About the Author

Wajdi Mouawad

Wajdi Mouawad was born in Lebanon in 1968. Mouawad fled the war-torn country with his family; they lived in Paris for a few years, then settled in Montreal. In 1991, shortly after graduating from the National Theatre School, he embarked on a career as an actor, writer, director, and producer. In all his work, from his own playsâÂ?Â?a dozen so far, including Journée de noces chez les Cromagnons (Wedding Day at the Cro-MagnonsâÂ?Â?), Littoral (Tideline), and Incendies (Scorched- which served as the basis for the Academy Award nominated film Incendies)âÂ?Â?Wajdi Mouawad is guided by the central notion that âÂ?Â?all art bears witness to human existence through the prism of beauty.âÂ? From 2000âÂ?Â?2004 he was the artistic director of MontrealâÂ?Â?s Théâtre de QuatâÂ?Â?Sous; in 2005 he founded two companies specializing in the development of new work: Abé carré cé carré in Canada (with Emmanuel Schwartz), and Au carré de lâÂ?Â?hypoténuse in France. He is the recipient of numerous awards and honours for his writing and directing, including the 2000 Governor GeneralâÂ?Â?s Literary Award for Drama (Littoral), the 2002 Chevalier de lâÂ?Â?Ordre National des Arts et des Lettres (France) and the 2004 Prix de la Francophonie. He is currently Artistic Director of the National Arts Centre French Theatre.

Books by this Author


tagged : literary
More Info
Birds of a Kind

Birds of a Kind

also available: Paperback
tagged : canadian
More Info
2. The first night after the massacre


A hospital room. A nurse enters.

Nurse. Sorry. Visiting hours are over. You have to leave now. Until seven tomorrow morning.

Wahida. I’m sorry, I don’t speak Hebrew.

Nurse. It’s eight o’clock. You have to leave now. Until seven tomorrow morning.

Wahida. Will you call me if he wakes up in the night?

Nurse. Do we know where to reach you?

Wahida. I lost my phone. You can reach me on Eitan’s phone or at the Paradise Hotel. Lions’ Gate.

Nurse. You should move closer to the hospital. The army might close off the Muslim Quarter.

Wahida. Can I stay here?

Nurse. It’s not allowed.

Wahida. Just tonight.

Nurse. I’m sorry. The entire floor is occupied by victims of the attack. Many of them will die tonight. The first night after an attack separates the living from the dead. You couldn’t handle it. No one can. So we limit the number of people present. Otherwise, we’d fall apart, too. The days ahead are going to be difficult. You have to get some rest. You have to sleep.

Wahida. I can’t sleep. I replay the scene in my head as soon as I’m alone. I close my eyes and it all comes back, the bridge, the people, the heat, the sun, customs, the body search, an endless loop of images until the explosion.

Nurse. Were you together?

Wahida. They had separated us. That’s what saved me and probably saved him too. If they hadn’t decided to search me, both of us probably would have died on that bus to Jordan. But when the truck attacked, I was still being interrogated. Eitan had told me, I’ll wait for you, and we were separated. I didn’t see it happen. I was with a woman soldier who was body-?searching me when the explosion took place. A horrendous vomiting followed by the smell of burnt flesh. I had never seen so many dead bodies.

Nurse. Are you alone in Israel?

Wahida. Yes.

Nurse. Where does his family live?

Wahida. Berlin.

Nurse. Have theybeen notified?

Wahida. I’m not the right person to contact them.

Nurse. They have to be notified. Where are you from?

Wahida. New York.

Nurse. Contact his parents. That’s the first thing to do. You can’t face this alone. What’s your name?

Wahida. Wahida.

Eitan. Wahida?

Nurse. My name is Sigal. Here.

She hands wahida a tablet.

This will help you sleep. If Eitan wakes up, I’ll call you. I promise.

The nurse exits.

close this panel


tagged : canadian
More Info

WILLEM: That's it. The very essence of the reason that draws a character to one author rather than another is very simple: they both harbour, at the bottom of their hearts, the same loss. Exactly the same! That's what is called the miracle of creation, creation beyond reason and logic, the kind that lives free as the wind and is truly ineffable. A being who doesn't exist harbours the same pain as one who does, and paper becomes their common ground, the bed where they come together and make love so that from their loss, they can give birth to the beauty that is theirs!

close this panel
Show editions
close this panel

User Activity

more >
Contacting facebook
Please wait...