La guerra no té rostre de dona

Why does reality push us, time and again, to talk about hard things, about impossible battles? Why do we return, time and again, to impossible texts, to the blunt words of wastefulness? Why do we feel that theater must necessarily be an essence that shouldn't be easy to digest? Why do we need to explain the difficult things to hear? Reality is always stubborn and keeps staring us in the face. We can't avoid it. We feel duty-bound not to avoid it. And to shout it out loud with the tools at our disposal. We wanted to make a comedy and finally couldn't. Another quite new and present reality has asked us to postpone the project. We were looking forward to the feeling of laughter, of feeling comforted by the characters of Filumena. Now we won't be able to, we leave it for a few months from now. And meanwhile? What do we do, where do we start? We wanted to make a comedy and now we couldn't. I look at Clara and we ask ourselves: "So what do we do then? Do we wait? Do something else? Do nothing?" And I think of Svetlana's face and expression, also making news these same days, persecuted. What should we do then? Explain? Explain what? What story do we need to sew up and explain? What do we need to listen to? We know we can't yet, but we have a terrible need to feel alive. To live. And to do our job, and for it to be heard. And to go out in the street with tranquility, and to have a vermouth, to break away from the strict routine. To go to the theater. This is well known, everyone would write the same. But that doesn't make it any less true. We know we still can't fully, but we would like to. To look at each other's faces and touch, play ball with unknown children, and look at others without fear, without guilt, without shame, and exchange things, take the book from the girl next to me on the bus, and lovingly turn the page for her and read together the yellow manifesto, and make the revolution of the carnations... Take up the battles we had halfway. And rereading Svetlana, we recover that open wound of the great wars of our world, of the femininity of love, of fear. Fear of love, femininity finding solutions. Of so many lost battles, that we feel as heirs. Of rediscovering Antigone and Nawal from "Incendies," of everything. And we want to present to you "War Has No Woman's Face."

Oriol Broggi