Anna Khaja
Appeared in her solo play “Shaheed,” at the Cleveland Play House, in the New York International Fringe Festival, and in Los Angeles (Ovation Award, LA Weekly nom.). She was seen in the American premiere of David Hare’s “Stuff Happens”at the Mark Taper Forum (Ovation nom.), and originated the role of the Iraqi mother, Nerjas, in the American premiere of Canadian playwright Judith Thompson’s “Palace of the End” (LA Weekly Award, Ovation nom.). She performed recently in “Cries From the Heart” with Annette Bening at the Broad Stage, and “No Word in Guyanese for Me” at The Studip Theatre. Ms. Khaja has appeared in many productions at regional theaters across the country. Her film and TV work includes “California Solo” “Yes Man,” “Post Grad,” “Reunion,” and “Order of Chaos,” “The Closer,” “Flash Forward,” “House M.D.,” “Private Practice,” “Numbers,” “Sleeper Cell,” “Dirt,” and “Weeds.”
What led you to create “Shaheed?”
I always followed Bhutto and admired her. As a Pakistani-American who feels very American, she was someone I could relate to. In my opinion, she was a beautiful mix of east and west, a convergence of them, proof they can mix, that both sides can adopt. I read her book, Reconciliation treatise, it was very accessible on how Islam and democracy belong together. It felt like divine inspiration. At that moment my life changed, it was the easiest decision to make to play her.
What surprises you during the performance of “Shaheed?”
I didn’t expect the gasps, the laughs. I didn’t want to hit people over the heads. I was attempting to make a connection, to form a bond with the audience throughout the performance. Our set designer Maureen said the set must be inter-active. It must different at the end of the play.
Benazir stood up in her truck against her better judgment. She wanted to commune with the people. It was a way to meet them, in that special space of immortality. That’s one of my strengths as an actor. When we submit to the process, there’s a complete bond intimate connection. I feel a lot of love, like almost I am telling them a secret.
Tell me about the process working on Benazir Bhutto, and with your director, Heather De Michelle?
I continued to learn. Every time I gained a piece of information, I immediately found something contradicted it on all sides. Each one was expressed with equal vigor and conviction. As I circled into this figure, who this woman was, reading her own words, she comes across absolutely pure, yet then you hear these things. And there is proof – it makes you disappointed. I also realized she really was who was she was to all these people. She was a beautiful, complex human being, I could relate to her.
The first character I wrote was the little girl. I was circling her. These characters have helped me discover who Benazir was, instead of telling about her, her history – why not see and learn what affect she had on people.
The first moment you see Benazir, I placed her so you can see her and her intentions.
Sarah is a bridge into the world. Sarah lost her father, who disappeared and became a terrorist, and feels in that sense, she is me but my father is still living and we’re close. Her father made no attempt to connect with his Pakistan roots, with his family when he left. He really left, not a typical immigrant and wants his children to be connected to their own self. She has a much more wider version then myself, but I feel her soul is my soul. She’s younger, she feels there are more things possible for her, she’s searching, I’m searching as an artist..
Something I discover to just step out of the way and allow myself to step into the character. They want to come each time I perform. I allow it more and more. There are times when I really fight it. I do need to take the time and I think the audience needs the time in between them. When I become other characters it gives them time to have an experience. My director and I talked a lot about who is this in-between person. It feels more like I’m receiving. I train myself to think as little as possible – I just trust what I need.
I realized that most fascinating thing was to put her in a moment of crisis where she was her usual strong self, to also see her weakness. Perhaps her biggest decision the day of her assassination was, knowing full well what was likely to happen to her. I decided they were all speaking to her on that day that brought the urgency. I added it so the audience could understand the predicament she was in completely, how much was on the line
I think all my characters are saying, as a writer, what they would if they had the courage to bear their hearts and souls to her, if they knew and could answer the most important question in their lives. As an actor, when I tackled it, I put her in the room. I would see, these are very intimate confessions that take place within these people’s souls. I worked hard on making her real and on each one of these people to have her in front of her. What it means to the professor if he finally says what has been eating at him – his greatest shame.
You also created roles in “Stuff Happens” and “Palace of the End.” How did it happen you were cast in these plays – and what kind of research did you do to bring them to life?
“Stuff Happens” was being presented at the Mark Taper Forum, directed by Gordon Davidson; it was his final show before he passed the baton, and it was immense cast of about 25, with very few women. I went to the audition, and I had lost my voice five days before. It was the biggest audition of my life, and my voice was completely gone. I didn’t speak for 4 days, I kept thinking about what I was going to do. I met with a dialect coach for the Palestinian accent. On the day my voice was there. The casting director said I had looked like a fragile bird. It was my first equity job. Keith Carradine, Julian Sands, everyone was there. I was thrilled at the first day of rehearsal. There was this huge table, and all thirty of us sitting there, and Gordon went around shaking everyone’s hands.
So he comes up to me, looks at me, and shakes my hand, saying: “You slipped in.” David Hare came for our two weeks of table work. As we were performing, a lot of what was in the play, was actually happening in the world and was being reported in the news; a lot of it was actually true.
I never wanted it to end. I had a 45 minute monologue that began the second act. After the first performance, Gordon came up to my dressing room and said, “I have never seen anything like this.” I would start the second act and come through the audience and come onto the stage and I said the most shocking things, that Israel is America’s colony, and the audiences would shout things at me. Someone yelled out: “Let her talk!” One stood up and said “I’m going to stand for this,” and ripped their program – it was the most vocal audience. Gordon said he got the most angry hate mail he had ever gotten, all because of that one monologue. I felt verbally pelted by the audience. I never knew what would happen. I would have to hold, until they settled down because the people never stopped talking.
When you perform “Shaheed” what kind of process do you do before the performance?
It has changed since I began. I run through the play while moving my body in unexpected ways, emphasizing things I wouldn’t normally. Sometimes I’ll sing a piece of it. I’m trying to achieve two things: I’m trying to break patterns. I want to be more in a place of discovery. She’s walking through a crowded square, seeing the streets, what’s happening, people are celebrating, and she’s in the middle of a ritual. I was in Pakistan twice, when I was a baby, and about 5 years, and I still remember it sensorally. My memory triggers it.
How have you learned to deal with the “judgmental voices” we carry around?
Well, there are destructive voices, and I’ve learned the worst thing I can do is to resist them, so I have to listen. I don’t have to believe them, that’s fine. I know there’s a safe place. It has a lot to do with our breath, our organism. The idea of ego, the spinning matter, the chatter. I know if I go to my breath, if I go into my body, I’m safe. These voices can’t get me there. It’s about learning to not resist what I’m feeling. If you accept, it passes.
Sometimes I force myself to just go to these deep painful places inside myself and close my eyes and let them come out.
I feel like I’m the luckiest person on earth because the creative process is so fulfilling in itself. Painful writing can sometimes be incredibly fulfilling. its something no one can take way from me. It fuels me to go forward. And then, of course. the sacrifices we have to make as an artist, the life sacrifices, we do what we do because we have to. We’d be miserable otherwise. It’s worth any sacrifice. I feel myself blessed to be able do it.
