Fire is one of the most magical elements in existence. It is everywhere: in the sky and on the ground, in hearts and in minds, inside and out, in water, in the air and in the soil … It is both divine and demonic. It is between light and dark. It is the source of both life and death. It is a clash. A clash that gave rise to our existence and, simultaneously, the creation of an error.

Mesopotamia is a region where the impact of this clash has been felt most intensely. It is an area where cultures, ideas, faiths, languages, borders and secrets clash. Kurdistan, in particular, has been the backdrop for wars and the clash of civilizations throughout history.Footnote ² The Kurdistan community has always endeavoured to use its relationship with fire as a wellspring of light and enlightenment, but fire has also become a weapon that it has had to use against the brutality of history, and the annihilation and assimilation policies of multiple states.

Hewrami claims that drama, as interpreted in the Western sense, first emerged in Kurdistan in the early 1900s when traditional Kurdish rituals and festivals began to face bans.Footnote ³ Of course, we should add to this bans on language and religion, assimilation policies and massacres. In other words, the dark face of fire – governments – that imprisoned the masses fanned the fires of freedom within them and led them to form a parallel movement of cultural resistance. The image of fire was to take on a political dimension in addition to its mythological, religious and cultural connotations. In parallel with Kurdish freedom movements, the performance of Kurdish arts in Kurdistan was to become a gruelling ordeal for more than a century. Consequently, the arts – as interpreted in the Western sense – began life in Kurdistan with the dream of freedom from the outrages suffered as a colonized nation.

Mythology and rituals play an important part in the construction of a nation's future and heritage. To illustrate the point, let me outline how fire is represented in one particular Kurdish legend. At the heart of the legend is Dehak, the tyrant king of Asur, who has two snakes permanently draped around his neck. He feeds his snakes every day with the brains of two children killed specifically for the purpose. But one day, two Kurds slip into the palace dressed as cooks. And every day, they free one of the children, substituting a sheep's brain for the child's brain. These rescued children are smuggled away to caves in the mountains, where they grow up. Some years later, when they have become young adults, Kawa the Blacksmith, who has lost six of his seven children to Dehak's snakes, arms the youngsters with swords cast in his own forge, then forms them into an army. On 21 March one year, this army storms the palace of the tyrant king. If their mission is successful, they will send word to the mountains by lighting a fire at the palace; then everyone who sees the fire will light a fire of their own in the mountains. Kawa manages to bludgeon the king and his snakes to death and then lights a fire at the palace. More fires are duly lit on all the mountains and the people of the land celebrate their liberation by jumping over the fires. Newroz, the spring festival observed by the Kurds, has its roots in this same myth, the so-called Legend of Kawa the Blacksmith.

However, the most important material on fire can be found in those aspects of Kurdish cultural life that were handed down from Zoroastrianism, one of the world's oldest known religions. Many beliefs regarded today as superstitions are relics of this faith. Examples include the idea that it is bad luck to throw water on fire, spit on fire or curse at fire, or that jumping over fire protects against evil spirits. Zoroastrians believe in Ahura Mazda, the god of light, of good and of fire. Every day, they worship the sun, this being the physical manifestation of Ahura Mazda. When there is no sun, they turn to fire, its symbol on earth.

Having looked at clashes in a mythological and religious context, we should also consider their ramifications in the political sphere. Alternative historical research suggests that numerous Kurdish rebellions and massacres took place in parallel with centralization projects in the Ottoman Empire from the early 1800s, as well as Turkish modernization projects that followed the foundation of the Turkish republic in 1923. Without going back too far, let us take a look at the military coup of 12 September 1980. This was a time when crackdowns, bans, arrests, torture and massacres escalated significantly across the length and breadth of Turkey. But it was also a time of resistance. One of the places where inhuman practices were applied most rigorously was the Diyarbakır No. 5 Prison. On 21 March 1982, Mazlum Doğan, a figure from the leadership ranks of the PKK (Kurdistan Workers’ Party), burned himself to death in protest at the torture he had undergone in jail. His example was followed on 18 May 1982 by a group of PKK prisoners known today as the Four (Ferhat Kurtay, Eşref Anyık, Necmi Önen and Mahmut Zengin). These acts became a symbol that reignited the spirit of resistance at a time when it was being broken among political prisoners. Doğan and the Four were modern-day Kawas. A new fire had been lit and a new freedom myth created. From then on, the act of self-immolation became a form of protest in the Kurdish political struggle. This same form of protest has begun to manifest itself in the public sphere since 1990. Fire remains a potent and paradoxical force in Kurdish lives.

For Kurds, another sphere in which the fires of freedom are blazing in Turkey is theatre. The performance of Kurdish theatre in Turkey began most notably at the Mesopotamia Cultural Centre (MKM), a collective founded in Istanbul in 1991. During that decade, Kurdish theatre flourished in areas opened up by the Kurdish freedom struggle.Footnote ⁴ Over the years, it has proliferated, spread and faced innumerable bans, closures, instances of censorship, arrests and detentions.

Relatively speaking, the early years of the AK Party government gave a certain amount of breathing space to Kurdish arts and many other things besides. Today, however, everything is as challenging as it ever was, from the point of view of Kurds and of the Kurdish language alike. Kurdish was outlawed as a language in Turkey under the Eastern Reform Plan which came into effect on 24 September 1925. The ban remained officially in force until 1991. Unofficially, however, it still applies in practice, having become something of a tradition. In short, the Kurds’ native language became fire in their mouths. Their culture, their religion, their lifestyle became incendiary. As the establishment saw it, Kurds were the fire of the devil and needed to be extinguished.

From 1991 until the early 2000s, the two faces of fire appear as both a metaphor and a visual element in the vast majority of Kurdish stage productions.Footnote ⁵ Perhaps one of the most impressive of these productions is a short play entitled Newroz. On 21 March 1993 and 21 March 1995, a celebration of Newroz was held at the Abdi İpekçi Sports Complex, each time with a varied programme and massive audiences in attendance. And on both occasions, Teatra Jiyana Nû (the MKM theatre group) put on a production of Newroz. Heavy on mise en scène, the play tells the story of the Four through the legend of Kawa the Blacksmith. In the 1993 performance, the cast considered self-immolating, but later decided that this would not be art.Footnote ⁶ I myself was there at the 1995 celebration, as an actor rather than part of the audience. I was playing one of the youths who defy Dehak the Tyrant. Contemporary symbols of resistance had been inserted into the mythical narrative. The second the performance began, the packed audience of 15,000 suddenly fell silent. The Four were marching against Dehak with flaming torches. Dehak was the Turkish state. Kawa the Blacksmith was hammering iron in the fire as if it were Dehak's head. Fire and torches had become a mythical cry for freedom. And the moment the torches and fires were lit, an electrifying wave of exhilaration erupted through the auditorium; tears were shed. The performance had turned into a mass ritual. In this respect, it was almost reminiscent of a mourning ceremony. Everything was incredibly affecting. There was a militant audience out there and we were feeding the fire inside every one of them.

There are many arts organizations, theatre groups, playwrights and directors who have learned and drawn inspiration from the freedom fires of those years and continued their work with tenacity, determination, hope and passion. And today they are busy analysing this knowledge of fire and the people of fire in order to create their own literature of theatre. They are working to offer an insight, in the language of fire, into the work of Stanislavsky, Meyerhold, Grotowski, Artaud and many more theatrical geniuses besides.

Fire is one of the most magical elements in existence. It is a clash. A clash that gave rise to our existence and, simultaneously, the creation of an error … As far as Kurdish theatre is concerned, I would say that this clash is a living playground somewhere between life and death. As Johan Huizinga says, ‘Play is a free act.’