okay I don't even speak Turkish I'm sorry so they are also going to continue now in German so that you have to be quite open about that and that it's a very very slippery slope with being authentic with some things and not crossing and then really not crossing the line but still being able to perform some some different things and I think you can go quite far with adapting to another like but but not commit cultural appropriation but so so this is not so black and white that only you know only Germans should play Germans and only Turkish people should play Turkish people me as a Soviet Russian can play a Turkish guy but you have to be very conscious about that and and to communicate it with the audience who is not stupid and in other cases it's really great if you have an afro-german actor who just plays a white man's role but just you know without any comment which is then great to have this kind of you know reverse cultural appropriation which has a good effect so there is no black and white in that but maybe more than 50 shades of gray and I think the great thing is it's obvious it's open it's kind of made part of the play is the theme the differences and if they are not all the answers it's it's visible what normally often is so invisible or ignored as Broadway was the famous Aladdin movie Aladdin musical and not one performer and nobody in the entire creative cast was part of the Arab-American world so it would be interesting to see what would Gorky ensemble do with the music and text from the Aladdin musical I would love to see that again thank you for coming here way over time and I'll see you right away with it really second and just thank you all and thank you everyone