Photo courtesy of Stages Theatre Group
As part of the Kolamba Kamatha Festival, Stages Theatre Group presented The Children of the Little Olive Park and Patterns of Our Genocides, two powerful plays of remembering, witnessing and refusing to look away.
In Children of the Little Olive Park, playwright Ruwanthi De Chickera distills the complexity of the Palestinian conflict into a powerful parable that speaks with the clarity of a children’s story, yet delivers the emotional weight of lived trauma. In this bold and poignant production, the metaphor of a playground becomes a stage for injustice, resistance and the haunting echoes of generational violence.
The story unfolds through a chorus of actors who command the stage with remarkable physicality and presence. To the side, an acoustic guitarist, wrapped in a shawl strums melodies that shift from contemplative to whimsical to deeply mournful. The live music is more than accompaniment, it’s a voice of its own, underscoring the emotional rhythm of the piece with subtle brilliance.
A visual map of the titular Little Olive Park, shaped like Palestine, becomes a central symbol early in the play. Actors animate the space with playfulness and grace, embodying the children of the park whose days are filled with games, prayers and coexistence. “Time has taught them ways of playing, praying and living together,” the narrator tells us, hinting at a fragile but harmonious world soon to be shattered.
The arrival of children from the Big Park, marked by blue baseball caps, in contrast to the green caps of the Little Park, ushers in the play’s central conflict. Although the Big Park is 300 times larger, its children are relocated to the Little Olive Park, bringing with them toys but no intention to share or integrate. The symbolism is pointed but never heavy-handed as the actors use their bodies, props and expressions to show a slow, painful takeover.
A particularly striking moment comes when stacks of blue toy boxes form ominous walls. “These were dangerous toys,” the narrator warns as the playful tone darkens. On the map, new lines are drawn; boundaries, fences and divisions, mirroring the real world fragmentation of Palestinian land. The olive branch, once a symbol of peace, is “being crushed,” the narrator laments, in a line that lingers long after it’s spoken.
Perhaps the most chilling observation comes in the form of silence: “No adults intervened.” With this, the play confronts the audience with the failures of international response, the inaction of those with power to protect. As dehumanisation creeps in, Little Olive Park children described as animals, the sense of complicity grows.
In a daring break of the fourth wall the actors walk among the audience, asking, “Do you want to be a big toy child?” inviting viewers onto the stage, not just physically, but morally. It’s a call for reflection, for accountability.
The closing moments are haunting. The ensemble repeats, “This is not the end of this story.” It’s not just a refrain but a warning, a reminder, a plea. With its simple metaphors and unflinching honesty, Children of the Little Olive Park forces us to see the conflict not through headlines but through the eyes of children, where the stakes are innocence, identity and survival.
The second play, Patterns of Our Genocides, is a searing, poetic and profoundly emotional work of political theatre that cuts through the noise of distant headlines to reveal the raw human cost of genocide. Co-written by Ali Johar and Amal de Chickera, the play is framed as a letter from a young Rohingya refugee to a friend trapped in Gaza. What unfolds is not only a deeply personal narrative but a broader meditation on the recurring patterns of violence, displacement and erasure that have marked both Rohingya and Palestinian histories.
Ali Johar, a Rohingya refugee and human rights activist, brings lived experience to the script. As the co-founder of the Rohingya Human Rights Initiative and the Rohingya Literacy Program, Johar’s work is grounded in advocacy, education and survival. His voice imbues the script with a rare authenticity, this is not just a performance; it is a lived truth.
The piece begins with Murthaaz Barry lying face down on the stage. As he rises, his words break the silence: “It looks like hell on earth, bombs and guns, torture, starvation, dead bodies on roads and under rubble.” From this opening line, the audience is plunged into a world of visceral suffering made even more poignant by Barry’s calm yet emotionally loaded delivery.
Behind Barry, shadowy figures dressed in black move in synchronisation, embodying the violence and memories he recounts. Their silent, choreographed movements act not merely as background but as a visual echo of trauma, ghosts of a shared past and present.
The script, rich with historical and political resonance, draws chilling parallels between the Rohingya genocide and the ongoing Palestinian struggle. Barry’s monologue is filled with painful juxtapositions: “Your October 7th is our August 25th, 2017.” He recounts the slaughter of over 30,000 Rohingya in Myanmar, likening it to the tragedy in Gaza. He reminds us that both peoples were rendered stateless through partition, Palestine and Arakan (now Rakhine State) splintered in 1948 in acts of colonial and nationalist violence.
As the play progresses, Barry’s tone shifts from mournful reflection to contained rage. The poetry becomes sharper, the phrases more urgent. “They now call us illegal immigrants in our own land,” he says, calling out the dehumanisation and apartheid structures that both peoples endure. Yet amid the grief, there are moments of hope: hand gestures morph into birds of peace and there is mention of the International Court of Justice and the International Criminal Court, small glimmers of accountability in a world that so often looks away.
Patterns of Our Genocides ends with a haunting, heartfelt message: “Hope that after this darkness you will see the light, hope that your story will be different to mine.” It is a benediction, a plea and a warning.
Ultimately, this play is not just a narrative; it is a mirror held up to the world, daring us to see the patterns we too often ignore. It is a love letter, a political act and a powerful reminder that genocide is never just history, it is happening now.