Refugi

A shelter is a roof, a place to fall dead, a house, a flat. A forest, a tent. A mother, a brother, a hug. A shelter can be made of beams, mortar, brick. From sticks, wood, straw. Meat, clothes and words.

Unprotected is a word. It's the lack of parents. A desert is unprotected. The road is unprotected. In the middle of this desert, this road, four injured people. They are sought, but they are not found. They are called, but they do not get an answer. And ultimately, it's all the time, they get hurt for love. Because they need irresponsibly, desperately, love. The love of others not to feel alone. Not to get lost in this desert. Not to disappear.

Loving and not knowing is a paradox. And what are we, if not incomplete, complex and contradictory beings? Will we ever know how to love without doing (or doing) harm? And will we know, above all, how to find our way of love? To be in the world? Will we be able to go over centuries and centuries of history, of systems, to find the way in which it does not hurt us to love? Can we find a way to make family? Is the family really a salvation? Or a sentence?

Refugi is a dark comedy, or a luminous drama, or characters darkened by longings and desires that clash with each other. It is an American sitcom, a modern Chekhov or a daily tragedy, where through a hole we enter a house, very distant but very close. And there, we know them: Amy, Becca, Nat and Sam who, alien to our eyes, perhaps, struggle to become a refuge for each other. But, and above all, to become the refuge of themselves.

Mònica Molins Duran