The Guarani-Kaiowá are one of Brazil’s largest Indigenous communities. They’ve survived forced displacement since the late 1800s and increased violence since the 1950s when private capital took over vast territories, replacing eco-diversity with monoculture plantations.

And, also, if we only see the Guarani’s pain, we miss learning about who they are — including their rich traditions of ceremony and song.

In September 2022, Clowns Without Borders (CWB) returned to the Guarani community of Southern Brazil to listen, learn, share art, and laugh together.

In this post, you’ll learn about the current conditions of the Guarani people and we’ll share insights from our art exchange (a term that fits better here than tour — read on and you’ll understand why).

The Guarani: Searching for ‘the land without evil’

Guarani ancestors told of a place free from pain and suffering called ‘the land without evil.’ And, for hundreds of years, their descendants searched for such a place.

They have yet to find it.

Instead, the Guarani have experienced territorial displacement on a massive scale. In Mato Grosso do Sul, the Guarani previously occupied 350,000 square kilometers of forests and plains. Today, 24% of the remaining Guarani population (12,000 of about 50,000 people) live in just 30 square kilometers (the Dourados Reserve).

The reserve lacks adequate land for crops, hunting, or fishing. For more on the Guarani’s forced removal from ancestral land, see our Brazil 2019 blog post.

‘Danger is experienced on an everyday basis’

Performing artist Julie Moore recounts one disturbing event:

Maybe two hours before CWB was to perform, we get word that the body of a 13-year-old-girl, who’s part of the community we’re performing for, has just been found.

The community asked that even with this news, we perform the show as planned.

The team delivered a performance full of empathy and gentleness.

Homicides and assaults are all too familiar in the Guarani community. And the government does not protect indigenous people from ranchers’ gunmen and militias. Perpetrators often go unpunished.

The community’s pain is real, and it’s ongoing.

CWB is a witness to the Guarani’s pain, and also their ceremony, song, and dance.

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Joining Hands and Making Eye Contact, Rain or Shine

On tour, CWB is typically the first to offer a song. That wasn’t the case with the Guarani.

According to Julie Moore, the Guarani’s greeting was song and dance, “in every space we entered.”

For the team, the experience was vibrant, warm, and joyful.

If you want to learn about the significance of song to the Guarani people, I encourage you to check out the following article by Valéria Macedo, Anthropologist and Professor at Universidade Federal de São Paulo, Brazil. She began working with the Guarani in 2005 and her 2011 article is called Tracking Guarani songs: between villages, cities and worlds.

Feats of Juggling Feet: Sharing Clowning and Performance Art

CWB artists Tetê Purezempla (Brazil), Kauan Scaldelai (Brazil), Ludmila Lopes (Brazil), Julie Moore (US), and Orlene Carlos (US) were pleased as punch to share their performance art and witty shenanigans of the highest order with the Guarani.

There were saxophone tunes, tables tossed by a foot juggler, and lots of zany clownish humor.

Here are some of our favorite shots from the performances.

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Conclusion

CWB was honored to walk on the soil that the Guarani-Kaiowá are fighting for, exchange art, and listen to stories of both pain and joy.

CWB team members shared ‌17 performances, one workshop for those interested in the art of clowning, and one workshop for social workers. 

To see more program photos, check out our video montage below!

We zoomed, whooshed, zapped, bammed, and tra-la-lad our way through most activities.

I now say “ZOOM” more frequently and with much less delight.

Zoom is the place I am stuck while dreaming of the places I want to be.

I never expected Clowns Without Borders to have online programming. For me, the core of what we do is physical and in-person. Our shows transform spaces, inviting joy, community, and connection into places defined by pain, strife, and isolation.

Can we do the same with Zoom?

I’ve spent much of the past four months grieving. Each time I logged onto Zoom, even after Clowns Without Borders started online programming, I thought about what was missing. I planned to spend June in Lebanon and Palestine, participating in CWB’s partnerships with Clown Me In and Diyar Theatre. When Rami and I started talking about how we could continue our scheduled training for Palestinian clowns, we both lamented that it would be another year before we met in person. We did what so many producers are doing, and transitioned the program online.

I expected the workshops to be tinged with sadness. To my astonishment, they are full of delight.

Mondays are a time when ZOOM is a place of transformation.

On Mondays, Mike Funt and I join clowns from Lebanon and Palestine. Soon we will be joined by clowns from Jordan and Syria. Zoom might be the only room, in the whole world, where we can all gather.

Why? Here’s a gross oversimplification: Israel, Jordan, Lebanon, Palestine and Syria border each other. Palestinians hold Palestinian Authority Passports, though Palestine is not recognized as a nation. Travel within, and between, all of these countries (territories) is restricted.

Lebanon prohibits entry from anyone with Israeli stamps in their passport. Israel classifies Lebanon as an enemy state and Lebanese passport holders may only enter Israel with a pre-arranged visa and special permission, which prohibits entry to Palestinian territories. The workshop could not happen in Israel, Palestine, or Lebanon.

Israel and Syria do not have diplomatic relations, making travel between the two countries almost impossible. The workshop could not happen in Syria.

Theoretically, the workshop could happen in Jordan, but only with an exceptional number of visas, and the participants putting themselves at personal risk. Palestinians’ travel is restricted within Israel. For a Palestinian Authority passport holder to get to Jordan, she needs both an exit visa from Israel and an entrance visa from Jordan.

I’m ashamed to admit that inviting other artistic partners didn’t occur to me until after the first two workshops with the Palestinian clowns. I was so focused on what I was missing—eye contact, standing in a circle, meeting Rami’s baby—that I didn’t think about the opportunity be truly without borders.

It hadn’t occurred to me that ZOOM has no checkpoints, no visas, no border crossings. Geopolitical boundaries are so ingrained into how I think.

We say we’re “Clowns Without Borders” but really, we’re clowns negotiating borders. COVID reminded me that the borders are also in our minds. It hadn’t occurred to me to have a training for Lebanese and Palestinian clowns in the same workshop. I had accepted that it wouldn’t be possible. I reinforced the border.

In its own way, the Zoom Room has become a place of play. It has also become a place of resistance. A place of resilience. And space for transformation.

The history of women and femme-identifying clowns is richer than some may imagine. What follows is only a smattering.

Early History

Women were jugglers and acrobats in the courts of ancient Egypt, as depicted in tomb paintings from around the year 2000 BCE. They portrayed comic roles in ancient Greek theater, including Phylax comic theater, dating back to the 5th century BCE. Women were even fools and jesters for European aristocracy until the 16th century AD, when the church began condemning their roles in theater and comic entertainment by deeming it immodest. “Jest books,” or books of jokes and quips written by men, became popular during this time, redefining the role of a woman in comedy by her ability to laugh at a man’s jokes rather than tell a joke herself.

Female comics turned to the stage with commedia dell’arte, a campy, comical theater form that was free from theological regulation. It was through this medium, originating in the 16th century, that the modern “clown” began to take shape.

The 18th century saw the birth of what we call “circus,” beginning with Phillip Astley’s Royal Amphitheater in London, in 1773. In 1846, The Royal Amphitheater provided a venue for the first performances, and subsequent newspaper mentions, of “female clowns.” Twelve years later, Amelia Butler was considered the first female circus clown in the United States. More names begin to trickle in: Mlle. Emille with Alhambra Circus (1863); Mlle. Silvia Christoff, “The World’s Only Female Clown (1867); and Ada Isaacs (1869) were the toast of Europe for over a decade. By the end of the 19th century, women were proving that they could indeed tell a joke.

Circus and Vaudeville

From 1895–1899 circuses held bidding wars over lady clowns. In 1895, Evetta Matthews (sometimes billed as Evetta Williams) was hired by the Barnum & Bailey show to be a “lady clown” headliner, a previously unheard of stunt. Evetta stated, “I believe that a woman can do anything for living that a man can do, and do it just as well as a man. All my people laughed at me when I told them that I was going into the ring as a clown. But they do not laugh now, when they see that I can keep an engagement all the time and earn as much or more money than they can in other branches of the business.” The tour was such a success that other circuses began to compete over how many lady clowns they could have on their bills, some boasting as many as four. The gender imbalance remained, since some large circuses at that time had 30 clowns or more.

The English music halls of and the American circuit provided other venues for female comics. Some dressed as, or presented themselves as men, even centering their routines on proper ways to treat women. They dubbed themselves “mashers” and were the godparents of modern drag kings. Others were literal mothers to famous comics. Silent comic Buster Keaton’s mother, Myra, was the first female professional saxophone player and also a champion physical comedienne.

Vaudeville gave way to the dawn of film, and women began to own the screen as well as the stage. One such comedienne, Gale Henry (also known as the inspiration for the character Olive Oyl, formed her own silent film company in 1916 and eventually starred in over 236 comedies from 1913–1933. Her films were ahead of their time, dealing with gender roles, exploring the possibilities of women running the city fire department (Her First Flame, 1919), and running a detective agency (The Detectress, 1919).

Movies and Television

The advent of sound brought the dawn of television. Lucille Ball, Carol Burnett, and Gilda Radner are just a few drops in the proverbial ocean of commediennes who found fame on TV. Phyllis Diller, a stand-up comic who became a household name through television, wore gloves to designate herself as a clown. She stated “I had to wear gloves because all clowns wear gloves.”

These pioneers set the stage for the women clowns of today. Just to name a few: Iryna Ivanytska has gained world acclaim, with her wild wig and fuzzy shoes, as lead clown “Boom” in the theatrical clown show “Aga-Boom”. Pepa Plana of Catalonia helped develop Cirque du Soleil’s “Amaluna”. Her theater shows range from clown interpretations of classic works of literature to political statements on human migration. Gardi Hutter of Switzerland is famous for her washer-woman clown, and specializes in characterizing “female non-virtues,” tossing poise and beauty aside while still conveying a sense of artistry. Amanda Crockett is a physical comic based in Chicago, Illinois, who incorporates juggling and trapeze into her acts, and is a definitive modern vaudevillian.

There are as many women of comedy as there are stars in the sky. We continue to prove that we, indeed, are funny, and always have been.

No Comedy Without Conflict?

One of the great joys of physical comedy is watching a fight unfold. Clowns are relatable because they wear their heart on their sleeve, much as a toddler might go from laughter, to shock, to tears, and back to laughter. What may start with one clown mistakenly taking the other’s suitcase can escalate into an all-out brawl.

Clowns Without Borders shows come together very quickly, so we rely on easily accessible, common vocabulary. As a performer, I love slapstick. It’s a nearly universal clown language, and I have so much fun getting carried away in the absurdity of a clown fight. But when clowning in conflict zones, some of the familiar slapstick tropes lose their charm. For communities experiencing acute or generational violence, a punch is not a punchline—it’s an exhausting reality.

Is It Safe?

I noticed this firsthand in Myanmar. CWB – USA toured in partnership with Mines Advisory Group, and part of the show contained safety messages about explosives. Our ideas for the show had to be approved, and also needed to uphold the educational messaging. We couldn’t add anything to the show that made mines look fun, or showed us playing with a mine. Nor could we add anything that made light of an explosion or injury.

This meant that a lot of our initial ideas were cut. One was to pretend the diavalo was a mine and play a comedic game of “hot potato.” Of course, this meant the clowns would have to touch “a mine,” which went directly against the safety message. Ditto for the idea of a ball rolling into an unsafe area, and the clowns using acrobatics to get it back. Finally, after a lot of trial and a lot of error, we found a story that worked: The clowns are arriving in a new place and learning about what’s safe for that area.

Is It Funny?

As we learned about the real-life consequences of living with land mine contamination, it felt considerably less fun to create violence or aggression in the show. In response, we shifted some of the slapstick moments. Instead of overt clown conflict, our conflict was accidental (mostly). This meant that when Andres took a bow, he would accidentally hit Leah and me. Instead of pulling Leah’s pants down, they would fall off “accidentally” as she jumped rope. We decided that it was more fun to be clumsy (very, very clumsy) than overtly violent.

The most violent part of the show was when Leah stole my newspaper. This results in a tug of war, but Leah gets so carried away that she continues the tugging action after I stop. To get her attention, I tap her with the rolled up newspaper, which sends her into a dramatic fall. This leads to “Dead or Alive,” a skit wherein one clown (Leah) pretends to be dead, and the other (me) goes into hysterics. Why is it funny to watch one clown grieve her friend’s death, especially for an audience who shares this experience? Maybe because the outcome (death) doesn’t match the action (a tap from a newspaper). Or maybe because we know all along that this is a joke on me. As I sob, over Leah’s “dead” body, she sits up and makes fun of me. It reminds the audience that this is all a game.

What Do We Want To Leave Behind?

Ultimately, each group of clowns works together with local partners to decide what is appropriate for the team and the audience. Sometimes, like this summer in Colombia, we have a specific request not to include violence. Other times, the team makes those decisions on its own. We always ask, “What archetypes are harmful to uphold?” and, “Is there a way to shift some of the norms around how violence might normally play out?”

So for Clowns Without Borders, “No comedy without conflict” isn’t always true. Rather, we say, “No comedy to promote or normalize violence.”

Recently, CWB Program Director Molly Levine spoke to a group of 150 public health students at San Jose State University, in collaboration with TeatroVision. We shared stories about our current project in El Salvador and afterward, as the students left for their following classes, one woman approached and asked, “How do you send your artists to tour in a war zone like El Salvador?”

The question gave Molly pause. “Reflecting on my own time in El Salvador last year, I don’t think of the country as a war zone,” she says. “We experienced tenderness, resilience, stoicism and generosity. The violence touches everyone, but I didn’t witness the constant chaos and uncertainty that I would associate with a ‘war zone.’” Often, the picture painted by news media is not comprehensive, focusing only on instances of violence. When CWB visits communities around the world, we’re able to see the rich and complex lives that people are living—the moments in between.

Despite that, El Salvador is considered the world’s most dangerous place outside of a war zone, and is sometimes cited as the murder capital of the world. In fact, many humanitarian aid organizations don’t go to El Salvador. So why do we go to dangerous places? Or more importantly, how do we stay safe?

The answer to both questions is the same: Because we are invited.

When we are invited to a community in crisis, we do everything we can to get there. (Think you might be our next project partner? Read here.) Being invited means that we know our presence is wanted, which is critical for team safety. In El Salvador, for instance, we work with the Ministry of Health in a neighborhood which is controlled by one of the gangs. Through their work in developing resources and a health center, the regional team from the Ministry of Health has strong relationships with the local gang leaders. Though the gangs are in conflict with each other, they are not in conflict with us. Just as they want medical resources for their children, they also want laughter.

This invitation means that we have already established trust before we arrive. We maintain trust by making sure our performances and workshops aren’t controversial. We respect local customs, and most importantly, we keep our work non-political. “When we know artists will be working in gang-controlled territory, we do our best to prepare them for what it might be like,” Molly says. “When we arrive in a neighborhood and park in front of the Health Center, we expect that some individuals from the community will come check us out. They look at our car, they ask about our work and our props. They ask where we are from. We say hello. We welcome them to the performance venue. We smile and show respect in the way that is customary for where we are. We show them that we are at ease, that we remember that we’re welcome there, that we are safe there. That they are welcome with us as well. That they are also safe with us.”

Of course, this can be a lot easier said than done. It’s hard to feel safe when you’re putting your body in a place that our news media and public opinion consider violent. Our artists are humans, and often times they’re totally out of their element. Sometimes our invitations bring us to places where the local police department doesn’t go. In these moments, as in every moment on a CWB tour, our invitation is our strongest safety net.

But our invitation to be there is just the first step in staying safe. There’s also a lot of groundwork, including respecting the conflict as it’s happening. We—with the help of our local partners—make sure to know which gang territory we’re in and make sure that our costumes are neutral (i.e. not the colors of one gang or another).

In some regions in El Salvador, it’s been common for gang members to observe our workshops and performances to make sure we uphold our promise to stay neutral. These members are known to the Ministry of Health. We follow basic safety protocols, like staying with the group and traveling with our local contacts. While the safety of our team is paramount, we’re always performing a balancing act: We have to react to the situations presented to us with clear eyes, not ones clouded by stigma or fear of “what we know about these people from the news or the police.”

It can, of course, be unsettling to perform under these conditions. Part of keeping the team safe means being aware of how our own body language impacts others. You’ve probably heard of fight or flight, the body’s natural response to a threat. When we become agitated, even with fear, someone else can perceive it as anger. So we tell our artists that if they feel unsettled, the first thing they should do is exhale. Then, do a physical inventory, and make sure to stand in a neutral position. This trick of exhaling is a common part of physical performance. A handstand, partner lift, or inversion often starts with an exhale. We use our performance training to assess the impact of our physical presence, and we embrace our vulnerability with honesty.

Working in gang-controlled territory also requires us to re-pattern some behaviors and expectations. In most news media, “gangs” are “evil”. Gangs are talked about en masse, but when we worked in Distrito Italia, we had to remember that gangs are actually made up of individuals: humans who have not had access to the same resources as us.

When we talk about the gangs as a performing ensemble, we need to make sure that we don’t use the term “gang member” as a blanket term to mean “people we are afraid of,” or, “dangerous people.” In order to do our job well and to truly work in allyship with our audience members, we have to remember that these “gang members” are the parents of the children we are performing for—parents who want their children to be safe and have opportunities that they did not have. They are the older teenagers who participate in our workshops, laughing and playing like the children that they are.

Many young people enter gangs in El Salvador because of the promise of safety, the promise of community, and access to resources, money and technology that seems inaccessible from any other way. The young people in El Salvador are most at risk because many family units have fractured, with one or both parents moving away to find work abroad. To us, a warzone is so much more than a simple narrative of victimization and fear. To us, a warzone includes stories of resilience and individuals looking to restore their communities.