The Horror of Mundanity in NYTW’s A Knock On the Roof

Any frequent theater-goer is likely familiar with the “two block rule”, a piece of etiquette that states that one should refrain from discussing a show until they are at least two blocks away from the theater. In the case of New York Theatre Workshop’s stunning piece A Knock on the Roof, written by and starring Palestinian-Syrian artist Khwala Ibraheem, my partner and I Ieft the show completely silently not to avoid offending anyone who worked on it, but rather because we were still processing all that we’d just seen. Approximately two blocks from the theater, my partner broke down sobbing. Directed and developed by Oliver Butler (What the Constitution Means to Me), A Knock on the Roof  is devastating, moving, surprisingly funny, and oh so necessary. 

The show begins with a gentle breeziness. The house lights stay on as Ibraheem, at least at my performance, invites audience members to move closer. For me this move subtly framed the whole show around the importance of free movement. There is power in choosing where you go, or if you stay. From the show’s first moments Ibraheem entangles us in that power. 

Once we are settled, she casually slips into her character, “cool mum” Mariam, and describes an ordinary day in Gaza. But war is about to break out and the ordinary quickly turns uncanny. Ibraheem juxtaposes the mundane and horrific with sensitivity and, given the situation, remarkable humor. At one point she worries about the timing of an evacuation, “What if Nour [her six-year-old son] is on the toilet? It takes him forever to shit!” One moment Mariam is doing the dishes, the next she is exploring the ruins of a bombed out building. She’s playing with her son and then she’s bathing with clothes on in case she has to evacuate mid-shower. She is always, always, always waiting for the titular knock on the roof, a small bomb dropped by the Israeli Defense Forces that warns of an incoming larger assault. To prepare for this inevitability she constantly runs drills, seeing how far she can get from the bomb in the five minute countdown the knock begins.

Throughout the piece she is gently confrontational. During an early fourth wall break she softly chides the audience saying, “I need you involved in this. That’s how this works. I ask, you answer.” While this story seems to be about the 2014 Gaza War rather than our present moment, it is no less relevant and we are no less implicated. This is not a preachy morality play, it is a personal exploration of motherhood, family, and violence. In fact, much of it explores Mariam’s disappointments and frustrations with her life outside of the larger political context. 

All of this is portrayed with exceptional physicality and stamina by Ibraheem. Mariam is caught in an inescapable loop of dread bordering on impatience as she practices her escape. At times this is relentlessly repetitive but so is the conflict it’s based on. The banal becomes the greatest horror.

But despite Mariam’s obsessive, groundhog-day-esque, evacuation drills, the show does have its climactic moments, elevated by Rami Nakhleh’s pulsating sound design, Oona Curley’s evocative light design, and Hana S. Kim’s gorgeous projections. All in all it’s a harrowing portrait of life under occupation but one filled with wit, vulnerability, and depth. This is a beautiful piece of theater and one that, especially now, everyone should see.