Gideon Mzembe and Pacharo Mzembe in Prize Fighter (photo Brett Boardman)

Fidel’s exceptional control of language places his characters firmly in each world. When, in the midst of a fight, Isa begins whining about a sly remark made about his large forehead, it is immediately clear that his boxing opponent is now his brother; the raw vulnerability and earnestness of this moment are clearly suggestive of early childhood.

Mzembe’s performance as Isa is exceptionally nuanced. With precise shifts in stance and gesture, his voice suddenly shaken by uncertainty, his transformation from boxer to boyhood is astonishing. And the more we learn about Isa’s past, the clearer it becomes that something childlike remains in the grown man, a loneliness that manifests itself in restlessness, an echo of a boy forced to grow through trauma.

It is easy to shock audiences with the reality of violence onstage, but Prize Fighter elicits the blind compassion that is born of the human need for love in the midst of a war zone. Faced with seemingly unimaginable horrors, an audience naturally feels sympathy, but Prize Fighter invites an interrogation of that response, and leads the audience towards a more empathetic and nuanced understanding of the cycles of violence. Each character is presented non-judgementally, and while it is startling to watch Isa yearn for the affection of the child soldier who has murdered his family, this violence, surprisingly, does not alienate us from the story. Mandela Mathia brings a chillingly wild, but undeniably childish, energy to the child soldier, and a similarly controlled fervour to Isa’s boxing coach. The doubling of roles has a deliberate and affecting symbolic value. Each actor, except Margi Brown Ash, inhabits multiple characters across the divide of Isa’s life, embodying the ghosts of his past that threaten his future.

Pacharo Mzembe and Gideon Mzembe in Prize Fighter (photo Brett Boardman)

Prize Fighter provides much-needed representation for maligned or marginalised communities in Australia – particularly refugees and immigrants. But it also encourages audience members who don’t relate personally to the narrative action to re-examine our everyday use of language and gesture to care for those traumatised by war.  In Brisbane, ‘Killer’ is just a name to give Isa clout in the boxing world, but in the Congo the label is literal. In Brisbane, Isa’s boxing stance is an engagement with a legitimate, sanitised violence, but as he snaps back into childhood, his outstretched hands hold an invisible gun, and the threat of violence is suddenly real. Our current cultural discourse is peppered with violent language and gestures, with football supporters likened to armies, but Prize Fighter reminds us that this violent vernacular is a privilege. And while the play has some light-hearted moments – the audience laughs as Isa is told he’ll acclimatise to the mucus-like texture of Weet-Bix – we are reminded of the international whitewashing of Australia when one of the characters notes smugly that ‘there are no black girls in Australia’.

The final image of the play is one of forgiveness, its stillness in a satisfying juxtaposition with the frenetic energy at the beginning. Shining dust falls onto the stage, burying a stolen necklace that Isa has carried with him since childhood. Even this simple, beautiful image is layered with symbolism: it could be sand through an hourglass, time that heals; it could be the earth of Isa’s homeland welcoming him back; or, it could be coltan, a valuable mineral mined in the Democratic Republic of Congo, the sale of which funds the violence enacted upon the Congolese people. In this image, we appreciate the ultimate strength of Prize Fighter: it embraces a multitude of experiences and interpretations, but binds them all together in a drive towards compassion.

Prize Fighter is being performed at the Northcote Town Hall until 20 October 2018.

ABR Arts is generously supported by The Copyright Agency's Cultural Fund and the ABR Patrons.