2. Clown workshop. Turkey, Istanbul, Tiyatro Boyalı Kuş.

3. “Gender aware acting”-workshop. Turkey, Istanbul, Tiyatro Boyalı Kuş.

4. “Gender aware acting”-workshop. Sweden, Göteborg, Kulturkraft Väst.

Sedan 2005 har jag haft privilegiet att då och då resa ut i världen med Clowner utan Gränser. Det har inneburit att jag med egna ögon sett att det inte finns någon rättvisa för de fattiga. Jag har sett hur mänskliga rättigheter snabbt berövas dem som flyr ett krig. Jag har märkt att yttrandefrihet ofta saknas av dem som också saknar hopp om framtiden.

Den här stafetten, som jag fått äran att föra vidare, handlar om yttrandefrihet.

Jag tänker på de 15-åriga killarna jag pratade med efter en clownföreställning på en dammig fotbollsplan i Kiziba Refugee Camp, högt upp på en av Rwandas gröna kullar. Långt i öster skymtade Kongo, som killarnas föräldrar en gång flytt. Killarna själva var födda i lägret. Flyktingskapet var deras identitet. De var smala och undernärda, men de fick mat varje dag, om än enahanda. De talade riktigt bra engelska och nån talade visst franska också. Sjukvården i lägret var bättre än i de rwandiska byarna runtomkring. Men de här killarna hade inget hopp om sin framtid. De var helt isolerade från omvärlden. Till Kongo kunde de inte återvända, ens om det vore fredligt där, för de hade inga kunskaper som skulle hålla dem vid liv i en sådan miljö. Rwanda ville inte ha dem. Det fanns inte internet i lägret och resan ner till närmaste uppkopplade by var ganska lång och ingen hade pengar att betala vare sig transport eller avgifter. Så de lever i ett vakuum, överlever, men för vad? En isborr av hopplöshet i bröstet. Sorgsna leenden, försök av vara glada och nyfikna på oss besökare, spår av stolthet. Trötthet.

Men vi andra kan föra dessa barns talan. Vi kan veta att de finns där, i lägren, på barnhemmen, i slummen. Vi kan åberopa deras rättigheter och kräva att de ges en chans till liv.

Igår var jag på Transgender day of remembrance, på Teater Pero i Stockholm. Där fanns många goda exempel på överlevnad i en fientligt sinnad värld. Där påmindes också om dem som förlorats på vägen, som dödats av andras hat, eller av egen smärta. Tillsammans ritar offren upp ett tydligt mönster av förtryck, från osynliggörande i historieundervisning, till förlöjliganden i offentligheten, till okunskap hos eliten, till våldet på gatan.

De osynligas frihet att yttra sig behöver mer än rättsligt stöd för att garanteras. Den vars erfarenhet aldrig efterfrågas - eftersom den så länge förnekats, patologiserats, förlöjligats - behöver först få höra att den alls finns. Den unga transpersonen och den som fötts, växt upp och förväntar sig att dö i ett flyktingläger, delar ibland samma tystnad. Så kan det förbli, om inte vi använder våra röster till att säga: ”Jag ser dig. Jag undrar hur du har det. Tala, så ska jag göra din stämma hörd!”

Vilka äger medierna…

På Teater Pero spelade duon Hängslena brinner en låt om det bruna Europa, det högerextrema Europa, som blint för historien hatar sig fram mot makten. Framträdandet fick mig att undra varför vi inte ser mer protester mot högerextremism i svensk television. Varför spelas inte sådana här låtar i Gokväll? Är det så långt från mainstream att kritisera nynazister, att det blir ”för politiskt” för att höras i mainstream-media? Eller har vår yttrandefrihet mist sitt värde, när ingen längre yttrar sig på ett sätt som innebär minsta ekonomisk eller karriärmässig risk. Vad gör journalisterna och de som äger medierna? Vad gör vi som mediekonsumenter?

Detta blogginlägg ingår i Amnestys bloggstafett om yttrandefrihet som genomförs som en del av Amnestys kampanj Skriv för livet. Mer information om bloggstafetten, Skriv för livet och Amnestys arbete för yttrandefrihet hittar du här: www.amnesty.se/bloggstafett

Nu lämnar jag över stafettpinnen till Marian Bergroth som bloggar på adressen http://www.fulldelaktighet.nu. Jag hoppas vi blir många som kommit i mål den 10 december som är dagen för mänskliga rättigheter!

Under 2010 dödades 9 transpersoner i Turkiet. Hittills i år har 8 dödats. Hatbrott. Tystnad. Skam. Scum.

This was the 10th Human Rights Forum (MR-dagarna) in Stockholm. In one of the first years, I participated with the kids from Kunq, who appeared as cross-dressed catering staff, as a reminder of LGBTQ-people. This year I participated as MC for the opening- and closing events, and for the entertainment during the dinner. I wore a simple rainbow badge, but it meant a lot to me. In the UN declaration of human rights, from 1948, there is no mentioning of sexual identity, etc, and the family is called “…the natural and fundamental group unit of society…”. A rainbow still means a lot. It’s not like I saw anybody else with a LGBTQ-symbol, those days.

I would like to write more about the pros and cons of being an openly non-straight (theatre-) person in Stockholm, but it is so difficult to know A) how people perceive me and B) how much of that has to do with my sexual identity. I do know that if I had lived in a straight relationship for several years, my life would be very different.

Most of all, during this forum, I represented Clowns without Borders, of course. Had I had more time on stage I would have liked to share some stories from the expeditions. The theme for the forum was migration, citizenship, and the question if human rights are without borders. When going to areas of crisis, like the refugee camps in Dadaab, Kenya, or Moldovan orphanages, it is obvious that there are few rights for the poor.

Upp på scenen!

För fyra år sedan spelade jag några texter av David Cale, med titeln “Djupt i en dröm om dig”. Nu har jag skrivit till några egna texter, inspirerade av Cales, och anlitat gitarristen Erik Hansson. Tillsammans gör vi nu föreställningen

Berättelser från stranden - ett solo om att hålla sig flytande.

Scen: Bryggan, Stockholms Stadsteater

Tid: Tor 4 aug kl 17.00, fre 5 aug kl 21.00. (Kom i god tid, då det är fri entre och inget bokningssystem!)

Ministry of Youth

A meeting room with tables placed in a square, advisors to the Minister behind their laptops (which they frequently attend to) and us (Clowns without Borders, Sweden) promoting the Gisenyi Acrobats, so that their organisation may get a higher formal status as official partner to the ministry. (The Minister herself attends a cabinet meeting with the President, at Hotel Serena in Gisenyi, where we had breakfast last week.)

The meeting seems to be a successful starting point for work on a higher level, for our friends. At the same time, the Rwandan administration is slowly starting to value sport and cultural activities for it’s youth as important for the development of a country. My amateur opinion is that economic growth in this country, to lead to anything for the individual citizens, must be accompanied by cultural development, even if that will create bumps in the road for the politicians. Freedom of speech and mind, expressions of individuality with solidarity, not patriotism, is what builds a sustainable Rwanda.

Gihembe and Nyabiheke

My teacher-college Nalle leads the tour to two more refugee camps for Congolese people, Gihembe and Nyabiheke. I stay behind for meetings and curing sun-stroke.

The group, I am told, is met by thousands of kids, immediately surrounding them as they exit the bus. The first show is chaotic, with the usual upsetting scenes of grownups with sticks, beating small children to control the crowd. But at the same time there is enough positive excitement in the crowd to give them positive memories and inspiration for months to come. Months, by the way, where the camp most likely will have no visitors, except from the people working there.

For the show in the second camp, the group is better prepared and has adjusted the show to fit this kind of crowd. The students are happy and I think a little bit proud of their accomplishments of the day. Nalle reminds them that we are sometimes attempting the impossible, when performing in these situations, with the small resources we have. The attempt, the mere being there, the caring, is a lot of the times half the accomplishment.

Huge dams of frustration are building up in camps like this, around the world. We are but a safety valve of laughter.

Kiziba Camp for Congolese refugees sits on a hill just below one of Rwanda’s highest points. It overlooks lake Kiwu, shining like silver far below. This is one of the more stunningly beautiful camp locations I’ve seen, for children with an unusually good primary school education, a little bit of food, some healthcare, and no hope for the future.

Beyond Lake Kiwu, the “Democratic” Republic of Congo, where this very day there was an attempt to shoot President Kabila. No one knows how these developments of the Congolese crisis will affect the future of the children in our audience.

We set up stage at a muddy football field, just below the nursery school, and place the rented generator far away enough not to let it’s noise disturb the show. A big blue snake of 3-5 year-olds crawls down the hillside. The children orderly but playfully march with exaggerated, military arm movements, and are carefully seated on the ground around our roped-off playing area. These kids are amazed and puzzled more that entertained, and the clowns are struggling to get the kind of laughing response they are trying to get used to. But during and after the show there is a feeling of comfort and cosiness in and around the audience, and there are many meetings and touches and curious smiles. Some poor and really dirty kids from the neighbouring Rwandan village drop in and sit next to the uniformed refugees. They share language, as all these children are born here, but there are strong outside forces dividing them, when it comes to legal status. Who is better off? That’s a difficult one. Poverty doesn’t allow for more freedom than the freedom attained in a refugee camp. Anyway, some freedom of mind may be reached, and hopefully our visit is an aid to such development of young minds.

After lunch we perform another show at the same place; this time for 6-7 year-olds, who come tumbling onto the field, some yelling “Circus!” and doing cartwheels. These are about 800, but we manage to seat them well on three sides of a big square. I walk around and pull kids who sit on their heals, to a butt-sitting position, which makes it more difficult for them to suddenly stand up and block the view for the ones behind. If that happens, the audience will most definitely start to move forward and especially with larger and older audiences, you’ll be in a potentially dangerous situation. But this show goes really well, with “Ahhhh!”s and “Ohhh!”s and clapping. Especially older kids who drop in after school, laugh at the clown-skits and magic-tricks. The Gisenyi Acrobats, as always, do a great job and bring down applause after applause.

Today I do the same mistake as always, and get carried away by playing with kids, after the shows. I run in the sun on high altitude, and meet and greet hundreds of kids and youth. I do “stupid human tricks” and partner acrobatics, I let them touch my skin in amazement, I have conversations about the world and nothing, I chase the ones who want to be chased and hug the hugy ones. In the evening I collapse in my bed, feeling nauseous and realise this was but one day in a camp-environment - the only place these kids know. But the work that is offered to me in these places is obviously very important, as it is given to me directly by some of the most vulnerable children in the world. I feel incredible privilidged and grateful to be able to perform such tasks, litterally on top of the world.

I didn’t know volcanoes glow in the dark, but crossing the bumpy lake Kiwu, on our way home from the prison island Iwawa, the pinkish cloud above the summit navigated us back to Gisenyi town. It rained, but the old passenger boat had a wooden roof. Water splashed from the side in our faces, and I lent a pair of warm socks to the youngest of the acrobats girls - a bit worried by the crossing, but courageous - for them to wipe their faces with, sock on hand.

I bet Nicolas Niyongabo, the 32 year old coordinator of this Rwandan “correction facility” on Iwawa never red Richard Burroughs’s A clockwork orange, as he then wouldn’t be so un-conflicted in his praise of the efforts of the Rwandan state to rehabilitate it’s young former street kids and drug-abusers.

Boys in their late teens and early twenties, sitting in tight rows on a dusty hillside, waiting for the sign to enter the kitchen hall, where they get their plate of beans and maize, parading out on the other side, to another slope and there quickly eating it, before returning to the big opening where we will perform our second show of the day. I see boys pulling down their beige uniform pants below their butts as they bend to sit, not as a fashion statement, but as a result of getting less trouble if their underpants are dusty, rather than the uniform. Focus here is on discipline, and there is a hierarchal system within the 1600 head “student” body, creating some self control. Some boys wear vests, other carry sticks, presumably as signs of their position in the pecking order.

Few text about Rwanda, written by a western pen during the last 16 years, omits the word genocide. In this text those crimes against humanity, committed in Rwanda in the 90’s, come in as part of an explanation of the Rwandan restrictions of freedom of the press and other signs of dictatorship. The genocide seems to excuse or justify the president’s control of the country. It mustn’t happen again. There is need for stability and economic growth. Drug abuse must be fought with great effort. But who draws the line between need for control and the rights of the individual?

According to staff on Iwawa, there are no ways to appeal if you’ve for instance been falsely accused of a crime and sent to the island. This one year old institution is no exception: There is no justice for the poor. But for some of the more ghost-like boys, Iwawa most likely has saved their lives. They are fed, taught basic skills, and perhaps they can form a positive identity as citizens, not outcast. But the horrors of imprisonment and repression are lurking under the surface. What kind of monsters may come out of that? In about six months the first group of inmates are released and reinstalled into society, I was told. Hopefully the Rwandan system will have enough strength to welcome them back.

On the wall of the acrobats’ house in Gisenyi, there is a cooking schedule, beside a comic strip telling the story about Elisée’s forming of the group, the meeting with Swedish artists Camilla Rud and Karin Svensson from Clowns without Borders and the bright future of these former street kids. Here we see great poverty and despair turned into milder poverty and hope, solidarity and safety. The acrobatics training, on a high international level, is the tool for development. The care for the smallest runs through everything this collective does.

To be continued…

From the Stockholm City Theatre in Skärholmen, the artistic director Carolina Frände, sent out an invitation to participate in a “Political party”, creating a performance with political overtones in the form of a party. I decided this was a good opportunity to put me and my sister in the limelight. This was in December 2010.

My older sister, Helena Bravo, is an extraordinary woman and physically disabled from birth. She’s diagnosed with cerebral palsy (CP) and uses an electric wheelchair to move around.

I wrote a scene for three actors, one being Helena as someone with CP, to be performed on the “clown stage” at the theatre, as it has a soft floor. The scene takes place just as Helena and her assistant (me), meets with a representative of the social authorities, who’s job it is to evaluate disabled people’s need of personal assistance. The rep. asks questions, more and more absurd in their details, about Helena’s daily life, e.g. toilet habits, eating methods, ways of putting on clothes, etc. She ends with a question about Helena’s ability to stand up, which is met by dumb staring from both of us. Finally Helena agrees to demonstrate her standing abilities and with my help unbuckles from the chair and puts weight on her legs, me holding her upright, which is a somewhat heavy and potentially dangerous undertaking. The rep. is ready with a stop-watch, we count to three and I let go of Helena for half a second and then hold her again. The rep. takes notes. The evaluation is over and the rep. prepares Helena that because of her standing ability, the number of hours she can get personal assistance may decrease, the most important thing being that no-one gets an unfairly big amount of help. This is when Helena loses it. She screams and falls out against the other woman, who backs off. I struggle to hold her. Helena roars with sounds previously unheard on a stage. I can’t hold her anymore and lay her down on the floor and back off, embarrassed. The audience had giggled up to then, more and more uneasily. Now it is very quiet. Helena, a 45 year old woman, unable to help herself in any way, is left lying on the floor, screaming. She stops screaming, breathes heavily and rolls to her side, away from the audience. It is quiet.

Workshopen fullbokad, extrastolar insatta och intresserade avvisade i biljettkassan! Det är trevliga nyheter att mötas av vid den slaskiga ankomsten till Riksteatern, en mörk lördagsmorgon.

Varje år fylls Riksteaterns teaterkoloss i Hallunda av folk från hela landet, som ser teater från hela landet, möts på seminarier och workshops. Här firas de triumfer som bara en offentligt finansierad scenkonst kan skörda. Här finns delaktighet med professionalitet, folklighet utan dumhet, konst och demokrati. Det är en stor ära att vara inbjuden.

Gunilla Edemo och jag levererar, med assistans av skådespelarna Klara Bentz och Patrik Pettersson, drygt två timmar av introduktion i tankar och praktiker kring normkritisk scenkonst. Vi presenterar några öppningar.

Gruppen är brokig, med arrangörsföreningsmedlemmar från Jokkmokk, pensionsfähiga teaterchefer och finniga teaterpedagoger.

Vi blandar metodik för skådespelares medvetna val med övningar om normens makt att tolerera med bilder från hbt-teater-separatismens 00-tal. Vi regerar!

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