“The Power of the Fragile”: When Jocasta says “no” quid Oedipus? [By Tracy Danison]

The last time I saw my mother she was in a hospice bed, barely alive; I can’t remember the year. I grabbed her hand, muttered “Bye, Ma”, left the room, drove to the airport. The last, and perhaps only, time I remember my mother hugging me as an adult was in 1973, when I left the house for good. I can still hear the screen door slam behind me.

Although I regret nothing – all things considered, I feel these memories as perfectly in-performance. They are sad goodbyes; they represent the supposed pudeur – the profound emotional reticence – of the culture I grew up in. And to tell the truth I’ve always thought there’s something profound and true in that reticence.

But I started to wonder about that a few days ago, when, my brain a-churn, I staggered out of the auditorium and into the foyer in the wake of a performance of Mohamed Toukabri’s The Power of the Fragile.

Fragile boils down to the story of the separation of Toukabri and his mother; early in life, Toukabri got a dance scholarship in Belgium and until this production his mother has not been permitted to visit him there.

To tell the story, mother and son – easy, tender, respectful – dance, hold and regard each other for about an hour. Speaking a mix of Arabic and French, Toukabri shows his mom around the performance space, introduces her to spectators, teaches her some useful English stagecraft words; together they find music that talks to Mimouna’s dance (she wanted to be a dancer but couldn’t).

Mimouna Khamessi sits on a little stool to tell us her story. As she talks, son Mohamed shows off his moves – gives a little visual biography of his artistic evolution. Toukabri talks of growing up and taking wing in a society “where you can be who you want”. He talks up his European citizenship. Near the end of the show, he costumes Mimouna as “Statue of Integration”.

It was the ease and respect that set my brain a-churn, sent me staggering out of the auditorium.

All that touching, all that tenderness!

I was not alone in psychic churn, either. I caught the eye of a woman friend not so much younger than me. Her brain was achurn, her voice a bit husky, too.

Someone later suggested that our, the, churn and stagger came down to a confrontation between very different cultures, the one, fat and warm, my, our, own, lean and chill.

But I think the real confrontation is between my latent beliefs and my newer ones, represented by Toukabri, who talks of Europe as a place where every body can be who they want; that’s to say, a liberal order of equals. But, deep down, I still entertain a belief in what Freud described as the Oedipus Complex – a latent fear that a good boy like me will use mother as a sex toy. This particular discontent and the psychic barriers it generates gets Civilization, capital “C”, going and keeps it afloat.

If you ask me if I think that, I’ll cry balderdash and say, not since 1980, at least. The real clash then is between my latent belief that Civilisation will crumble if I stop assuming that Oedipus wants to fuck his mom and my idea that every body should of right be what they want.

Here’s the nub. When all is said and done, what Oedipus is turns on who Jocasta is. Since all respect in the Oedipus Complex turns on station, not person, Oedipus, the frightened boy, is on top, near the gods who guide his destiny. On the other hand, Jocasta’s station is near the bottom: a (probable child) bride thrust into a dynastic marriage. She dutifully hands her newborn Oedipus over to her husband. The husband, also King, can murder it and perhaps avoid a sad fate for himself. Jocasta’s station is the bottom one: if Oedipus and the King can’t avoid fate, they can say “no”, because she’s meant as a uterus, Jocasta can’t; she a “does” among “haves” not to be mistaken for a “be”.

His mother just another cipher with a cunt, Oedipus can never be far from the incest he has built Civilization to avoid.

But why should all that apply to me, inspire churn in me? After all, in the civilization I (and Toukabri) believe in, Jocasta is a person – she can say “no”.

So why do I cling to the fears of Oedipus?

That question is the churn and stagger inspired in me by the respect and tenderness of Fragile. What happens to Oedipus – and to all my fellow frightened boys and our girl fellow travelers, too – when Jocasta is, is a person? … When Civilization falls, quid this Oedipus who writes? Do I lose my place? …

So, maybe it all does come down to a culture war – between my newer, truer hopes and my (unexamined) beliefs.

Mohamed Toukabri makes wonderful dance performance.

_________

I saw “The Power of the Fragile” by Mohammed Toukabri in collaboration with his mother, Mimouna (Latifa) Khamessi, featured in the Faits d’Hiver 2024 selection, at Théatre de la Bastille, 26 January 2024. A special warm nod of admiration for Diane Fourdrignier, whose insight and professionalism shine out from her dramaturgy!

Both mother and son were born in Tunisia. Before deciding to marry during a family visit to Tunis, Ms. Khamessi worked in Italy. She subsequently allowed her Italian residency rights to lapse and has never, until the production of Fragile, been able to obtain a visitor’s visa. At 15, Toukabri, got a dance scholarship for a school in Belgium; he went on to study and dance with, notably, Anne-Teresa De Keersmaeker. He is now, he says, a “European citizen” (naturalized Belgian) Until recently, when she was hired as part of the cast of this production, Ms. Khamessi could never get a visitor’s visa.

       

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