Conceived over a decade ago, A Knock on the Roof remains a poignant, pertinent portrayal of life in Gaza

The war-torn city is seen through the eyes of a mother obsessed with rehearsing her family’s escape route

‘Knock on the roof’ refers to the warning device dropped by the Israeli Defense Forces on civilian homes (Alex Brenner)

Just a few hours before Khawla Ibraheem’s A Knock on the Roof, a play about a woman living under Israeli occupation, opens to the press at the Royal Court, Donald Trump’s grotesque AI-generated video of his vision for Gaza was released to the world. Could this play – a window into the personal horrors of wartime – be any more timely? Rather than focus on politics, though, Ibraheem offers an intimate personal testimony; there’s fear, apprehension, and flashes of humour, too. The reality of Gaza today makes it all the more pertinent. Only someone cold-blooded would leave tonight’s performance unmoved.

It would be reasonable, then, to assume A Knock on the Roof had been written in response to the current moment. But all the more chillingly, Ibraheem first conceived it as a 10-minute piece back in 2014. It is a fact that shows how little has changed for the Palestinian people. Here, the war-torn city is seen through the eyes of Mariam (also played by Ibraheem), a citizen who pours all her energy into caring for her young child, Noor, and her elderly mother. “Two wars ago they started using a technique called knock on the roof,” she says.

The “knock on the roof” Mariam refers to is the warning bomb dropped by the Israeli Defense Forces on civilian homes. It alerts them to the fact they’ve got five to 15 minutes to flee before a larger rocket strikes. This potential “knock” forms the nucleus of Ibraheem’s drama. Mariam is obsessed with rehearsing her escape route. Over and over, she packs her bags in preparation, fashions a fake Noor out of a pillowcase to carry, and frantically darts through the streets in the dead of night.

Beginning as a game, set to bouncy, electronic music by Rami Nakhleh and mechanical lights by Oona Curley, Mariam's forensically scheduled bomb drill is littered with comedy. She acts “normal” before racing down seven flights of stairs. She curses herself for not following her friend’s advice to keep up an exercise regimen. But quickly, panic starts to overwhelm Mariam’s thoughts. What happens if the knock on the roof comes when she’s on the toilet? Or, if her son refuses to cooperate as she attempts to carry him to safety?

These anxieties are painted vividly in Oliver Butler’s production; at one point, Mariam’s shadow is pulled in two as an illustration of her inner strain. But the punch of Ibraheem’s writing comes from fleshing out her character and humanity. “I never wanted any of this,” Mariam confesses. Long ago she let go of her dreams of getting a master’s degree.

There are flares of jealousy and frustration; Mariam’s husband has left behind their family to study abroad and as the heat of the war increases, she feels progressively betrayed. Her initially sunny exterior starts to crack and splinter, but with Ibraheem’s genuine portrayal, we feel her anger every step of the way.

Although we never see any violence, the threat of it is laced deeply into Ibraheem’s script. Mariam’s story might be fictional, but there are thousands of real ones like it. This is a gut-wrenching depiction of the conditions the Palestinian people have been forced to live in for decades, which goes far beyond the headlines.

At the Royal Court until 8 March