Yaa Samar! Dance Theatre
Gathering

On Palestinian Culture
There’s a generational aspect to gathering that I wanted to explore, especially in the Palestinian context. Here, in Palestine, joyous events like weddings or harvests, or the forced incarceration of children and elders alike, illustrate that no one is spared from the checkpoints, separation, or violence. This sense of chosen or forced unity across generations—the collective experience of a people—is something I wanted to reflect in Gathering. It’s not just about the moment; it’s about the history that led to that moment.

On Audience Participation
From the very beginning, audience participation was a core element of the work. I wanted to create a space where the audience could choose how it engaged with the performance—whether as active participants or as witnesses. Both roles are equally valid, and in fact, most of us navigate between these roles in life. The idea was that the audience’s choices could shape the outcome of the performance, just as the performers’ choices could alter the course of the piece.

On the Symbol of Oranges

When Ra’ss-Ennkoura appeared, the car stopped. The women came down from among the belongings and went to a farmer who was squatting in front of a basket of oranges. They picked up the oranges, and we heard them lamenting. At that moment I realized that oranges are something precious, and that they are dear to our hearts. The women bought the fruits and went back to the car. Your father stretched out his arm, took an orange, stared at it silently, then burst into tears, just like a miserable, little child.

We were heaped up there, withdrawn from our childhood, away from the land of oranges… oranges that died, an old farmer once told us, if watered by strange hands.”

—The Sad Oranges
Ghassan Kanafani

Symbols hold even more meaning when you’ve been forced to abandon them. But this wasn’t just a symbol; it was a staple, a pillar of livelihood for so many Palestinians. When this source of livelihood was taken away due to forced expulsion during the Nakba in 1948, the orange became a powerful symbol. It holds memories, the hard work, the strength of the soil, the sun’s warmth. As a fruit, it represents both the individual and the collective. It’s unique in that you don’t need a knife to separate it into parts, yet it still retains its essence. In a way, it serves as a metaphor for a dispersed people, scattered into individual parts but still part of a whole, preserving their collective essence. Sometimes sweet, sometimes sour, even bitter—it’s juicy and full of life. From the beginning, I knew the orange would be at the forefront. It’s risky to use a single object to carry so many meanings, but the orange represents livelihood, community, individuals, respect, history, land, unity, and fragmentation. It has so many layers of symbolism that it made sense to use it differently.

On the Symbol of the Ostrich
Another major symbol in the piece is the ostrich. I’ve always been fascinated by this bird. There’s so much written about ostriches throughout history—how they were revered at times, and later, in texts like the Old Testament and New Testament, almost looked down upon. The Arabian ostrich is the only species of ostrich that has gone extinct, which adds to its symbolism. It’s one of the few birds that cannot fly, despite its massive wingspan and incredible ability to run at high speeds. In Gathering, the ostrich became a kind of persona throughout the work, representing the tension between great potential and imposed limitations.

On the Use of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons
Early on, Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons was swirling around in my mind. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, but I think the obvious connection was in the repetitive cycles of war. No matter how many examples there are of the devastation of war, it still continues, imposed upon so many people and communities around the world. This cycle of war feels relentless, like the seasons. But while the seasons are explained scientifically—the Earth’s axial tilt and orbit around the Sun bring about spring, summer, autumn, and winter—war’s cycles seem driven by human forces, often greed and power. For agricultural communities, like in Palestine, the seasons mark significant changes: in the fall, apples in the north and olives across the region; in winter, citrus; in spring, apricots and cherries. The markets and landscapes shift colors with the seasons. In times of war, these seasonal changes gain new significance. And with climate change and increasingly extreme weather, there’s a growing impact—severe cold, severe heat—which becomes dire for those living with minimal shelter, for many a simple sheet of thin plastic. Winter used to mean gathering in small rooms, sharing warmth, stories, and tea; the time when our lands would finally drink and our plants would grow. During war, it’s an additional obstacle between life and death.

On the Current Political Context
October 7, 2023 changed everything. The mass murder, the violence—it all hit hard. Gaza has been under siege since 2007, and the West Bank occupied since 1967. The Nakba in 1948, when over 800,000 Palestinians fled their homes—my family among them—is still fresh in the memories of our parents and grandparents. Our orange groves abandoned, never to be ours again. What’s happening now is just a continuation of that history. It’s impossible to make art in a vacuum, and this context inevitably colors the work.

In the face of mass destruction, it’s the simple things that haunt me. The dreams that are stolen in war. Israa’s story reflects that—the small, everyday dreams that get lost. As a creator, I have to know what the work is about. I have to tell a story. And that story, for me, is about resilience and joy. Despite the horrors, these characters keep going. That resilience is not just part of this piece—it’s part of the Palestinian spirit.
—Samar Haddad King