During the ongoing war, as Iranian missiles crossed the sky over Ramallah and Israeli fighters flew east to bomb Iran, the author sat with his father, Adele Tartir, in the family home's courtyard.
During the ongoing war, as Iranian missiles crossed the sky over Ramallah and Israeli fighters flew east to bomb Iran, the author sat with his father, Adele Tartir, in the family home's courtyard.
Beside him, his father was coloring his twelfth 'Sanduq El-Ajab' (Box of Wonders), choosing a bright pink color. Only a few days remained until the completion of the exhibition 'Journey Through the Worlds of the Box of Wonders' in Ramallah. This exposition was dedicated to the twelve 'Sanduq El-Ajab' he developed, designed, and created over three decades to tell the Palestinian story.
As a pioneer of children's theater in Palestine and creator of the beloved character Abu Al-Ajab, whose name became synonymous with his theatrical school, his father dedicated his life to protecting Palestinian cultural heritage, imagination, and narrative.
As explosions intensified and darkness fell, he meticulously applied the final layers of paint to his twelfth box of wonders, patiently perfecting every brushstroke. Simultaneously, he recited the introductory speech he had composed in his imagination—not as a mere address, but as a theatrical performance that neither war nor missiles could silence. After the rehearsal, he looked at the author, smiled quietly, and whispered: 'And with this, I conclude.'
A few days later, they began moving the boxes of wonders from his theater in the old city of Ramallah to the exhibition hall. The author sent a photo to his mother, Tahani, to show the progress. His mother's heart tightened; she struggled for breath but remained silent.
The next day, just one day before the exhibition opened, the author left the last frame for his father to hang that evening—a small gesture meant to complete the installation. As the author left, his mother called. His father had been hospitalized in the emergency room. The author rushed to the hospital, unable to stop thinking about that last frame still awaiting its place.
Hours later, he closed his eyes forever. His father dedicated more than half a century of his life to theater and laid the foundations of modern Palestinian theater. The author stood beside him, holding the hand he had loved his whole life, kissing his broad forehead as he whispered his last words: 'Do not forget, my son—our life is theater, and theater is our life.'
Adele Tartir passed away on July 10, 2025. He was not just a father; he was, in every sense, the father of Palestinian theater. Four days later, on July 14, 2025, the exhibition opened as planned. What was conceived as a celebration of his life's work turned into a tribute to his extraordinary journey.
The exhibition traced various stages of a life dedicated to theater, storytelling, and Palestine—a life he always insisted on describing simply as a 'temporary history,' rather than a finished biography. The author knew Adele Tartir not only as a father but as a lifelong companion. He was his elder son, friend, and colleague, and they affectionately called each other Ya Ahi ('my brother'). For 40 years, they shared much more than blood: warmth, laughter, unwavering commitment to a common goal, a love for theater that shaped their lives, hope that endured the darkest times, the struggle and delight of creativity, and the quiet pride of creating something greater, together.
His father dedicated more than half a century of his life to theater and became the founder of the modern Palestinian theater movement. From Al-Sakifa Theater to the Balalin troupe, and then to the Sanduq El-Ajab theater, he sincerely believed that authentic, dedicated theater, born from and belonging to the people, fulfills an enlightening, mobilizing, educational, and liberating role. He repeatedly stated: 'We live theater, we breathe it, we walk it, we dance it, we sleep it.'
He always maintained that theater is primarily a space, a stage, and an arena for confession, revelation, provocation, debate, and creative confrontation. Adele Tartir, who made the stage a space of resistance, summarized the essence of his theatrical philosophy by saying: 'Theater, with all its diverse stages, must always be a space for debate and self-criticism, a sphere that stands on the side of the oppressed, a compass pointing towards liberation and emancipation, and a beacon of hope. Whenever the burden of theater and theater workers accumulates, and their hopes fade and dreams dissipate, we must all know with certainty how culture, society, and reason are not in order.'
In his final reflection for World Theatre Day, observed on March 27, his father wrote: 'For us in Palestine, March 27 has always been a reason to celebrate theater, despite all difficulties and challenges—a reason for continuity and perseverance despite all obstacles, a moment for gathering and reminding ourselves that true theater is a continuous, resistant, and engaged state of creativity. It is a reason to affirm that we remain and continue to exist, even when we are unwell; a reason to declare our love for theater; a confirmation that theater is life; and an assurance to the public that one should not fear true theater—for theater filled with love and life has nothing to fear.'
His father loved details. As a storyteller, he believed that meaning resides in them, that emotion takes shape and truth is found in every story. He described his ritual on World Theatre Day: 'I start March 27 with a phone call from Michael Mayses, recalling the Month of Theater we organized in 1973. Then I go to my theater—my little world in old Ramallah—to greet the characters of the monologue 'Ras Ros', check the posters and tickets for 'Lamma Injaneen' (When We Went Crazy) and 'Tagribet (Journey) Said Ibn Fadlallah', ensure that the egg from 'Al-Kubba wan-Nabi' (The Hat and the Prophet) has not hatched and is still standing as almost the only prop on stage, and also check my 'Sanduq El-Ajab', my stories and tales.'
'I receive a call from Samia Kazmoz, remembering our celebration on World Theatre Day in 2005. I talk to my comrade Mustafa al-Kurdum, recalling how we shared bread and sickle. I meet colleagues with exquisite theatrical sensitivity and unstoppable creative energy, and we remember Yakub Ismail, Anis al-Barghouti, Francois Abou Salem, Omar Samar, and others who have left the stage and backstage, renewing our commitment to continue.'
He continued, demonstrating his love for detail: 'Ahmad Abu Sallum calls from Jerusalem to say hello, always saying: 'I just quickly passed through Ramallah and wanted to greet you on this day.' Coincidentally—now an annual ritual—it always happens on March 27. Then come Rim Talhami, Fadi al-Ghoul, Nidal al-Khatib, Majed al-Maani, Akram al-Malki, Darwish Abu Ar-Rish, Hussein Nahla, and others, while we share tea and doses of theatrical passion. We check the theater and enjoy it, alongside the sincerity of Hossam Abu Aisha at Zaatar Cafe.'
He added that, as Ziad Haddash once described him in 2006, they 'live theater, breathe it, walk it, dance it, sleep it, and dream of it,' affectionately calling themselves 'the madmen of Palestinian theater.' World Theatre Day symbolically reminds everyone that theater—the father of arts—is fundamentally a space and platform for self-expression, revelation, provocation, dialogue, and creative interaction.
However, World Theatre Day was also an occasion to remember and share the burden of theater and the problems faced by him and his theatrical comrades, and to contemplate ways to overcome these difficulties and ensure continuity. His father asserted that World Theatre Day was always a 'day for reflecting on ourselves and our theatrical condition... for drawing inspiration from the past, looking into the future.'
The problems were numerous, conditions harsh, financial resources limited when they existed at all, freedoms constantly shrinking, and the state of theater always far from ideal. Every scene and step of theatrical production was filled with difficulties, making the creation of any authentic theatrical work an act of resistance in itself.
For him, authentic theater meant infinite giving, and serious production was measured not by the complexity of the scenography or the luxury of the sets, nor by the number of sponsors on the posters, nor by how 'Western' it looked to justify its 'modernity' to donor communities. He insisted that World Theatre Day was always a 'day for reflecting on ourselves and our theatrical condition—a day to draw inspiration from our past, look into our future, and continue shaping our vision of the theater we want. It is a day to gather and strengthen our resolve to build a theater capable of giving, enduring, and continuing—an sincere theater that elevates passion and hope.'
He concluded: 'It is a day to gather and collectively think about a progressive theatrical vision that resists all forms of oppression, a day to envision—or at least dream of—a theater that includes all of us, a theatrical body that represents us, answers our concerns, and satisfies our aspirations, and an authentic theatrical movement that is pure, honest, and human—organically connected to the artist as a person, to theater as a way of life, and to creativity that transcends boundaries, resists all forms of oppression, and moves toward the path of liberation.'
My father did not just conceptualize these ideals; he lived them, practiced them, and never compromised them. He was devoted to the purity and mission of theater, and was determined to maintain the clarity of his theater's strategic direction. And he was firm in the belief that creating authentic theater is an act of resistance in itself.
On the day of his death, Palestinian writer and poet Mahmoud Abu Hashhash, Director of Culture and Arts Program at the AM Kattan Foundation in Ramallah, wrote an ode to his father titled 'Adele Tartir: Multiplicity in a Single Form.' It stated: 'He was a gentle, kind-hearted man, modest and always smiling. His face glowed with a soft radiance illuminated by almost translucent modesty. His thick beard, smoothly transitioning into long white hair, bore the imprint of an era he never wished to see fade, and an identity rooted in a beautiful past—a time when rough roads were paved by people overflowing with passion, supported by an unwavering faith in their ability to act, transform, and expand the horizons of freedom in imagination and dreams, and on the land itself. Together, they formed a wonderful chapter in history, never seeking recognition, never touched by arrogance or complacency.'
These words reflect more than just a person's character; they illuminate the philosophy that guided his life and work. They speak of the vision of theater as an act of resistance, a vessel of collective memory, and a practice of liberation—what Adele Tartir embodied with quiet conviction until his last days.
On the first anniversary of his passing, my brother Yazan sent a loving letter to his father: 'I still remember the tremor that shook the depths of my heart when my brother told us you were gone. Just minutes ago, I was beside you, holding your hand, my eyes fixed on the monitor and its tangled wires, my heart aching with every heavy breath and every sign of your pain.'
'On the anniversary of your passing, Father, I realized that great sorrows do not fade with time. They remain as they were, no matter how many years pass. Grief for those we love does not die. Since you left, no sorrow has truly ended, and no joy has ever felt complete.'