Dramas, larger and small

These images, the shooting by the GI and the beheading of Margaret Hassan, appeared on the day the drama club meets. There are a dozen in the troop who appear regularly. Maybe six more appear when they damn well feel like it. I’m always after them to let me know if they’re coming and when I meet one of the missing walking to class they will be so gracious. I’m thinking of Loubna and Libna here. They come to the first meeting every semester and then they come now and then. You can never count on them. Loubna actually has talent. She’s the face with acne. Libna is one of the little breath takers. Thneyu’re the same height. They wear the same clothes. They finish each other’s sentences. I suppose they’re lesbians, which of course here would mean strung up and skinned. The two nicest girls you’ll ever meet, but not reliable. I never see one without the other. As for the troop, it's a mixture of students and faculty. We meet in the university auditorium. A cold, dank place, but new as fresh spit. It’s used mostly for the rock n roll bands and the Moroccan musicians. And at the end of each semester there’s a variety show. Moroccans are natural born performers as you well know. Give them a song, a dance routine, a character, a line and, whether experienced or not, they stand right up and do. Which is the only time they do. off stage, there is no do. There is talk about do. There is dream of do. There is almost do. But then no do. So then suddenly, with no warning, one night nobody shows up. They scatter like pigeons. It could be cold or heat or some forgotten holiday. They don’t email or call, God forbid. They just don’t show up. And every semester begins again with the same promise. “This is what we want to do more than anything,” they always say and there is this intense interest for a few weeks and then they fall away, one by one. Although there is always one or two left. Ayesha was one of those.