Art Therapy for Human Suffering

Guila Clara Kessous, UNESCO Artist for Peace and art therapist, uses drama therapy to help people "let go" of their suffering through a cathartic process. It is a way for people in Rwanda, Bangladesh, Congo, and Afghanistan to find solace. Guila paints the portrait of four people suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder who she accompanied to their respective countries. She has also designed a course on "Theatre and Humans Rights" that is taught at Harvard University.

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The Prince and the Poor Man

The woman with black eyes has a wonderful way with French words. Intimidated, she clicks her tongue against her teeth and looks up to me. I reassure her and make it clear that I will not ask her to talk, but to express what lies within her, deep within her, to let it out. I know about her story: Martha lives in Ngoma, in Rwanda's eastern province, near the women's prison. This mother of five witnessed the slaughter of the Tutsis in 1994. She, too, once sincerely believed she could kill "for the good of humanity," as the saying went back then on the waves of Mille Collines radio.

I suggest we perform the exercise of "The Prince and the Poor Man" that Peter Brook used to teach a person to find "the right posture." Asking her to portray a noble personality, I see the body of the septuagenarian straightening up and I watch her as she finds a glorious way to hold her head, so typical of faith in oneself and faith in humanity, found only in people who have not lost the beauty of their ingenuity. I try to spur her on, suggesting she tries to walk like a queen, taking care to slowly spread her feet on the ground, heel first and then toes. I notice the effort of her leg. It carries the history and muscles of thighs that were strong enough to drag themselves out of this hell.

She looks around her with an air of Banyiginya haughtiness; the Nyiginya clan, who represent the nobility of the Batutsis.

I then submit a text to her from Hamlet:

I know not "seems."
'Tis not alone in my inky cloak,
good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly.
These indeed seem,