The Story That Changed Everything
IN JUNE 2009, I returned from the Middle East a changed man. I had left Scotland as part of an international group of 12 storytellers on a project entitled “Healing Words.” Our mission was to go to the Holy Land and use storytelling with groups of Israelis, Palestinians, and others to promote dialogue and mutual understanding. Following an orientation and training at the School of Storytelling in Forest Row, England, under the watchful eye of storyteller Roi Gal-Or, we embarked on a month-long journey that saw us working with a variety of groups of all ages across the length and breadth of Israel and the West Bank.
One of the groups we worked with was the “Combatants for Peace,” a group consisting largely of Israeli ex-soldiers and Palestinian militants who had converted to using non-violent methods and collaboration as a way of seeking mutual peace. We met with them in an olive grove between a Palestinian refugee camp and an Israeli settlement. There were about 150 people in equal proportions from both sides. Following some preliminary introductions and “truth and reconciliation” type story sharing, the group was divided into a half-dozen smaller groups. I was asked to facilitate one of these gatherings.
We settled uneasily under the shade of the olive trees. I noted how many could not look at one another. I observed Jewish and Arab women tucking in their skirts so as not to touch the other beside them. Young men gathered in tight cliques, their faces glancing warily about them. As I stood up before this circle of men, women, and children, I wondered what on earth I was thinking. Why did I think I had any right to be standing here? What could I possibly say to these people that would make a difference? Better the ground open up and swallow me.
The looks on everyone’s faces suggested they were of a similar mind. Who is this foreigner? What does he think he can do? He doesn’t live here. What can he possibly know about us or our struggles? They were right, of course. I was an outsider. I didn’t know what it was like to live with the challenges they faced. But I did know they were here because they wanted peace.
As I stood there wondering how to begin, I noticed the children. They sat there laughing and playing with one another. Such innocence and openness. That was when it hit me. I recalled a children’s song I’d learned in Scotland called “Aitken Drum.”
“There was a man who lived in the moon, lived in the moon, lived in the moon, there was a man who lived in the moon, and his name was Aitken Drum.”
I began to sing and dance. “His eyes were made of . . .” I approached one of the mothers, gesturing for her to suggest something that Aitken Drum’s eyes could be made of. The man assigned to help with translating my English into Arabic explained the song. “Zaytun,” she laughed, raising her hand to cover her smile. “Olives,” translated the man. “And his eyes were made of olives/zaytun and his name was Aitken Drum.”
I sang and danced around that circle, inviting metaphors, making a fool of myself. The children laughed and clapped along. However, when I finished, the adults offered me polite applause. The looks on their faces suggested they were applauding a madman. At least, I thought, they’re united on something.
While I was thinking of what to do next, a Palestinian man raised his hand and announced that he, too, had a children’s song to share. While I’ve forgotten the name of it, it was one that everyone knew. It reminded me of a playground song. The children clapped hands in “patty-cake” style. Everyone sang and clapped along. More applause at the end. As I looked around, people seemed visibly relaxed. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Following our musical opening, I began with a confession. I was from away, I was nervous, and I was familiar with pain. My marriage of 25 years had recently come to an end. I was homeless and not entirely sure of my future. But like them, I, too, sought peace. I explained that I was there to invite each person in the circle to share their story. Why were they there? What did they hope for? My job was to give each person equal time to tell their story and remind everyone how important it was to listen. At one point, I had to remind a trio of young men, who’d started talking among themselves while one of the women was talking, to stop and listen. Once again, my translator assisted me in communicating my instructions.
About halfway through the circle, the arrival of an Israeli army patrol sent a wave of panic through the crowd. Several Palestinians got up, uncertain whether to retreat to their village or stay. I saw the organizers approach and talk with the soldiers. I also noticed a trio of young Palestinian men from my circle stoop to pick up a handful of stones, link arms, and begin marching toward the soldiers. Without thinking, I shouted at them to stop. They turned and glared at me. With the translator’s help, I explained that while they were free to confront the soldiers, I was sure that this would only result in them being arrested or worse. I referenced the stories I’d heard from the group, reminding the young men how such actions—though brave—only brought sorrow. Throw your stones, I said, and the soldiers will respond with bullets. That is a story the soldiers know well. You’ll almost certainly be taken away, and your families will suffer. However, I continued, return to the circle and help us create a different story. A non-violent story. Perhaps that will confuse the soldiers and result in a different—more peaceful—outcome. The translator conveyed my message. I waited. The young men conferred with one another and, after what seemed an eternity to me, dropped their stones and returned to the circle.
Thanks to the organizers, a sort of truce had been arranged with the soldiers. They agreed to let us continue our meeting for a couple more hours, ending it earlier than we had intended. The soldiers retreated to a higher vantage point to observe us.
As calm settled over the crowd, we regathered and resumed our storytelling. When we finished, I couldn’t help but feel a more palpable sensation of relief. I noticed that many folks were nodding at one another; some shook hands, and a few even embraced one another.
“Don’t think you’ve solved anything here,” a young Israeli woman said to me.
I couldn’t blame her for being skeptical. She was a journalist. I’m sure she’d seen lots of “do-gooders” like me come to her country hoping to help.
“Why did you come?” I asked.
“A friend invited me.”
“You could have said ‘No’.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose so.”
“But you didn’t. That was courageous of you.”
“Courageous?”
“Like everyone here. Despite what their minds might have been telling them, their hearts told them otherwise. You have a brave heart. That’s courage.”
“Maybe,” she said.
It was that “maybe” that gave me hope that peace comes one heart at a time.
***
With proceedings coming to an end, pita sandwiches and warm cans of pop were handed out. As I was standing there eating and chatting with one of my storytelling colleagues, someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind. I whirled around to see one of the young Palestinian men standing there. I remember his yellow Brazilian football T-shirt. “Hello,” I said, then reverting to the little Arabic I had learned, offered the more traditional “As-salaam ‘alykum.” He responded in kind, then hesitated, racking his brain for some words in English to give meaning to what he wanted to say. I extended my hand in a gesture of friendship. He took it, then suddenly lunged forward to embrace me. “I love you, man,” he said before quickly breaking away and hurrying back to his two friends who were standing a way off. I waved, and they waved back, smiling.
The encounters of that afternoon initiated a transformation which was yet to come to completion. That would take one more encounter. As we were leaving the olive grove, we had to file up a hill to the road where we’d parked the cars. It meant filing past the soldiers, who were standing, guns raised, around their armoured vehicles. As I passed one of the soldiers, I couldn’t help noticing how young he seemed beneath his oversized helmet and flak jacket. He reminded me of my youngest son. I figured he couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty years old.
Our eyes locked. “Hello,” I said.
“What were you doing down there,” he asked.
“Telling stories. I’m a storyteller.”
He hesitated as if he were assessing the veracity of that statement and then smiled and said in typical teenage fashion, “Cool!”
“The next time we do this,” I said, “you’d be welcome to join us.”
Before he could answer, his commanding officer appeared from behind the vehicle and barked an order in Hebrew. Its meaning was clear judging from the sudden stiffness and change of demeanour in the young man.
“Nice meeting you,” I said.
When we approached our cars, we were met with a reminder of the violence that continues to break out across this land. The soldiers had smashed the side windows of our rental cars. I guess they needed to let us know who was in charge. Despite the damage, I left there full of hope. I’d witnessed the power of story and storytelling that day. I’d seen it change minds. I saw it plant seeds of hope in people’s hearts. I saw it make a young soldier smile and remember just for a moment that he was a human being. He let me see the young man that he is.
I knew that day what I was meant to do with the rest of my life: create opportunities for people to share their stories, to listen and better understand one another one heart at a time.
When I returned to Scotland, I was eager to share my experience and manifest a career. I held a workshop at the Scottish Storytelling Centre in Edinburgh that focused on the therapeutic aspects of storytelling. I shared my story. At the end of the workshop, two young storytellers approached me: Wendy Woolfson and Alette Willis. They asked if I would create a group to explore the subject further. That was the beginning of my story coaching practice.
For more than 15 years, I have followed the path of the itinerant storyteller, coach, and workshop facilitator. I have worked with storytellers, therapists, social workers, nurses, ministers, and community and corporate leaders. I’ve worked in schools, residential care centres, churches, museums, prisons, hospices, retirement and senior citizens centres. I’ve facilitated countless workshops, trainings, and coaching groups. I am indebted to the many men, women and young people who’ve come to share their stories and listen to mine and others. Without all of you, this book could not have been written.
Thank you.
Michael Williams,
August 2024
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Chapter 1: A is for the Audience
THE AUDIENCE IS of primary importance in a storytelling performance. Without someone to listen, where would the storyteller be? It's like a bird singing in a forest. Who's there to listen?
A story needs to be shared with a willing heart and mind. If you treat your audience with respect, they will reciprocate, ensuring an enjoyable storytelling performance for everyone. The audience wants you to succeed! So, remember that you are there to serve the story, and if you do that, you’ll also be serving the audience. Trust the story to do the work.
To begin, choose your performance space with care. Position yourself in a way that allows latecomers to enter without disturbing you and others. Mark out your space in a way that imbues it with a sense of respect. By this, I mean find a way to make your space “sacred.” Hang or place a scarf or wall hanging, or arrange a chair in a way that creates a sense of sacred space important to the sharing of stories. If you're in a classroom and have nothing at hand, ask if you can pin a child's painting on the wall behind you. At the very least, walk the space and bring a sense of sacredness and intimacy to the area.
Check the audience’s sight lines to ensure that they're not obstructed. Check the performance area for freedom of movement so that all can see and hear you no matter where you move on stage.
Be prepared. Practice, Practice, Practice! There's nothing more frustrating than listening to a storyteller apologize for not being prepared. Know your story and deliver it with commitment and passion. Even if you like to improvise, know the essence of the story and its characters to allow you to perform with confidence.
Acknowledge your audience. Greet them and thank them for listening to you. I have learned to be open to "the gifts" the audience brings. Allow a space of quietness before beginning to check what's going on in the audience and tap into their energy. Many storytellers speak to audience members before beginning their story as a way of connecting. Introduce yourself; don't assume everyone will know or remember your name. Children love being asked their names. A riddle, a wee song, and a call and response are excellent ways of establishing a connection with your audience. I’ve used ‘knock-knock’ jokes and call-and-response openers like shouting “Cric,” to which the audience replies, “Craic.”
Take the story to the people. Try not to have tables, lecterns, or other furniture between you and your audience. Move toward them. Make eye contact with individuals at key points in the story. If telling with children, keep your story simple and short. Don't wear out their patience.
If you forget something in the story, improvise. Ask the audience if anyone remembers what comes next. Work with whatever they offer, and hope it gets you back on track. If you need to backtrack and fill in a missing part, stop and tell them. You don’t need to be perfect.
Avoid looking down if you momentarily lose your place; this cuts off your eye contact. Instead, look slightly upwards to the realm of inspiration. The audience will still feel your connections, and the 'story angels' or 'ancestors' will help you out.
Show, don't tell. This adage reminds us that stories work best if we remember to show our audience what our story characters are thinking, feeling, and doing. By showing them rather than telling them, the audience has to use their imaginations to recreate the story in their minds. Stimulate their imaginations with vivid pictures, sounds, smells, tastes, and feelings in your story. If a character becomes angry, show your audience rather than telling them. Varying vocal tones, body movements, gestures, and facial expressions are your tools of the trade and create dynamic tales guaranteed to engage and entertain your audience. If a giant appears in your story, take a few moments to be the giant. If a queen, show how a queen talks and acts. Again, become the character before resuming your role as storyteller.
Storytelling is about relationships. When finished, thank your audience for their attention and participation. If possible, be available to them after your performance to answer questions and allow them to get to know you better. Having business cards ready is a convenient way for potential clients to take away your contact details for the future.
Remember, storytelling is not just about the story but also about the experience. It's about connecting with your audience and taking them on a journey that touches their hearts and minds. With a little preparation, respect, and engagement, you can create a powerful and memorable storytelling performance.
Storytelling is a powerful tool that can bring people together, inspire, heal, and entertain. As a storyteller, your role is not just to tell a story but also to connect with your audience and create a unique experience. By following the tips mentioned above, you can ensure your storytelling performance is enjoyable, engaging, and memorable for both you and your audience. So go ahead and tell your story. The audience is waiting to hear it!
