A Dozen children, the youngest only 10 years old, stand,^ waiting nervously, in a circle in a dimly lit room. In one corner, a wall is covered with drawings of hearts, flowers and the Earth as seen from outer space. The air is charged with anticipation as drama teacher Abdelfattah Abu-Srour enters the room and takes a seat at the front.

This modest room, with its peeling paint and door frames askew, is the heart of Al-Rowwad Cultural and Theatre Training Center in Aida Refugee Camp, near Bethlehem on the West Bank. The children attending classes here come from all backgrounds and income brackets; some young girls are veiled and modestly dressed, others sport tight jeans and long, loose hairstyles, yet all share the same sense of displacement, living in a temporary environment, threatened daily by the looming presence of the Israeli ‘separation wall’ just meters from Al-Rowwad itself.

Under the calm, watchful eye of Abu-Srour, the children have found a theatrical outlet for their frustrations and anxieties, learning to channel and express their feelings onstage. They are currently rehearsing personal monologues, which will form part of the play History of Palestine that they will be taking on the road this summer to France and Belgium. For many of the kids, it will be the first time they leave their camp, let alone their homeland, and all are anxious to be chosen for the project.

In the center of the room, Jihad, the first contestant, composes himself. His easygoing smile fades and darkens, and the children look on intently. An aspect of deep concentration and focus emerges as he pours forth his story. He tells of how one day, while playing in the street, Israeli army jeeps entered Aida camp, and he and his friends began to throw stones. The soldiers fired back, and when Jihad looked around, he found his friend Salah had been shot. The children took Salah to the hospital where he soon died of his wounds. It was, he says, at that moment that he decided to stop throwing stones, and begin a different, peaceful, form of resistance through theater.

At the end of the monologue, Jihad grins, shrugs his shoulders modestly and takes his place in the circle. Abu-Srour nods thoughtfully and, after a moment of silence, launches into critical yet gentle feedback, patiently explaining dramatic concepts. “Your turn,” he says to another child and the process begins again.

Over the next hour, each of the assembled children unravels a personal tale of life under occupation. All the classes are conducted by volunteer teachers in various cramped compartments of the center.

Despite the sad stories rolling off the children’s tongues and the cramped, uninspiring surroundings, the atmosphere is one of happiness, professionalism and release.

“I come here because I love theater,” says 13-year-old Husam, “and because I want us to represent our situation here in Palestine to the rest of the world. I feel excited when I’m acting.” In a place where children have no other outlet — no playground, cinema or youth clubs — Al-Rowwad’s theater activities are not only a welcome form of recreation, but a necessary one.

“We can’t go on vacations or even visit Jerusalem,” notes 13-year-old Bouthaina, “so I come here to express what’s inside of me. And doing a play about ourselves is better than reading from a prepared text, because if we just did that, all these feelings would stay inside and not be able to come out.”

Amazingly, few of the children seem shy at the prospect of performing in front of an international audience this summer.

“Sure, it’s hard the first time you have to get up in front of a crowd of people,” says 17-year-old Mohamed, “but you get used to it, and it becomes easy when you’re showing others how we live. Theater for us is a kind of resistance — a beautiful resistance. We can’t resist the Israeli occupation in any other way, because we’re only children. But this way, we can express our anger, our hurt and really explain to people who we are.

“I prefer,” he adds, “pretending to throw stones on stage to really throwing stones at soldiers.”

As the session comes to an end and Abu-Srour issues pointers and reminders for next week’s rehearsal, the kids pour out to the center’s tiny courtyard, where the scent of cherry blossoms fills the air and a small lemon tree is already studded with fruit. Abu-Srour steps out for a breath of fresh air, and gestures around him.

“It’s very crowded here,” he explains apologetically, “We have classes all day and then a parents’ meeting this afternoon.” An elderly woman approaches, and pulls a handful of small, intricately embroidered purses from her bag for Abu-Srour to examine.

“This is part of the women’s job creation project,” he says, turning a purse over in his hands. “One of the other things we’re trying to do here.”

Currently, Al-Rowwad Center operates in two small buildings that were originally owned by Abu-Srour and his family, but that have been dedicated to the center since 1998. At press time, Al-Rowwad was scheduled to move to larger, purpose-built premises, funded partly by donations, and by a grant from the United Nations Volunteers Program.

“There are about 4,500 people living in the camp,” explains Abu-Srour as we head toward the building site on which the new center is underway. “And 66 percent of them are under 18. Last year, more than 1,500 people benefited from the work of Al-Rowwad, including Palestinians who come here from neighboring camps like Al’Aza.”

The new center will include a multipurpose hall on the ground level, “for use as a rehearsal space, but also as a community hall for locals, as they have nowhere to meet at the moment.” The upper floors — of which only two of a planned four have been completed — will house offices, editing suites for sound and animation, language labs and a library, among other facilities.

Abu-Srour surveys the piles of stones and sand that surround the half-finished building. This French-educated professor, who returned to his home in 1994 after nine years studying in Europe, remains positive and committed to his cause. et