Clowning is more powerful than you’d think.
That’s just one of the realisations I had while running around in a sea of bubbles during a three-day introductory humanitarian clowning workshop this summer in London. It was run by Clowns by Without Borders UK, part of the wider Clowns without Borders network, which has been working with people in war zones, refugee camps, and anywhere joy is sorely needed for the past 31 years.
As one of an eclectic group of 17 people aged between 23 and 70, representing a variety of backgrounds – including journalists, pathologists, counsellors, and a trained performer with experience in fire-eating – we were all in new territory, and all attracted by the idea of learning to use play in a trauma-informed way.
Clowning is more serious than you’d think, too. The facilitators stressed that it’s ok to mess up, and mistakes are to be celebrated. But while I’d always thought clowning was about red noses and honking oversized horns, I learned that it’s actually an art form with origins in spiritual practices like shamanism that has the ability not only to cross cultures, but also to operate as an instrument for psychosocial care – something often desperately needed in humanitarian settings.
Clowning has been used in the paediatric medical context for years, to help children heal and have some fun. But lately it seems to be part of the humanitarian zeitgeist, with more clowns lending their assistance to crisis and conflict areas.
The idea originated with a group of children in Barcelona, who were penpals with children in a Croatian refugee camp during the Balkans war in the 1990s. Reading letters from Croatia that said “we miss laughter”, the Spanish kids fundraised to send their own clown – the locally famous Tortell Potrona – to the camp. Thousands of children came to see him, leading to the establishment of Payasos Sin Fronteras (Clowns Without Borders).
Other groups followed in his wake, and there are now 13 chapters of the NGO. They have sent clowns to Bangladesh, Haiti, Myanmar, Ukraine, and elsewhere. There are other humanitarian clowning groups too, including Sencirk, Narices Rojas, Red Noses International, and The Dream Doctors Project.
Clowns Without Borders UK CEO Sam Holdsworth was already an experienced theatre director when she got involved with clowning. “I had heard about the clowns at university and emailed a bunch of chapters overseas – Ireland, South Africa – and they said why don’t you set up an English chapter,” she explained.
“I wasn’t thinking about setting up a humanitarian charity,” Holdsworth said, but she ended up training with other groups, and established the NGO in 2014. She has been “chief clown” ever since, and is now setting up a programme that will help children in the UK.
Serious silliness
In the studio space in London’s Theatre Deli where we gathered to learn, people had come to the workshop for a variety of reasons.
Academic pathologist Tony Sedgwick was interested in the idea of the clown as a destabilising force and wanted to understand how that worked in a humanitarian context, while Yuna, a trans human rights activist seeking asylum in the UK who asked that her surname not be published, hoped to develop her performance practice.
Aid worker Angela Marshall’s catalyst for signing up was witnessing how children reacted to a Turkish colleague – who was a trained clown – in the aftermath of last year’s Türkiye-Syria earthquake.
“He created this dynamic of laughter and curiosity and safety with just three juggling balls, his games, and simple songs,” she said. “There was a power in that moment that was inspiring. Those skills were an asset in that situation.”
For me, it was a chance to understand how an activity so connected with silliness could be helpful in such paradoxical settings.
In addition to Holdsworth, our facilitators for the weekend were experienced clowns Katherine James and Hanna Varszegi. Both have worked extensively in humanitarian situations, where they not only lead games, but also help raise awareness about issues like the importance of washing hands.
They also train local staff and artists interested in clowning, including people who work with some of their main partners – Plan International, Oxfam, UNICEF, and Save the Children. Holdsworth said the group is often called by one of its main partners, Plan International, to deploy in the immediate aftermath of a crisis.
The right to play
Some of us were disappointed by the lack of red noses over the course of the weekend, but Holdwsorth later told me that while the red nose is used in the field, its importance is mostly as a beacon, and as a tool for the physical transition into a clown.
However, putting one on does not, on its own, make you a clown. And for those of us who were not natural performers, the weekend was a fast induction into what does: It means getting comfortable with your entire mind and body, as well as understanding that clowning focuses on letting go and giving yourself and those around you permission to play.
We were reminded of Article 31 of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, which states: “Every child has the right to rest, relax, play and to take part in cultural and creative activities.”
We were an international group and so, much like what happens when clowns head out into the world, the languages and cultural heritage we brought with us were integrated into the playing.
We taught each other games from our own childhoods – some we hadn’t thought about in decades. We learned to adapt them into languages we didn’t know; the teachers stressed the importance of using gestures and learning basic phrases local to the areas where clowns work.
Trauma-informed clowning
For Holdsworth, a trauma-informed approach to clowning is integral to everything the group does. It’s never just about a game; it’s about an awareness of how that game can help people.
On the first day, she shared a manual that highlights how “the impact of trauma can be subtle, gradual, or outright destructive”.
“It’s not about choosing between food assistance and cash assistance and safe shelter and psychosocial support. All of it is needed. Kids can have two hours laughing and that will release stress hormones and foster a new sense of agency and imagination.”
It was a simple introduction to the complex world of trauma, but there was important discussion about the science of early childhood development, and about how to meet the needs of those impacted by crisis and conflict. Holdsworth highlighted five key principles of trauma-informed practice: safety; trust; choice; collaboration; and empowerment.
She also stressed the importance of relationship-building. This is a key way that humanitarian clowning differs from circus clowning. It’s not just about performance. It’s an opportunity to engage with people who need help.
While scientific theory around trauma was there to underpin our work, the facilitators stressed that we had to get down and play; because in crisis zones, they said, there is no script. You don’t know how children will react, and it’s important to learn how to adapt with confidence.
We played a game Varszegi learned in Ukraine, where we imagined being at a beach when a shark turns up. It was a lesson in what happens in the nervous system when you are suddenly confronted with a threat.
Holdsworth explained that this was a good example, learnt from Ukrainian clowns, of the important concept of “play with purpose”. “The vehicle of this is that there was danger in that game, and it was a way for them to safely express their lives,” she said.
In stressful environments – for example where children are displaced or have to deal with the loss of their homes – the idea is to create a transformative space where they can become more than the surroundings they find themselves in.
Afterwards, I spoke with Marshall, the aid worker who came to the workshop with two decades of experience of working with young people in crisis. She attributed a tangible importance to what we had learned.
“There is value in play, and clowning offers concrete and tangible entry points to foster essential skills for children afflicted by conflict and crisis,” she said. “It’s not about choosing between food assistance and cash assistance and safe shelter and psychosocial support. All of it is needed. Kids can have two hours laughing and that will release stress hormones and foster a new sense of agency and imagination. And rather than oversell clowning as something that it’s not, it’s about unpacking the magic in this approach.”
Disruption
By the end of the long weekend, we all knew how to say “soap” in Turkish, and how to integrate hygiene awareness into a game involving foxes and chickens.
We also learned that clowns were not a panacea, but they can make a difference.
For those who hoped to become humanitarian clowns, this workshop would be followed by a lot more training. It turns out it’s not easy to get a gig as a humanitarian clown – Holdsworth said there’s been an increase in the number of clowns on their call list to the current 47, and she’ll only take one new clown per tour. Their visits usually last about two or three weeks, and it takes time to make sure the teams are properly trained and supported.
That idea of support and connection runs through “Send in the Clowns: Humanitarian Clowning in Crisis Zones”, a collection of essays published earlier this year by experienced practitioners, aimed both at those already practising and those thinking about getting into the burgeoning field.
After the workshop, I called up David Bridel, founder of LA-based The Clown School, and co-editor of the book, to get a better understanding of why there seems to be such momentum building in humanitarian clowning.
He said that bringing clowning to crises is actually a return to clowning’s roots. “It doesn’t take long, if you unpack the history of clowning, to realise that clowns were not always professional entertainers,” he said. “In fact, they exist in our world because they are there to counter prevailing norms. If the prevailing norm is suffering, disaster, distress, then the clown’s role is to counter that with support and joy and whatever version of connection can be made in a fragmented world.”
Holdsworth comes at it a bit differently: She wants everyone who is a clown, or who encounters one, to feel inspired to make change in their own communities by bringing whatever joy they can. But she admits that humanitarian clowns certainly can offer a bit of disruption to the extreme stress of crises, too.
That’s the very nature of putting a clown into a crisis. “Because it’s outside the needs of food, shelter, and water,” she said. “We’re a reminder of humanity.”
For me, the workshop was a reminder that it’s sometimes easier to find joy and laughter in the company of others. In many ways, humanitarian clowning seems to also be about alleviating loneliness, and about creating space to just be and enjoy the moment.
And you don’t have to be a child to appreciate that.
Edited by Annie Slemrod.
