"We're still here!"

Interview by Jess Smee

Mr. Chahrour, how was the premiere of your new play “When I Saw the Sea” in Beirut?

Until just before the show began, we didn't even know if it would take place at all. There were many bombings in May, and it was unclear whether anyone would come to the performance at all — or if my team would be safe. That's the everyday reality in this city, but we continue to work, day after day. The uncertainty is exhausting. Nothing can be taken for granted here in Beirut, especially not art. Gathering people together in a theater is political. It is an act of resistance. I don't know how to fight, but I know how to dance. That's my way of surviving and showing that we are still here.

What role does culture play right now in Libanon?

It is very important, but conditions in the country remain difficult. Ten years ago, Beirut had around twenty theaters. Today, because of the war, we only have three. The situation is even worse when it comes to rehearsal spaces. And yet culture remains vital: art, music, and dance bring people together. They keep alive the stories of those who have been silenced or denied justice. Through theater and dance, we can rewrite the history of these people and honor their memory. Nowadays, people don't buy theater tickets in advance — out of fear that they might not be able to go because of a bomb attack. Here, nothing's planned: everything happens at short notice. And yet lots of our dance events have been sold out.

“The idea came to me during the war Israel waged against Lebanon in 2024. When the bombs fell, many Lebanese fled, leaving their domestic workers behind—without passports, without money, and without shelter. Some of these migrants were literally stranded by the sea, completely on their own.”

In “When I Saw the Sea,” you tell the story of migrants who were stranded in Lebanon during the war in 2024. What inspired you to write this piece?

The idea came to me during the war Israel waged against Lebanon in 2024. When the bombs fell, many Lebanese fled, leaving their domestic workers behind. These women were stuck, without passports, without money, and without shelter. Some of these migrants were literally stranded by the sea, completely on their own. We came across a video that moved us deeply: a woman who smiled despite everything. She said she was seeing the sea for the first time. That image—that pure joy amid the horror — stuck with me. My assistant director and I began researching the kafala system – a modern form of slavery that is widespread in the Middle East. We wanted to give the people affected a voice on stage. Together with three Ethiopian women, two of whom are migrant workers themselves, we developed the play. Their stories reflect those of thousands who are trapped in the same situation.

You often work with amateur performers. Why?

Their movements are raw, in a way, and not influenced by any kind of training — this brings with it a special kind of honesty, an unfiltered emotionality. For me as a choreographer, this has great power. Everyone has their own story and their own unique movements. They are organic, in a sense. Professional dancers often find it more difficult to express themselves in this way.

And how does this collaboration in practice?

Each person brings their own life experiences and way of moving to the stage. Trained dancers can hardly imitate that. In an earlier piece I made, for example, my cousin, who worked as a professional mourner, was on the stage. After hundreds of funerals, she carried the certain movements and deep emotions within her. Her simple gestures were full of feeling The three women in my last piece also each had their own unique, unmistakable way of moving. Sometimes their movements seemed closed and stiff — an expression of their inner detachment from pain. An essential part of my work is to make people feel safe so that they can embrace their own way of moving. Only then can I begin the choreography.

What role does your childhood play in your work?

I come from a Shiite community and have experienced the Ashura rituals: ten days of communal mourning, storytelling, singing, and movement. This had a profound effect on me — even though I no longer practice any religion today. The rituals showed me how simple, repetitive movements can express grief. It's about solidarity without words. In my work, I try to express this emotional intensity and the slowing down of time, and to give the audience space to really see and feel. In everyday life, we rarely take the time to look our loved ones in the eyes, to look at them or touch them. By slowing down, we show on stage what really matters.

Does this portrayal also work in Europe? Are you seen differently there?

I don't believe in rigid categories. We are all human beings, we share feelings – even if our experiences are different. A local audience may react differently than an international one, but the intimacy and sincerity that characterize my performances touch people everywhere. Yes, I work with Arabic music and themes from the Middle East, but I don't allow myself and my team to be reduced to clichés. My pieces are not “exotic.” Some people believe that my work must inevitably be about war – simply because of my origins. But my work is about people – not political headlines.