Introducing Luz Gaxiola

One of the most iconic photos of Luz is from a 2015 tour to Lesvos Greece. A young girl and the clowns are bouncing on a rubber life raft, transforming it into a trampoline. The girl’s face is partially covered by her hair, but her wide smile peeks through. Luz is holding her accordion, also grinning. The photo does not show that the girl, a Syrian refugee, was still damp from crossing the Mytilini Strait. The photo does not show the girl’s loss, fear, or the uncertainty of her future. The photo shows her resilience. The photo shows her laughter.

Here’s a chance to get to know Luz a little better.

Do you wear a nose when you perform?

I love wearing a clown nose. For people who are culturally familiar with clowning, they see the red nose and it is a signal:  That’s a clown, it’s time to play! 

But I don’t always wear a red nose, especially if I dont’ know much about the situation where I’m performing or if I know I’ll be up close and will need to make a soft approach. Not everyone is ready to get into wacky play immediately. Sometimes not having a red nose leads to more flexibility to start with a gentle connection.

What is your favorite clown prop?

My accordion

You can hear the accordion before you see the clown. It evokes a mood and a feeling. A musical instrument is the most efficient way to establish a world.

Traveling with the accordion: you’ve got to really want to do it. It’s heavy and it’s delicate. It is definitely hard and sometimes annoying to travel with, but the accordion’s sound is so full and it’s such a big presence that it’s worth it.

The other cool thing about the accordion is that can take you where you need to go. If you show up with an accordion, someone will say, “Hey you with the accordion, come over here.” It’s like an entrance ticket. 

What’s a favorite memory from working with CWB?

One night in Lesvos, I went on a walk to the beach. Our day of work was done, we had done three shows. I was just going to the beach by myself to play the accordion and relax. When I got there, rubber boats were landing. It was about sixty people arriving. This was it, their moment of landing. There were a ton of people, and it was a really quiet, delicate moment. I didn’t play the accordion. In that moment, it didn’t feel right. After everyone was safely off the liferafts and on the beach, people from a Norwegian NGO sprung into action getting people water to drink. I heard them talking making calls to set up bus transport to pick up everyone from the beach and take them to a refugee camp.

All of a sudden, there was a lot of people by the street, standing around and waiting for the bus. I thought, “this is the moment for the accordion.” So I walked up with the accordion and people flipped out. They demanded I play and we had a dance party on the street. A lot of the people there were from Afghanistan, and some asked me if I knew any Afghani music, which unfortunately I didn’t. So they showed me Afghani folk dances set to Mexican music, Italian tunes, and whatever else I played on the accordion. There was a great feeling of relief, they had just completed the most dangerous part of their journey and it was time to celebrate. They still had a long way to go but arriving safely in Greece was a major milestone. I stayed with them for about an hour until the buses picked up the last people waiting. I don’t have any pictures, there is no official Clowns Without Borders documentation, but I think about that night all the time. It started as a moment that wasn’t right for play, and then it became the perfect moment for play. 

There was a woman who stood next to me while I was played, dancing with me and egging me on. She was about my age, and we connected. It was like we were instant best friends. A few days later, I saw her at the Moria camp and we hugged tightly. I think of her often and wonder where she is now.

What are you currently working on?

I’m really excited about developing a collection of acts that are ready for any circumstances, any weather. I want to make some rain-ready shows. So that’s my project, offroad, all-weather clowning!

What’s something you learned from another CWB artist?

I learned a lot working with Sabine. Sometimes people think we are diminishing someone’s situation by being silly. Sabine really helped me to see firsthand that it’s actually the opposite. Choosing to be silly can be an amazingly empowering decision for people living in stressful circumstances. It is a form of defiance to choose to engage in play, and Sabine was so good at showing that. 

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.

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.”

The short answer is: “It depends!”

Why? Because each tour has different logistical and security needs. In the interest of transparency, here’s a deep dive into project costs and an overview of different types of projects.

Basic Costs

Every tour starts with the same basic needs: travel, food, and shelter.

Travel

I budget travel in two categories: Travel to/from the project location, and transportation during the tour itself. This is where we start to see some of the biggest variations in cost. Travel from New York to San Juan, Puerto Rico, versus New York to Beirut, Lebanon, is a difference of $1,000.

Next, there’s the cost of getting from our tour HQ to the shows. In Guatemala, we rented a car and the clowns drove themselves ($1,500). Same in Lebanon, but the cost was much less ($400). In Puerto Rico, CWB clown Arturo donated the use of his van, so we covered gas plus wear and tear ($400).

Accommodation

Accommodations are another variable expense. In Cali, Colombia, the clowns stayed in someone’s home ($0). A university donated rooms in Guatemala City($0). In Beirut, we rented an apartment ($700). For both tours to Puerto Rico, we rented space in a private home ($1200). On other tours, teams have slept in churches, in tents, or in NGO accommodation with the partner organization.

My preference is always to keep money local. This means that whenever possible, we look to rent directly from a person. Security, convenience, and comfort (in that order) all impact the decision of where we stay. Ideally, everyone gets their own bed, but that’s not always possible

Food

I typically budget $30 per clown, per day, for food. In places where it is safe to do so, artists can buy their own food and manage their personal food budget. In other situations, the team buys groceries together and splits the effort of food preparation. Frequently, our partners provide meals.

Often, but not always, our audiences are experiencing food scarcity. This adds to the complexity of when we eat and what we eat. On our most recent tour to Mexico, the artists were invited to eat with migrants in the shelters. The clowns were hungry after those meals, and so would buy additional food to consume in private. On other tours, audiences will offer a meal or refreshment as thanks.

Cost and Audience

There is no direct correlation between how much a tour costs and how many people it reaches. Guatemala was among our most expensive tours, yet it reached a relatively small number of people. Our commitment is to produce tours that fit the needs of the region and local partner(s). In Guatemala, the volcanic eruption impacted tiny communities, so the artists found themselves performing for intimate groups of people, rather than huge crowds.

Our tours respond to situations as they unfold. While I have a general idea of where many of our tours will be this year, most of the logistics remain unknown. Having a base of recurring donors provides the necessary cash flow to accommodate all the variables of planning a tour.

The Right to Play

Yes, the right to play. Just as everyone is entitled to freedom from slavery and torture, freedom of opinion, and the right to food, everyone is also entitled to the right to play. Article 24 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights is the Right to Play.

Clowns Without Borders – Sweden received feedback from a project partner that sums up the importance of play: “Before the clowns came, the children played war. Now they play clown.”

Universal Children’s Day

On November 20, 1959, the UN General Assembly adopted the Declaration of the Rights of the Child. Thirty years later, the UN adopted the Convention of the Rights of the Child. In addition to special protections for children, it’s the first international treaty that explicitly extends human rights to children.

Today, Universal Children’s Day 2018, we celebrate the children who had the idea for Clowns Without Borders. That’s right, the idea for CWB came from children! Children in a Balkan-region refugee camp wrote to children in Spain, “We’re okay. We have food. We have shelter. We have medicine. But what we miss is laughter.” Long story short, the kids in Spain found a clown (Tortell Poltrona) and suggested that he offer a free performance to their new friends. Voila, Clowns Without Borders was born.

Clowns Without Borders exists because Tortell trusted the wisdom and creativity of children. To this day, CWB seeks to emulate and reinforce that trust in each performance. When we train new artists, we emphasize an ethos of “lifting up the child” (often literally!). This means that it’s the child, not the clown, who’s the star of the show. It’s the child, not the clown, who sets the pace and discovers many of the punchlines.

Lift The Child

Lift the child up—you can see this in pictures of kids on shoulders, kids on buckets, kids on stage. Some of our best performance moments, spontaneous and planned, happen when we invite our young audience members onstage and let them have the spotlight.

For children, play is education. Join us as we promote this right.

Board member Tim Cunningham is a graduate of the Dell’Arte School of Physical Theatre (’01) and has performed with CWB in 11 countries outside of the United States. Within the borders of the US, Cunningham has performed, lectured and facilitated workshops about CWB’s mission and work at universities and high schools. He received his doctoral degree from Columbia University’s Mailman School of Public Health. Board president David Rosenthal is currently an Associate Professor and the Director of Management Programs in Health Policy and Management in the Mailman School of Public Health and a behavioral faculty member in the Center for Family and Community Medicine, Columbia University.

If you read anything about hospital care nowadays, specifically about physicians and nurses, you’re likely to read about B.O. 

No, not body odor, but burnout! It’s a major issue, and unlike body odor it can be contagious. If you want to read some journal articles, search for names like “Dyrbye, Shanafelt and West.” (Here’s a good one.) Burnout is nothing new and as with many things, interest in its effect ebbs and flows. It was popularized in the 1970s by Herbert Freudenberger, and in the early 1980s, when Christina Maslach helped define our current understanding of burnout. Now, we find ourselves talking about the same thing as though it’s a new crisis. 

Burnout also occurs in the military and can be related to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). In fact, the New York Times Magazine recently published a haunting but important read about rates of burnout among some of our nation’s drone pilots. The story highlights people who work out of remote offices, limiting their interpersonal connections.  

If you want to do a deep dive into medical research, nursing research, and military research, you’ll find lots of papers about the prevalence of burnout and PTSD. You’ll find far less conversation about what we can do about it, and how it can be treated. Honestly, we social scientists are pretty good at measuring the existence of something, but it’s more difficult to study interventions and create evidence-based strategies.

So what does all of this have to do with clowns? We’ll tell you.

Clowns Without Borders just might offer a unique tool to fight burnout and make PTSD a little less painful. It’s neither costumes, nor magic tricks. It’s not our acrobatic routines or the famous “newspaper bit.” Nope. It might actually have little to do with us and more with how clowning brings people together.  

Lots of papers (including one that we published) scramble to understand how we can treat burnout or PTSD. One common thread is that people with a sense of camaraderie fare better when it comes to these two phenomena. Nurses who treated patients together during the Ebola outbreak, physicians who worked in a refugee setting in Greece, soldiers who fought with people they know and trust, all report a stronger ability to deal with life’s stressors. Drone pilots, on the contrary, find themselves working alone, thus losing all sense of camaraderie. That loss can rip people apart, emotionally, when they go through traumatizing experiences. Many people struggle with PTSD once they’re no longer surrounded by a team with similar experiences. The power of relationships and social support, as a healing and coping tool, cannot be minimized.

In fact, CWB has a special workshop called Find Your Funny. This workshop is specifically designed for care providers, educators and humanitarian aid workers—anyone whose job consists of a lot of emotional labor. In December, 2017, CWB – USA led just such a workshop for Médecins Sans Frontières-France (MSF-France) healthcare providers in Haiti. Aid workers and health care providers are impacted by Secondary Trauma Exposure, which can lead to compassion fatigue and burnout. CWB’s “Find Your Funny” workshops address how these professionals can use laughter to alleviate the stress of their jobs and have a compassionate response. The project objective is not only to bring levity to patients, but also share tools with care-providers so that they too can spark moments of joy for themselves, each other, and their patients. (You can read more about the clowns’ experiences teaching the workshop, here.)

During CWB tours, which most frequently focus on the needs of a community in crisis, these relationships are highlighted and celebrated. CWB clowns set a stage, wherever that stage needs to be, and they welcome anyone who can squeeze into the audience space. Sometimes our shows are for 10 people, sometimes they’re for 1,000. When CWB clowns set a stage, people gather. People who have been ripped apart by governments, by war, by poverty and by disease, sit, stand, and play with us. People who have been forced to migrate from their homes or forced to move from their neighborhoods and their social supports, have an opportunity to connect. In that togetherness, people laugh. Children laugh at the clowns, parents laugh at the children laughing at the clowns, and the clowns laugh at refugee camp guards who often laugh along. Spending time together begets camaraderie, which begets mutual trust—laughter is icing on the cake. 

As for our claim to “cure” burnout and PTSD…well, our work is really more of a balm, a treatment for emotional wounds. But that’s just one of clowning’s many ethical interventions that can help our brothers and sisters along their own journeys towards healing. As for the “common cold” claim, some suggest that social support and relationships (and possibly chicken soup) can make a difference!