Ramo, 29.
It had been a long night. Twice he had slipped into Greece, and twice he had been accosted by a patrol car and returned to the no man’s land between the Greek and Turkish border posts. Unwilling to return to Turkey, Ramo sat on the ground and drew heavily on one of his last remaining cigarettes. “At least with a cigarette,” laughs the Kurdish actor, “there is clear justice. I destroy it, and it destroys me.”
Back in Syria, Ramo had craved justice. After a six-month stint in a tiny underground prison cell in 2009 (a reward for performing at a Kurdish arts festival in Beirut), he was banned from working or travelling. Pining for the theatre, he only felt half alive. When protests erupted in 2011, he quickly caught the attention of the security forces when he re-enacted as street theatre the events that sparked the uprising (teenagers drawing political graffiti in Dera’a). “If I stayed, I was dead.”
Four days later, he crossed into Turkey.
Contorting his face to match the photo on his second-hand passport, Ramo turned his journey into a five-week theatrical performance – speaking with a Palestinian accent in a Greek detention centre to conceal his Syrian identity, and swaggering confidently into Athens airport dressed as a hipster. “Inside I was terrified. Outside, I always kept in character, disguising the fact I was a refugee.”
Ramo’s new life in Germany has seen him return gleefully to the stage, performing in productions across the country. “I have my soul back,” he smiles. “Theatre is art, and art has to be free.”
(words by Kate Welsford and Emma Pearson)
Writing: Although there is darkness in prison, do what you want. Have no fear of darkness. One day before death, a man can start a new life.
Germany, 2015
It had been a long night. Twice he had slipped into Greece, and twice he had been accosted by a patrol car and returned to the no man’s land between the Greek and Turkish border posts. Unwilling to return to Turkey, Ramo sat on the ground and drew heavily on one of his last remaining cigarettes. “At least with a cigarette,” laughs the Kurdish actor, “there is clear justice. I destroy it, and it destroys me.”
Back in Syria, Ramo had craved justice. After a six-month stint in a tiny underground prison cell in 2009 (a reward for performing at a Kurdish arts festival in Beirut), he was banned from working or travelling. Pining for the theatre, he only felt half alive. When protests erupted in 2011, he quickly caught the attention of the security forces when he re-enacted as street theatre the events that sparked the uprising (teenagers drawing political graffiti in Dera’a). “If I stayed, I was dead.”
Four days later, he crossed into Turkey.
Contorting his face to match the photo on his second-hand passport, Ramo turned his journey into a five-week theatrical performance – speaking with a Palestinian accent in a Greek detention centre to conceal his Syrian identity, and swaggering confidently into Athens airport dressed as a hipster. “Inside I was terrified. Outside, I always kept in character, disguising the fact I was a refugee.”
Ramo’s new life in Germany has seen him return gleefully to the stage, performing in productions across the country. “I have my soul back,” he smiles. “Theatre is art, and art has to be free.”
(words by Kate Welsford and Emma Pearson)
Writing: Although there is darkness in prison, do what you want. Have no fear of darkness. One day before death, a man can start a new life.
Germany, 2015