Interview with Playwright Yussef El Guindi

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Walter Bilderback: Can you tell us a little about your background and your development as a writer?
Yussef El Guindi: I was born in Egypt; moved to London when I was 4. Went to school there until I was 17. Spent a year in Paris. Then went back to Cairo for my undergraduate degree in English and Comparative Literature. From there, I went to Carnegie-Mellon University for a graduate degree in Playwriting. Kicked around San Francisco for a couple of years after that, doing brief stints as a reader at the Magic Theater and as a dramaturg at the Eureka Theater. I landed a position as playwright-in-residence at Duke University for 7 years. Then moved to Seattle, where I pursued poetry, acting, film-making, before finally settling down to write plays full time. That’s the short and dirty. Actually, the short and dry.

In between all that one-thing-following-another, life sort of happened. And some sort of voice happened. Facilitated, I think, by my getting my citizenship in 1996. That event, strangely, concentrated the mind wonderfully. It gave me a subject matter. Or rather, it brought together a bunch of amorphous elements and subterranean emotions that were in effect, but to which I just couldn’t give a name to, or find a coherent story for. And that story was the simple one of the immigrant journey. One that had begun when my family left Egypt when I was 4. Becoming a citizen, in a way I hadn’t anticipated, plugged me into that unique template that belongs to this country in particular. Few countries owe their national character, and very reason for being, to the immigrant. This country got to be what it was with journeys such as mine. Millions of little such journeys. In Europe, if you’re an immigrant, you will always remain a foreigner, no matter how long you stay in England or France, etc. You will never quite be English or French. In America, some may gripe at immigrants, but this country’s life blood depends on them.  Becoming a citizen plugged me into my own journey. Strangely. It allowed me to write about it.

Some of our audience will know your work from Jihad Jones and the Kalashnikov Babes, which was produced last season at InterAct. Like that play, Language Rooms is very funny. Could you talk a little about the role of comedy in your work?
Well, comedy is what I wake up to in the morning, even when most of the news I wake up to is not very funny. I do tend to laugh at stuff. Actually, I usually get very pissed off at something, and then when I sit down to write, I find all that anger sublimated and hammered out via the funny bone. When it doesn’t get sublimated, then my voice gets just too brittle and shrill and I don’t much care for it.

I’ve recently written a play that doesn’t have a whole lot of laughs, and I’m scared to death of it. I may even shelve it. I’m not sure yet.

I think my laughter also stems from the fact that most of my writing revolves around matters of fitting in, identity, how one is perceived, how one perceives others. The fact that I’m dealing with matters that are perceived to be fraught and political, doesn’t take away from the fact that, essentially, my concerns are no different from a high school student wondering which table he should sit at during lunch. Or an office employee trying to figure out how best to fit in her new environment.

In fact just think of Language Rooms as a play set in an office somewhere, with all the antics that usually stem from office politics. 

Basically, like many other writers, I do tend to see our foibles and concerns, our needs and dislikes, as ripe for a good laugh. But I also feel great empathy for our basic struggles. As the saying goes, if you didn’t laugh, you’d weep. I think we’re that far up crap creek most of the time. And laughter is one of the healthiest ways of dealing with it. 

What do you think of the portrayal of Arabs and Muslims in the U. S. media? And speaking of comedy, what do you think of the attention some Arab stand-up comics are now getting?

In regards to the portrayal of Arabs and Muslims in the media: It’s never been great. From around the time of the crusades, way back when, it’s been kind of like Fox News all the way. And of course since 9/11, it’s not been warm and cuddly, for obvious reasons. What I find particularly interesting was how quickly after the Soviet Union collapsed, the Arab and Muslim world was shoe-horned in as the new enemy (with a brief Panama interlude). I guess every great power needs a bogeyman to justify all that weaponry.

Also, it’s a weird rite of passage for a lot of immigrant groups in this country that before there is some acceptance, and acknowledged inclusion, they first have to go through this negative gauntlet, where some hysteria grips the nation about the perils and impending doom of having such and such a particular group in our midst. Whether it’s been the Native Americans, (made to feel like immigrants in their own country), the African Americans, the Irish, the Italians, the Chinese, the Japanese, Latinos, etc. This hysteria usually forces voices from that group to step forward and provide an alternative story, another perspective. Comics are usually the vanguard in this, being the most accessible and simple to present. Then the poets and storytellers. Slowly, over a period of time, these voices find their way into the mainstream. We hope. Though it remains a struggle for a lot of groups.

Language Rooms, like many of your plays, is partially about the American Dream. As someone who made the decision to become "an American," what do you think the current status of the American Dream is for immigrants?
I think the American Dream is alive and well and still very much in play. There’s a line in Language Rooms  which I cut: “Immigration is not for sissies.” I don’t think people quite get the gains and losses that come with deracination (an appropriate sounding word for the act of uprooting yourself from familiar soil; and the struggle involved in replanting yourself in soil that you may or may not take to -  or that might not take to you). And the people who least anticipate the cost sometimes are the immigrants themselves. It goes without saying that loss is incurred. You lose the familiar, your touchstones, your customs, what is expected of you and what you expect from a community. Sometimes you lose your family - your extended family, certainly. And often you lose the devil you know - which may be the cause of your leaving - only to come face to face with a whole set of new devils you hadn’t anticipated.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m so very glad I made this journey. I’m extraordinarily grateful and proud to be a part of this on-going experiment called the United States. Indeed, like a new convert to a religion, I may be more alert to my “Americaness” then those who are native born. But for those native born, I think they often forget how difficult the journey was for their parents, or grandparents, etc. Often those living family members don’t wish to dwell on the negative, the difficulties, And for certain groups, that journey was particularly painful. 

But there is still much romance associated with “coming to America.” The romance of the journey itself. The romance of the country. The notion of starting over, reinventing yourself. Yes, you lose your family, your touchstones, but you also lose the weight of those things. This new sense of emotional, physical and psychological freedom sometimes leaves you breathless. But: 

At some point in this journey you will of course need some kind of emotional, physical, and psychological support. The reinventing is never a total reinvention. I’m not sure it’s ever quite successful. You find you can’t quite lose that emotional weight after all. And now your supports are gone. 

So you find yourself half reinvented: half cast in a new role and half stuck in the old one. A total in-betweener. You may feel yourself “hyper American,” but at the same time you may feel a total fraud. The immigration people of your birth country sneer at your American passport, and the immigration people in America look at you suspiciously. I don’t know why it’s important to feel like you belong somewhere, especially in this era of globalization, where some people refer to themselves as “global citizens,” but it is important for some reason. And if you probe deeply enough with these “global citizens” you will find that they do feel a deep lack somewhere in their center. In fact that lack is the absence of a center.

I actually think that absence of a center is inherited by the children of immigrants; and may even be a national characteristic. The wonderful optimism of this country, the propulsion to keep going, to reinvent, that weightlessness, the acceptance that you can change your name, your history, kick your past to the curb as you gun for a new beginning, I think all those good things end up gutting you of a center, a wholeness. What becomes of your touchstones, your anchor, your story, after you leave so much behind? Who are you when you’re always in flux? (Incidentally, I think that’s why this country, in comparison with other Western nations, is so religious. Religion seems to become that main touchstone and anchor when so much personal and former cultural history is disposed of.)

So yes, the American dream is alive and well. But as the father, Samir, says, in another line I cut: “The price for a better life, you is always a little higher than you think it will be.”

What were your  influences in this setting of the play, which seems at times a combination  between 1984 and The Office?
I can’t remember the exact spark that provoked the writing of this play. I read about the “black sites,” thought the whole thing sinister and weird, but didn’t have a specific interest in writing about them.  I read about Capt. James Yee, the American Muslim Army chaplain arrested (since released and exonerated) for possible sympathies with the prisoners he was counseling, got pissed off at the over reaction, but again, did not have a specific interest in writing about the incident.

But at some point, the notion of these “black sites” crystallized into a perfect metaphor to talk about the current situation in America, and how I personally felt. It wasn’t their function as places for suspected terrorists that interested me, it was their status as these non-acknowledged sites, a place of shadows, a no man’s land where intense questioning took place, that tickled my interior and allowed me to talk about how I felt as an Arab/Muslim American in this current climate. These black sites became the perfect “objective correlative”, if you will, by which I could laugh and rage at the alienation I was feeling as an American citizen in this hyper vigilant period.

This hyper surveillance got to me. I don’t think I realized that it was getting to me, but it did. I had felt great and unexpected pride in becoming a citizen. And now in this new climate, I felt I was no longer a part of a shared country. While not physically taken to an internment camp like Japanese Americans during World War II, I did feel on an emotional level that I had been separated from my fellow citizens. My loyalty was now under question. Emotionally speaking, I felt I was being shipped to a no-man’s land where everything about me, along with my fellow Arab and Muslim Americans, was being reevaluated. Were we loyal citizens? Could we be trusted? Were we a threat? Were we really American after all?

But like with most of my plays, I never really start out knowing what the primary emotional engine of a play is. I just get grabbed by a voice(s), a need, a situation, an immediate conflict, and go from there. I have no specific agenda when I write a play. And if I’m doing my job right, I will be half oblivious of that agenda, that emotional engine, right up until I finish the play. Once I start on 2nd and 3rd drafts, etc., then I begin to sense more fully what I've written.

And that’s an interesting pairing by the way: thinking of Language Rooms as 1984 meets The Office. At least in the first half of the play. In the second half, we add the “American immigrant family drama” to the mix of paranoia and office politics.


I have seen quite a few plays at the Wilma, and they are always thought-provoking and not usually "easy" to watch - this was no exception. THere were many layers to this play. I am not quite certain what to take away from it - I found it disturbing. This reminds me of the story of Japanese-Americans in containment camps after World War II. There is always a struggle in keeping America safe, protecting our Civil Liberties at the same time we are concerned about National Security and fear of terrorists operating within our borders. This cannot help but to foster paranioia and misdirected efforts. The larger picture of course, is the story of any first-generation immigrant trying to blend in to the greater U.S. - We all know that the "melting pot" metaphor is really not apt - the U.S. remains an incongrous "mixed salad"... for better or worse. This play was a very interesting look at the experience of Muslim Americans - yet speaks for all immigrants and the desire of children to just blend in. It is so true that the 'role' of parents is to frequently embarass their children. It is a rite of passage... this play illustrates how this is so much more difficult when one's family has different cultural values.
A small note... it seems "trendy" these days to have complete nudity in plays. Sometimes it works and is necessary to the plot. In this case - my opinion is that it really did not add anything to the play. It was distracting and even embarassing at best.

I'm sorry to disagree with the previous contributor. Whatever the quality of your other work, this play did not match its prior billing. Indeed my wife and I gave up at the interval. It seemed a small idea in search of a longer than justified airing. Other plays have dealt with problems of language and the alienation within communities amongst people from distinctly different cultures with greater success in our opinion (e.g. Soyinke's Death of the King's Horseman).

However, I was glad to read that the ending was a bit more subtle and maybe we should have persevered (although it takes quite a lot to drive us away). I should also add that it wasn't anything offensive or upsetting in the script, nor in the cast's excellent attempts to deliver it, rather a poor development of the characters and a less than satisfying use of language (concerning which the program notes and your comments had raised such high expectations). Yours with regrets C

I enjoyed the play; the performers were good with an exceptional performance by
Nasser Faris.

One aspect of the play that has always been relevant to immigrants is the assimilation to the American culture question. My family came from Puerto Rico and growing up I reminisced about many of the issues portrayed; shame, confusion, identity etc…

The weakest part of the entire play was the ending. I was not clear on what they wanted of protagonist to do. Did they want him to identify with American culture or his Egyptian culture? I left with more questions than answers. The director should have given a solid conclusion rather than ambiguity

The transitions by the stage crew was amazing, well planned and executed.

Thank you for sharing this story I look forward to seeing other works maybe using directors who can adjust to what is relevancy of issues.

gilberto gonzalez

Dear Yussef El Guindi:
I thought the Language Rooms was an innovative play that stuck a balance of serious issues with unpredictable comic interludes. I appreciated the play’s success in developing a diverse set of characters struggling to claim their own identity and to fit in while trying to understand how they want to be perceived by others. The dialogue was clear and clever and well executed by the cast. What a great cast too!

I really enjoyed the play. Your use of foreshadowing was well done but it forecast a different ending in my view. Throughout the play, you were very blunt with hitting the audience over the head with the messages, yet the ending was subtle.

I believe the ending would have been more effective if one of two of the following scenes occurred: 1. Nasser confronts Kevin after his Ellis Island line claiming that America has always welcomed immigrants. 2. Ahmed concludes with a monologue telling us that Americans have trouble with claiming their own identities and that is why they always question the identities of others. His message needs to be the same intensity from him we experienced when he springs up and lectures Esther on what kind of American he is.

Consider from Nasser this message: – Yes, yes, America welcomes all immigrants if they change their name, convert their religion, and relinquish their identity. This is the price for becoming a true American. Nasser then tells his story about the better life that America has offered him and how he almost lost his son in the ocean and for what, now he lives to watch the government destroy his son and his love for this country.

Ahmed, whose anger to fit in motivates him, has a character change at the end of the play. Why? Has he given up? I believe the audience expected him to refuse to cooperate. The blue suit for reflection is instead distracting.

Consider if instead Ahmed hits the tipping point when he realizes he is the one being interrogated. He needs a more compelling message to the audience: You are interrogating my identity and feigning that you are my family because you have no family, you are threatened by your own identity, and you loathe your loyalty to a country that makes you turn against your people. Why do Americans fear their own identity yet idolize the imaginary American identity.

Thank you for crafting a thoughtful play, and for receiving this letter from an audience member.


Marilyn Paolino

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