 It's academic and it's theater and it's the place where they both need to be up to logic and practice and for each other. You make sure practice is historical practice as well. Uh-huh. Everybody, please. Sample? Just start from there. Sharing. What is it you do? Sharing. How would you do that? There's no way you can ignore that thing any more. I remember when you would come and see the talk about it. Please start to have a little thing right there. You have to do it completely open. Theater for everybody? Yes, everybody. Let's get what's really done. And you do? My understanding of what is a relationship to that. I've already seen it. Survival of theater has an art form, a dance concept. So thank you everybody for coming here to the Martin E. Siegel Theater Center at the Graduate Center CUNY. And this is the first day of the great Penbold Voices International Playwrights Festival. It's a program dear and very, very important to our heart. We bridge here academia and professional theater, international, and American theater. My name is Frank Henschkamp, the director of the Center. And I think there's not enough that goes back and forth between the countries across the ocean. Someone said it's like red wine in the old sales boats. You never know where it arrives in good shape. But I think we all have to do a better job to reach out and to listen. And the play company with whom we collaborate for this reading is one of the great companies in the Americas to really dedicate work and their energy and lifetime to this. And we are collaborating with them for the reading of the Stefano Massini's Intractable Woman. A great play about a great journalist who got killed. And we held for her in collaboration with Panda, commemoration, celebrating her life and work. We also would like to thank Valeria from the Italian Playwrights Project who brought Stefano Massini to the playwright here. First, we did a reading with him on the Lehman Brothers, two German, I think, Orthodox Jewish brothers who left in the 1860s, came to America and then graded the Lehman Brothers. We know them until the 50s or 60s. They were a great company led by the family. Then it changed. The cooperation took over. And the play actually is now being done by Sam Mendes in the National Theatre in London. So this playwright who we hear tonight really is one of the great masters of his field. So I think we are in for a very interesting reading. I also think this is important to the mission of Penn itself. The Freedom to Write Penn is one of the great organizations in the world anyway, but especially for the Freedom to Write. They do work with writers in prison, get them actually really out of prison and hand out one of the most significant literary awards. I really encourage you also to check out the Festival of Penn World Voices over I think 60 or 70 writers are right now in the city of New York. It's one of the reasons why New York City is such a great town because of things that happened like the Penn World Voices. And we are extremely honored that we for over 10 years now collaborate and with Penn on the Festival. So the play reading will be about minute-wise, how long? 70 minutes and then afterwards we will hear in the space a little discussion with the artist and with Paula and the translator and others. And then you can join us. There's an archive bar around where some of the artists, some of the writers will be. It's called the Archive. It's mentioned in the program. If you want to fill out our little audience question, that would be great. You can keep the pencil as a reward. And if that is a stimulation, please do so. And so we know a little bit better how we can do to reach people. Because a lot of people say, I wish I would have known earlier, but the Segal Center does and we maybe don't do the best job in the world in the outreach so we want to learn how to do that better. If you have a cell phone, please do take it out now and I'll do the same and check that it's off and mute. It doesn't ring. Please really give it another look. And it never rings in our readings and it would be a shame. It's the first time ever tonight. So again, thank you so much. And Intractable Woman by Stefano Massini. Here we go. This gentleman works in the office of the Russian president. They trust him at the Kremlin and they listen to him. In 2005, Sercov writes in an internal circular that, quote, enemies of the state are divided into two categories, the kind that you can re-educate and the intractable. Discussion is not possible with the second kind. Discussion is not possible with the second kind. Discussion is not possible with the second kind. And this makes re-education impossible. The state requires us to clear our territories of these intractable. Morning of August 5th, chronicle of another day, in Kirchelage, Chechnya. There's a strange dust in the air. The square is small, full of people, mostly women. In the middle of a mix of earth and sand, gray houses not white. You'd expect those houses to be white or maybe a sandy color and Asia houses are always thought to be sand colored. Instead, there they are. Gray cement, dirty, almost black. Doesn't seem like Asia and yet it is Asia. Third millennium Asia. For some reason I fire myself passing by a square like all the others. A place like all the others. They're all alike here. White sky, dusty air. Then, like an iron and steel giant, the pipeline across the entire village. Actually, it's almost like the village emerged from the pipeline or sprouted up around it, like those reddish mushrooms around here that sometimes attach themselves to tree trunks at night. They cling all the way around as if they want to steal the space for themselves. The pipeline crosses all of Chechnya, from top to bottom, enormous, majestic, writ large. No one knows where it begins, from the moment to the next it seems about to collapse and yet, and yet it remains standing so far. It's there. Despite rust, despite crumbling, despite the weight. Anyway, the pipeline crosses Perchelage Square. There's a crowd in the square, a waiting crowd. Before I can ask myself what's stirring clouds of dust, a truck appears. Two men step down. The crowd draws together. I move closer to the women. I have a scarf around my face so I can be taken from one of them. A basin comes out through the window and from the basin, the two guys take out a kind of tattered ball, a red ball. They let it drain onto the ground. It's a head, a human head hanging on a hook. They stick it there on the pipe of the pipeline, on the iron, not moving like those backpacks that hang on hooks outside the shops on display and plain sight. A head up there. It doesn't care that the pipeline behind its back rushes away fast toward the east. It does not move. And now it drips, slowly, precisely. It drips, it drips, it drips. On the ground below in the dust there's a sort of lake, a red lake, and the head continues to pour. It's red drops into the lake, one after the other, slowly, precisely, slowly, precisely. The two policemen stand in front on guard. People pass by in the loop and the hanging head drips slowly, precisely. A few nights before, between the 27th and the 28th of July, two Chechen guerrillas fell in an ambush. The police who report to Moscow lay the trap just steps outside the village. One Chechen was captured, the other killed. To set an example for the whole village, the policemen remove the head and hang it from the pipeline in the middle of the village to drip into the square while the other cops write up reports. It often happens here. The cops decapitate the guerrillas and use their head as a trophy. And half a day they'll take it down from up there, reattach it to the body with iron thread as the law requires. At that point, it will have stopped dripping. There are those who say that places in the world are a little like the rivers, that the spirit of the people, the history of the people flows like the waters of the rivers. The Tyre River's turbulent. It rocks, cascades, violence. Freezing cold water born from ice, it flows 600 kilometers first to North Russia. Then east, it gallops, dives making a gigantic swamp before hurling itself into the Caspian Sea. The Tyre River, a serpent of water, wedged tightly between the mountains of the Caucasus and two seas, the Caspian on the right, the Black Sea on the left, like a parked handful of earth flung between two pools of water. And the people make war for centuries, for power over that earth. So many nations you lose count. Ossetia, Ingushetia, Dagestan, Balakarya, Cerkasia, Adigezia, Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan, and finally Turkey. And right in the middle of that handful of earth, tied up, tracked, suffocated, microscopic, Czechia, holding on there on the banks of the Tyre, restless land of Czechia, like its river, rebellious land, not only now, but for centuries. It doesn't recognize the masters. It doesn't recognize authority, not only now, but for centuries. Proud land, hostile, like the horses from here, the counter-broken, insolent land of Czechia, disobedient, dangerous, not only now, but for centuries. The common greeting on the street, even today, is not good day or good evening, or God bless you, but I wish you liberty. Liberty. Something maybe never happened. From the 18th century to today, Russia has been at war with Czechia to prove to herself that she controls the empire. From the 18th century to today, Czechia doesn't ask for freedom. Czechia seizes it. It revolts. Revolution, bombs, attacks. This is Czechia to the Russians, a land of rebels to be tamed through Russia. This is Russia for the Czechians. For the Czechians. A country of masters to be hunted down, to be bled dry. Tsar Nicholas I persecuted them for 40 years. Stalin had them deported on mass. In three days, the entire Czechian population was moved to Kazakhstan. Territorial zoning. Soviet style. Ethnic distribution. Men, women, elderly, children. They returned home only 13 years later, 1957. In the last 10 years, right up to today, the war is continuous. The war to save Russia from the southern Arabs. In Russia, the people of the Caucasus they call it the long war against the Czechoslovakia. The only opposing voices have been soldiers' mothers. They hold protests, march in squares, they don't want their sons on the front. Solution, starting tomorrow, only orphans can enlist. At least then, there's no protest. Russia ships mercenary troops to Chechnya on contract. IKU, you fight. They want to enlist our ex-convicts. Criminals, gangs of unemployed and ultra-right-winners who typically say, I get off. We're not killed. They're called the Chechen forest cleaning unit. And they clean all right. Actually, they cleanse. I convince a boy in the Russian unit to talk to me. I meet him in a half-empty barracks in the territory of Berlin. Only a few have remained in the garrison here. The others have been moved into the mountains. Scamouflage uniform is too big for him. It gives him shoulder pads. I don't tell him, but it's a little funny. What's your name? Sasha. Okay, Sasha. Sasha, big day. But don't write that down. Can I ask how old you are? 19. How long have you been in Chechnya? Seven months. Is this what you chose or did they send you here? I chose. They'll be forced to leave. All right. Can you tell me why a 19-year-old boy decides to come to Chechnya? They pay me. That's why? There was no work. A year and a half. And so you enlisted. In those days, word was the army was looking for orphans to go to Chechnya for pretty good pay. If I had two, I'd re-enlist right away. Sasha, how many people have you killed since you've been in Chechnya? Are you within regulation? What do you mean within regulation? By the numbers. Each of us has to kill three or four a day. A day. At least three or four. Can you do it? There are techniques. For example, the human bundle. What would that be? You go into a village, you take ten people, tie them up tight with rope, toss a grenade in the middle, blow them up, boom. Do you have a cigarette? Have you done it yet? What? This human bundle. Boom. Three times. Are you proud of it? They do it to us. We do it to them first. So what? I mean, it's not like they're human. They're just Chechens. So if you have a cigarette, I look at this young boy in front of me. He could be my son, after all. The question that comes to mind is what's the cause? The reason. Then I think that his life, his 19 years as a microscopic, a microcosm of Russia's recent history, my story, our story in five stages. In 1986, a boy was born in 1986. The days of Gorbachev talking about liberty, transparency in 1986, perestroika, glas nos, new life. You talk about it a little out loud. You think about it. Everything is changing. Newspapers start asking what crap is the KGB hiding? 1991. 1991, the boy is five years old. He goes to school. He sees the end of the Soviet Union. He hears so many speeches. The West, democracy, desire, dreams, hopes, all looking to the future. If you want to offend somebody, you call them KGB face. Which means shit face. 1996. 1996. Now he's ten years old. A great disappointment. Hunger in Russia. Stores, clothes, fees everywhere. Crazy prices. On the streets of Moscow millionaires and Rolls-Royces and crowds in tatters. The President of Russia Boris Yeltsin, hopeless drunk. At state funerals on live TV he whistles and laughs. Things go backward. Somebody says the KGB worked. It maintained order. Order that doesn't exist anymore. 2001. The boy is 15. Russia is worse than the wild west. They kill you on the street for a single ruble. Nobody works. Gangs and thugs, attacks, bombs, buildings, subways, blown up. The square is full of processions. Neo-Nazis neo-Leninists, neo-Stalinists, neo-Sarists. Hyper-Extra-Ultra-Nationalists waving bad a crime if only the KGB still existed. And in fact ex-Colonel of the Secret Service has nominated and named President. A patriotic war is declared on Chechnya. It is said to be a triumph. Here's to the President. This is to Russia. We're great again. 2005. Today. The boy is 19. He devotes himself to human fungals. And he's content. But if you ask him what do you want to do with your life? Right now I'm at war. And when it ends I hope it does. You're afraid to be in Grozny? People die there. There's a problem with being in Grozny's fear. Fear of death, being blown up, getting yourself killed, finding a bullet in your head. The truth is, that's the least of it. You get used to the idea of death after a while you don't even think about it. You take it for granted. But you know it can happen. You forget about it. A strange thought comes into your head that you're playing with death. Your steps pass so close, you graze it you know it's there, close by but you keep going. I mean, it's so present you don't want it anymore. No, the real problem with my months in Grozny is something else. The problem is that everything's a problem. Constantly. From the moment you wake up in the morning you can close your eyes at night. 7am in Grozny. Here's a list of a journalist's problem in Grozny. 7am, you wake up. First problem, they the accurate up was blown up. There's no what. You turn on a tap, nothing. Bottle water is expensive. And even if you could pay for it, you can't find it. The only water in Grozny belongs to the army. They bring it in from Russia in tankers. In fact, an extremely long life on the black market for a 3-minute shower time to the second. 8am, breakfast. Second problem, you have nothing to eat. Because but because you have to eat something because for 8 months a year it's freezing cold so if you don't eat your pass out that happens in the military. So you try to solve the problem by searching for provisions. Warning, not what you like which would be a luxury. Like half a tin of meat, say. Powdered milk and chilies. Brand plates, yes, the diet food. I promise you the stomach cramps are that painful. Otherwise, if you want to eat the only food in Grozny belongs to the army. They bring it in from Russia in vans. In fact, an extremely long line extends from their camp. They make you pay on the black market for one packet with one slice of bread in it, sometimes I swear. I've gone there myself. 10 am. You get to work. You have to write an article. Third problem, there's no electricity. Or better yet, it comes and goes. There are attacks at stations. The internet's unreliable so you write it by hand on scraps of paper. Then you call it in from a phone booth clearly because there's no phone reception cell phone reception. There's only about a dozen phones in the city center. The only telephones in Grozny belong to the army. And if you pay, then maybe, but I've never tried that. When I am, you go around to get interviews on all that. Fourth problem, getting around. The streets are half blown up. There are craters, yet chasms, pits. You can only get around with an SUV. The army has some, but they hang onto them tightly. I start my hunt for a vehicle. I prick up my gears. You said you were going out of town? Can I tag along? That covers the trip there and the return of my trip. 3, 4, 5 p.m. You have meetings with people, right? No, it's observed. Fifth problem, roadblocks. You get the basic idea. I get the basic idea, which is according to the Russian army, people in Grozny should never go. According to them, they're closed up, locked up. The moment you step out on the street, you're in the wrong. They stop you between 5-10 times a day. They ask you for documents, check documents, various taunts, jokes, devil art, and on-tongues, I put up with them. Then the question, was it absolutely necessary for you to circle? What this means precisely is that moving around is practically a crime. You know, I pretend I have a headache. Other times, unfortunately, I can't do it. And I reply, What about you? Is it absolutely necessary for you to breathe? For the record, I calculated that 2 hours a day go by with roadblocks. 6 p.m. It's starting to get dark. Sixth problem, the curfew. From here on, problems triple. Not only because of roadblocks, not only because you have to get back home, God knows how. There are other problems that come with darkness and growth. Chetan criminal gangs. They lurk in dark corners. One streetlight in 10 actually works. And they take everything you have, including the buttons on your gloss. If you don't come across any thugs, you can also for drugs. They buy vodka from the army or drug addicts. They buy opium from the Chetans. But as a last resort, there's the ever-popular wildcard, with lots of stray dogs. They tear a few dozen people around two pieces here in the city. 10 p.m. Time to sleep. Seventh problem, which is indeed sleeping. There are five, six, seven explosions a night. At each explosion, you wake up and ask yourself, is my building collapsing? You look at the ceiling, it's not collapsing. You see the floor, it's not collapsing. You tell yourself, it's over, you go back to sleep, or at least you try to, until the next one. Voila! End of days, end of problems. Last year, I was invited to a conference abroad. After three straight months in a row, when I went to France, I arrived at a hotel. I arrived at night, I woke up the next morning with a strange feeling. I have slept without waking, without explosions. I get up, go to the bathroom, stare fearfully at the tap, abruptly turn it on, and incredibly, a roar of water. And hot at that. I let it run, looking at it, and I feel like laughing, but not a little. Like, a lot. Like, crazy. I don't know if I'm laughing or crying, I just know that I stand there, looking at the water, listening to the water, gazing at the water. Have you noticed there are more flies here in the hospital than in a boat farm? Hospital number nine in Grosny, the capital city. I'm here to interview the head doctor. He's young. His name is Selten Kajev. He has a stiff, paralyzed leg. Ask him what happened. I was lucky I only lost the leg. It's a miracle I'm alive. Souvenir of a landmine? Oh, no, I was in my car at an intersection. A military armored car swooped in out of nowhere, speeding like crazy in the middle of the city. I was thrown out. The car was totaled. It was driven by a Russian soldier, 20 years old, drunk. It was their investigation. Natural. Is this the only hospital? The only one left standing. Barely. But it's still standing. If you go around the wards here and there, you'll find a wall missing. You can see it from the outside, thanks to a few mortar shells. From the army? From whoever. You never know who's shooting anymore in Grosny. You know a shoot. That's all. There are cots everywhere. Nowadays, they take a bench, throw a tablecloth over it, and in triage, we perform operations on wooden boards. Dr. Kajev, how many wounds did it end up in this ward? Around 300 in the last few months. People pour in continually. One without an arm, one with a face, his face cut open, souvenir of a landmine. I see women mostly. The majority are women. They come from towns, villages. They are mixed gangs of Russian military and Chechen guerrillas. To see who can rape the most women in one night. And the police don't stop them. Rape is legal here. If you assault a woman, no one will do anything. And Colonel Fudinov's armoured regiments, they bring a truck full of girls every night. The next morning, they end up here. Provided the guys don't have to hunt first to defeat Ben's death. And sooner or later, they go back home? No. According to Chechen tradition, when a woman has been raped, she is no longer worthy of her husband. They're abandoned? Yes. Even by the families. They become polluted. What happens to them? Nothing. They stay here? Completely destitute. All of Chechnya is like that. In Limbo. The people don't exist. We're bodies with nothing inside them. We're nobody. A land of nobody. Sometimes I think it doesn't take much to make sense of Chechnya. You just have to look at who's in charge. His name? Ramzan Kadyrov. Age 30. Today, he's Prime Minister of Chechnya. His face is on all the posters, on all the walls in all the streets of Rosny. I ask you, how can a man of 30 be Prime Minister? In the end, in the story, a simple Ramzan's father was Ahmed Kadyrov, President of Chechnya. Fine. Moving on. Just after you turn 20, Ramzan is named the head of Chechnya Presidential Secret Service. In three years, he accumulates countless accusations of rape violence. Fine. Moving on. When he's 25, Ramzan creates an army. Oh yes. Even this can be done in Chechnya. The son of the president can create his own army. A personal army. They're paid out of state funds and Russia supports it. 1,000 men in Kadyrov's junior army. It goes by the name of its boss. The troops call themselves Kadyrovsky. Human rights force claims that Ramzan Kadyrov's personal army is responsible for 70% of all torture in Chechnya. Fine. Moving on. Ramzan Kadyrov remains head of Secret Service until May 9, 2004. That day, there's a parade in Grand East Stadium to celebrate the Russian victory of the Second World War. The president, Ramzan's father, is seated in the reviewing stand. Then the kicker. A huge explosion blows up the entire Presidential Committee. Young Ramzan is not at the stadium so he survives. Talk about luck. As a gesture of solidarity, the Russians give Ramzan the second highest position in the State Deputy Prime Minister. Not bad. But that's not enough for him. He says probably more than one. I'd like that Prime Minister Sergei Abimov's job. And his dream comes true. Because December, 2005, Abimov dies in the car accident. To this day, no one knows what caused the accident, which happened in Moscow. But the fact is that Ramzan automatically becomes Prime Minister. Fine. Moving on. Ramzan Kadyrov's governs Chechnya today with full Russian, with Russia's full support. His is a reign of terror that relies on paramilitary troops. In 10 years they have exterminated a quarter of the original population. Shortly after his name Prime Minister, Anna Politskowskaya introduced Ramzan Kadyrov in a foreign newspaper. The answers are published for and Kadyrov gave them as Kadyrov gave them without changing your comment. Normally politicians complain when interviews do not print what they actually said, but in this case it was the opposite. Ramzan Kadyrov's reaction the day after publication I find the behavior of this journal sound acceptable. Doesn't she know it's the interviewer's job to make the interview weedy look good? What right did she have to publish exactly as I gave them? Clearly, this woman doesn't want to be one of us. He tells me to enter. Inside the tank it's almost completely dark. Outside it's been pouring since this morning I can hear rain and hail beating on the green armored plane. It's the first time that a higher ranking Russian official in Chechnya has agreed to meet His name is Alexei cannot reveal his last name He's a colonel in command of an airborne unit. We're in Katsuhi a ghostly place full of landfill sites. Around us I count dozens of pits huge craters dug into the ground deep, half full of garbage and they empty trash cans into them. Here there's no other way to deal with waste. It sits there, thrown away the rain seeping into the mocker made dark pools of slime outside the cinch's overwhelming big claws at your throat. At least inside the tank you can breathe. The colonel is sitting between the knobs and controls white hair, wrinkle and cut deep on his chest a metal of valor he adjusts it constantly dark glasses I don't know why he wears them but there you are he stares at me as if I were somehow surprising awkward silence then I get it thought you'd be a man a woman's no good me I got no problem no word for you in no sense what's a journalist and a spirit coming down here with us taking a look around I'll ask the questions if you don't mind First, what if they gotta pay us more to be in Chechnya? Meaning? I've served 40 years I gotta be in the ship now or I'll at least make some money Is it true that the Russian army loots villages with Chechen gangs? I don't think so But you don't deny it Wouldn't happen if they paid us more And you confirm that your soldiers also drink and take drugs? And you punish them? If morale is low what are they supposed to do? I told you or you gotta do a family And the assaults, the rapes can you confirm? Our boys are young far from home every so often they're a little fun That's all Look, the vast few people in Chechnya women are all intuitive first and they go on crying or raping They lie It's been documented made up Journalists like you write lies What should I write? That we're fighting for the motherland against enemies of the people and traitors I'll write up that you're here I'll write up that you're not I know how rough it is here, the whole thing our shoulders They're being examined You see the landfill up there? I'm talking about dumping the Chechens into the trash What does that mean? Got our prisoners, camps for the prisoners So we throw them in there Into the pits with the garbage? You can get a lot in there You can pack them in tight Why did you tell me that? Because if I gotta be the garbage man they gotta pay me more Write that A radio's on commercial jingles in the next room or maybe the one after I don't know Anyway, it's on I'm seated on what chair? I haven't noticed Maybe a crate? Wood? It doesn't seem like it It's cardboard What's inside? I have no idea The drops of sweat are so large You could count them Yes, you could count them on your neck, behind your ear and your hair One, two, three, 20, 30, 50 They are all around How many of them? Three, four There's another one as well, but he comes and goes The barrel of a rifle pointed at my neck For how long now? An hour? Maybe more Maybe less But it seems like a century So journalists, you don't want to tell us who you talk to? The jingle on the radio plays on I hear a sudden noise on my right I turn my head A hand grabs my hair and pulls upward While a fist crashes my nose I end up on the ground I crawl face in the dirt They kick me in the chest And both of them take my arms And drag me outside in the courtyard From here the jingles can't be heard They tie me to something I feel the iron cold against my back A mortar, I think It gets into my face Now we're going to blow you to bits What's going on, journalists? Not talking anymore? I don't talk in fact I don't make a sound Not a word, not a tear, not a complaint No cry, I have no longer me I can't even move a finger Not part of me anymore Now I hear the jingle has started up again The door opens Somebody enters running Says something into the ear of the other one Points at me, they stare at me Then the minister has saved your ass, journalists I don't react It has nothing to do with me They untie me, moving on There's a helicopter leaving I don't move my legs They throw me inside I lay there, stretched out for the whole flight The pilots laugh, dirty jokes Next to me another body I explore with my fingers It doesn't move I turn my head Which takes a huge effort It's a corpse Still warm Open letter published in the Sakhalin newspaper For the soldiers of the 68th Russian Army Corps in Chechnya Letter of reply published in the Sakhalin newspaper From Anapoli Kostya March 23rd, 2001 To the hardly reputable journalist Anapoli Kostya April 13th, 2001 To the nameless staff officers Of the 68th Russian Army Corps Madam, you are not the first to offend the Russian Army Armed Forces And you will not be the last We have felt the need to write to you Despite our contempt Not to respond to your mudslinging But because of its impact That you are widely considered a great reporter Offends us Gentlemen, you know who I am First name and last name Because I don't hide behind anonymity And I don't walk around Chechnya Black block plava over my face The way Russian troops do For reasons we are not privy to You make wild accusations over your arrest At a Rome block last February Con, it's possible that you were treated harshly Maybe even violently You accuse me of a smear campaign I limit myself to reporting If I see the public taxes or financing Violence and torture, I have a duty to report it If you wanted to be treated with kid gloves You shouldn't have come to Chechnya If you really were a great journalist You'd know that war has its rules And whatever breaks them Can't come crying about it after the fact The way you do in your articles Shouldn't have come down here to slander Those who risk their lives So your little house in Moscow doesn't blow up You're right that you are risking your lives for Russia I have asked the army to escort me Into the danger zones and none of you Has ever taken me up on it Instead I have seen your men looped Post offices and send money to Moscow To the orphans of dead soldiers In accusing us You sighed with our opposition And so you, dear lady Are our enemy Please know that we are merciless With our enemy And we will continue to be Out of patriotic need You're right that I too am an enemy And for that you threaten me Even from the pages of a newspaper My reply is that it's true An enemy An enemy of an army of criminals Scavenged from jails and gunners of Moscow I am an enemy of those who rape, loot And steal Not wanting to sign this personally We are for your information A group of staff officers If you are really proud of what you do If you are convinced you're in the right Wonderful Take off your balaclavas Abandon your anonymity Dare to look me in the eye and tell me Your's truly Anapolikovskaya So far At home Not in Chechnya No My place in Moscow TV remote channel surfing Distracted Ads, news Christian sport Channel surfing Distracted then Channel one On the public network State television Russian television 8 p.m. practice All over Russia and beyond At this moment There are millions of screens In millions of homes Cheening in The new drama series Is airing Title The Just War The setting is today In Chechnya The protagonist A group of Russian soldiers All young and handsome You are leaving Chechnya And nobody can stop They say things like I will leave everything to defend our homeland There's a father Who's saluting his son Leaving for the front He says to him, in my time I fought Hitler Now it's your turn Tears, emotion There are Russian troops on the screen Violin and music swells in the night They don't drink They don't curse their honest loyal They call each other friend They help each other They sacrifice for each other They write letters home They're teeth chattering in the cold When one of the voices hurt By a landmine A chorus of soprano voices Was heard the fall of a yellow On the other side There's a guy Which would be the Chechens They've chosen the ugly, disfigured actors With visible scars Bandages, one is missing an eye One has no teeth Another, the boss Where's a turban with a serpent on it He limps, they call him the cripple And notice that the Russian character In all the beautiful names These Chechens don't have given names Only nicknames, nicknames like The Beast, The Hawk There isn't a single scene Where Chechens don't swear They steal, they take drugs They betray each other One kills his wife Another sells his children They plan attacks on Moscow They laugh about it They tell jokes like We'll kill all the Russian scum When one of them is killed off The sky opens An array of sunlight escapes In a scene in the first episode There's a face like the ogre's cave In Russian folk tale Nobody enters without a diagonal hand But the best character Is a girl A Chechen girl, strangely enough She has a name, Rukiya This girl is with an ugly, horrible Chechen who beats her every day But look Now she's in luck With Sasha, a Russian soldier He saves her He takes her to the Russian barracks Where all the officials tell her You are safe here And she starts crying and says May Allah bless you After the final credits roll Writing across the screen Moving upward slowly This Is a true story All over Russia and beyond At that moment on millions of screens In millions of homes This Is a true story The sky is white And snowy for months And grows me Continuously There's never been a winter like this one Ice, sleet, like a vice Ruins covered in snow Buildings gutted, torn open Desserted Iron skeletons reinforced concrete Glass 15 degrees below zero Refrigerated ruins You come upon even this And grow me A snowy white Writing jumps out Blood red in fresh varnish Surrender Russians We have you surrounded You come upon even this And after noon, like so many others In a freezing winter Four days till New Year's At the time, I don't know this date Will become famous The biggest attack in the last ten years Chichens are going to blow up other chichens Their own kind Dead, like animals But animals don't kill their own kind this way A truck Packed with explosives A kamikaze crashes into a wall A wall of the legislature Number of dead in Calcutta If you haven't seen an attack with your own eyes Keep your mouth shut because you don't know anything If you think blood on the ground Is red, keep your mouth shut Because you don't know that it's brown Almost black If you think the corpse is impressive Because you don't know about the ones who crawl Half dead, holding their own limbs The explosion shakes the walls It's not the usual explosion Or mortar attack, no This time it's something else That's what I think And that's what I see in the eyes Of those around me Time stands still Stop it Silence First, the deafening bang Now, silence Time stands still For a second And starts up again Smoke invades the street But not gradually, no, immediately And as if from nowhere Like an echo Sound you don't recognize I don't recognize it Strangler I'm an animalistic deep I realize later It's the screams of those who were there Excited to run I want to see Around the corner I run There's a crowd going the other way Crying, screaming, get away I run In the opposite direction, get away I run Dirty, dusty gray faces getting away I run Screaming, bumping into me, they don't even see me I run Smoke in the air fills my throat I run I run, exhausted, out of breath I run My eyes can't fight the smoke either They're burning I run I see flames now So high I run I slip, I get up The snow is fresh I run I run It's smoke ashes, dust I run I run I lift my eyes I run I stop Blood, blood, snow Blood There's fire everywhere, at my feet On the ice, burning bands Carves to fill Paper, folded, shredded clothes Uniforms, skirts, wooden hats Scarves, tatters, gloves Tires, carpets Pieces of wool Plaster, blacks Chipping Iron Broken wood One human head, tiles, knobs A steering wheel, a car seat A radio A leg, taxi meters, torn sign An arm, a hand Lights on their flat walls Classic bags Puged Ship Kerosene Family photos Two dead dogs Bilberos, bottles, drawers One child Front headlights, broken tubes The left full wires Fire extinguishers Hair Lighting embers Snow Blood, blood You come upon even this in Grozny Maybe five States Stores Were rooms With empty shelves Here and there, a forgotten jar A can of beans A bottle Grocery stores That was it My sister and I used to spend the day at one of our aunts, Vera And every so often, Auntie Vera Made our eyes sparkle Today, we're going to make a chicken bra The drawers were empty They were not ready to cook chicken If by magic, a chicken appeared in the kitchen, it was because someone peasant gave it to you as a gift. You know why Maybe we could pay you back for something So Auntie Vera would take your chicken bucket and pass it over the gas flame to clean it because that would seal your chicken bit That's it Smell chicken over the fire Burned chicken lunch in Auntie Vera's kitchen I smelled that odor of pear And here is the game Identical Now, 40 years later burnt flesh Fought will not burn by as close as by gas Down there is what's left While I stand and staring, parallel I realize that today's chess hand is also missed It's burnt like Auntie Vera's chicken Yellow lights, orange, green, blue On the white of the floor where it all was reflected red carpets for the whole lobby sofas for the patrons posters for the musical northeast hanging in a showcase riddled with bullet holes We are in front of each other Me and the terrorist leader I know that behind that door there are hundreds of people in the stalls their fate partly depends on me The machine gun glued to his knee he will never let go of it So seated we speak In the lobby of a Dubrovka theater on the floor glass spreads out melted ice cream, raspberry color sticks to the soles of his shoes My name is Bakar Abu Bakar I am Annapolis Koskaya Why did you agree to come? I don't know I agree Now I'm here, it's not waste time Waste time on what? Negotiation Are you here for that? Is there another reason? Let me be clear We have 800 hostages in this theater 41 of us are hostage takers We all agree We're ready to die Maybe we don't want anything Did you ever think of that? Only to show we exist that Chechnya exists Okay, but there are children outside at least let them go Why? You think Russian soldiers and Chechnya don't take it out on our kids too? Now we've got yours This way you'll learn There are pregnant women the food they brought in they've been locked up in there for days Who cares? And Chechnya That's not going to get you anywhere Maybe not Right now, people around the world are seeing 800 hostages in the Dorovka Theater on television Nobody in the world gives a damn about us They're killing us and it has to stop But you can pull off a kidnapping like this Battalion of fighters Chechnya Do you think we are beggars? I have a university degree My wife is a doctor Behind those balaclavas over there are teachers, engineers You all came here Only the best We handpicked them We've been preparing for this for a year Holy Between 20 and 30 Let's say I can get a truce For what? Do you really believe that? Do you think they'll even listen to you? We only ask to see you because we know you're writing But look, Polkoskaya Even only you can get so far Russia needs our blood We need them as bullshit They'll attack us Even if we free the hostages, they'll attack us Okay, so What do you want to do? Blow ourselves up Blow it with explosives As he says this He lifts his camouflage jacket He wears a high thick belt Full of electrical wires Ready to explode Old Shomsun, as we're in half Is looking for his grandson He knocks at the office door He addresses the official Maybe you can help him Hang on, old man You have to fill out a form There's a document for every missing person Old Shomsun does not a right Is there another way? The other man looks at him They're nods, yes We can come to an understanding But first But first there's a pretty dread for sale Over there in the street market Would you buy a pretty dress To get your grandson back? That's a good deal, right? Shomsun runs out, gets the money together In half an hour, the dress is hanging In the official's office Where's my grandson? The other nods, yes We can come to an understanding But first It's so hot in here I'd love a cool bar Would you pay for a cool bar To get your grandson back? Old Shomsun runs out Palms, what he has It's enough for a cool bar Which in Brosnia is a fortune Where's my grandson? The other nods, yes We can come to an understanding But first I have a daughter in Moscow She really wants a silk hat Could you come up with a silk hat To get your grandson back? That's a good deal, right? Old Shomsun Old Shomsun asks for money all over town The silk hat's already wrapped, tied With a bow Come back to this office Tomorrow, you'll find your grandson The knight passes in a flash Old Shomsun Is there early, he wants to be the first He climbs the steps Goes to the end of the hallway, knocks on the door Nobody answers He knocks again The door gives The office is empty What are you looking for in there, old man? There's nobody here, I know I've all gone back to Moscow Yesterday was the last day before they moved Here Take it You have to fill out a form There's a document for every missing person Even I Have killed Me, in the end Even I have blood on my hands Here in Shomsun, there's no one Think about it often How many people do I have On my conscience? It was 2001 I arrived at Sunset In the mountain village of Tsozin I'm looking for information On a looting that's hit all the little towns I make inquiries, ask around But no one talks to me, they avoid me All at once a mountaineer Approaches me Tall, stocky Hard-faced Seems carved by an axe His name is Wachar Kosuev He tells me he was once an elementary School teacher Takes me to a hobble Looks at a stable or a gold barn But instead it's his house He sit, pours me a hot drink Then he looks at me and speaks Someone else who agrees to talk to me Is a middle-aged woman Wachar She holds her son by hand They take me into a chicken coop Or talk there They kill the family Because they didn't have any beer in the fridge I wave to the teacher Mountaineer at the door of his hut I wave to Wachar And her son at the door of the chicken coop And I promise them I'll Publish it all Two days after the article comes out An armored car stops in front of the hut Wachar Kosuev The one who talked to the journalist There's no time Even for an answer Gunfight And gone Are you a mod-pad The one who talked to the journalist There's no time Even for an answer Gunfight She and her son Stretched out on the ground Dead because of me Sure But if they hadn't talked to me They wouldn't be dead Where am I? Where do I find myself? Bob You hear voices around me, I can't make them out Not many, one, two Sound of voices talking All I have to do is open my eyes And so I make an attempt Nothing can't do it I remain frozen, still Lying down, obviously Here I search the area It's soft, fresh I say it's a bed What am I doing on a bed Who's talking nearby, I hear my name Someone repeats it, but not shouting No, gentle voice Anna, can you hear me? Anna All I have to do is open my eyes Really, how hard could it be? I resolve, I try once more Tremendous exhaustion I try hard I half open them for a second Then the shutters come down And that second I saw that everything is white A white ceiling, a white sheet And whoever it is that's nearby Is a white spot I can hardly breathe I feel my chest lift with the rhythm of my heart Rising, falling Rising, falling Rising, falling Sometimes there's a little pause, tiny Then it starts again, smooth and steady Rising, falling Rising, falling Rising, falling I try to make an effort I ask myself what I remember The last thing, the last glimpse I look inside among my memories Disordered drawers Then again, far Only one image Here it is A narrow place, everyone sitting In rows What is it? A train? A bus? No, no, no! The small windows Are round, an airplane And now slowly, like When you develop a photograph By soaking it in a bath of acid And gradually, from nothing The picture starts to form It's me running, so I won't miss my flight And four men grab my arm Mrs. Polatkowskaya, where are you going? Who are you? Security What do you want from me? Where are you going? Ossetia, Veslan Where the school, the school Teaches Good, follow us, you're on a different flight I climb aboard, I sit Breathless, I think I'd like to sleep I'm thirsty, I ask for tea I remember the tray, hard, plastic The tea burns a little, I have to blow on it I drink One sip and then another, moving around Below us, osco disappears I drink The houses, the streets, the fields I drink I walk I fall asleep Where do I go? And here, now, where am I? I dig deep, gather all my strength Push myself, come on Open your eyes, let's see My chest pounds powerfully Now I press my forehead My head is splitting I nearly surrender, then I open wide The room is white A hospital ward The voices earlier were two nurses One is thin, the other Lawned with two odd braids They smile, one takes my pulse Stay calm, now everything's fine Rest and we'll get back on your feet Should I open the curtain One bit of light? I indicate yes By lowering my chin Then fatigue sweeps over me From deep inside like a wave Before closing my eyes as everything clouds over I manage to ask through barely open lips I was on a plane And what happened? And the answer for the smile You were poisoned Done there in that school In Ossetia, in Beslan You were there? Tell us, who do you think is right Mrs. Polikosvaya? Taking a position as reasonable What do you think? Who's wrong, Mrs. Polikosvaya? The Russians or the Chessians? The army or the terrorists? In respect to Beslan, which side are you on personally? Mrs. Polikosvaya Who do you support? Who do you condemn? Who's mistaking Mrs. Polikosvaya? Who's in the right? A Beslan, surely you have an opinion In short, between two of them Which would you say? Taking a position as reasonable Yes I was at Belsang A little while afterwards, I saw it myself I saw a town of tombs coffins mass graves I saw a school that was only glass shards newly shopping pencils on the ground sketches with first day of school written on them the torn bunting, the names of the classes lined notebooks, graph, note paper I saw the brass groups where blood spatter is still everywhere I saw the imprint of dead bodies piled against the walls I know that I walked in Beslan amongst the graves single, doubles, triples, quadruples quintibles, textibles The names were carved in wood with the point of a screwdriver or on cardboard with a marker You walk in between the rows you read on one side and on the other you walk Alexander Balanina, 9 years old Marina Tatrova, 11 years old Kasan Rubayet, 14 years old Alina Tatrova, 11 years old Ira Tatrova, 12 years old Sierra Tatrova, 10 years old Lana Tava-Tserra, 9 years old Sermon Breva, 14 years old Lana Tava-Tserra, 9 years old Sermon Breva, 14 years old Levina Kukereva, 12 years old Marzim Lushov, 9 years old Alina Kuvazieva, 11 years old Tamar Lan Sharpov, 13 years old Lana Gazinova, 14 years old Olga Zadoeva, 14 years old Ana Zadoeva, 11 years old Larissa Zadoeva, 10 years old Madin Suzanova, 7 years old Haleva Pente. Maria Pente Marzim Lushov, 9 years old Zagoe Zadoeva, 12 years old Marzim Lushov, 9 years old Suzanova, seven years old, Inga, Suzanova, nine years old, Boris, Susanov, fourteen years old. I should take a position because taking a position is reasonable. Very good, let's see. Right. Will I support the heroin and marijuana duo of terrorists who took 1,127 hostages in a gym on the first day of school? Or on the other hand, will I support the army, which used a flamethrower against 10-year-old kids? I'd like to ask those reasonable people. Does it ever say killed by the Russians? Or killed by the Chetches on the tombstone? Does it say killed by the army or killed by terrorists? Let's start walking again. Row two, the teachers, janitors, parents, section. Karima, Adir, Kaiba, thirty-nine years old. Kasper, Konzev, sixty-six years old. Timor, Zalagov, thirty-four years old. Zarima, the Smalovskaya, thirty-nine years old, killed for shielding her daughter with her own body. I feel like throwing up. Do I keep going or run away, continue or shut my eyes? Taking a position is reasonable. I never write commentary or speculation or opinion. I have always believed and I continue to believe that it is not up to us to make judgments. I am a journalist, not a court of law or a magistrate. I limit myself to reporting the facts, the facts as they sound, as they are. It seems like the easiest thing, but here it's the most difficult and it exacts the highest price. What price? That you're no longer doing a job, you're fighting a war, you're at war. You feel in battle and at forty-seven years old, I'm tired. Not frightened, not discouraged, tired of reading every day in the political papers that I'm crazy. Politskovskaya, these gifts of friendly, Politskovskaya, the paranoic, tired of having to explain to my children that someone who tells the truth is crazy and someone who tells lies gets ahead. Tired of getting between ten and fifteen death threats a week. They show up on my computer sometimes by phone. I'm tired of feeling not criminal. Every six days an article comes out and I am hauled before a judge among thieves, thugs. They're there for robbery, for sex, for rape, me, for journalism. I know the hallways, the waiting rooms, the desks of the officials, I enter, sit. The first question's always the same. Why have you written things that are not true and who gave you this information? Questioning follows. Two hours, three, why not even four? Sometimes they've detained me, sometimes arrested me. I'm tired of explaining to my children why I'm spending the ninth in jail. I'm tired of thinking of that freedom of information that doesn't exist here. Ninety percent of the journalists in Russia have a party membership. When you have a party affiliation, you're not a journalist, you're a spokesperson. It works like this. Press is divided into who is for Russia and who is not for Russia. If you are for Russia after five or six years, you can make you a party deputy. If you are not for Russia, you should be jailed. Period. Your work is propaganda against the state. Period. Propaganda against the state is punished by death. Period. My son's voice sounds strange. He tries to hide it on the phone. I ask him, what have you been up to? He answers me two or three times. Nothing. I told you. Don't worry. When I'm away, far from Moscow, they always tell me, don't worry. Or when you come home, I'll tell you, this time it's different. I just have to insist a little more than usual. They killed a woman this morning. There was a gunshot right here, downstairs. She was coming into our building to visit a friend on the first floor. She was blonde. About your height, your age. More or less. She was someone just like me. They said it was a robbery, but my son's voice stops at that. But. And I, over here in Europe in my hotel room in Vienna, asked myself what it means. It takes me a while to understand, to put it together, the stutter in my son's voice. Downstairs in my building, they have killed someone like me. Killed by mistake because she looked like me. Because she was going into my building, blonde like me, tall like me, someone like me. It was my turn when it happened to her. I've denounced. I've reported. I've questioned. I've demanded. But in the end, what good did it? Whoever made the mistake will sooner or later make it right. I know. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe a month from now. Maybe in Halloween. Who knows? Let's say sooner or later. Sooner or later. Sooner or later. Annapolik Koskaya was found dead in the elevator of her building in Moscow on October 7th, 2006. She had returned home after shopping for groceries. There were many heavy bags. She needed two jerks to take them upstairs. The first one was depleted. Second remained unfinished. The bags overturned on the ground in blood. They killed her with four bullets, one to the head. A pistol on Marikov PM, the weapon of choice for contract killers, is left aside the body along with four shell cases. The police seized the journalist's computer and all material from her final investigation into torture. The investigation is supposed to go to the press in the next edition. Months later, it is still impounded. Not publishable until a date to be determined. The funeral takes place on October 10th at the Troya Kirovsky cemetery in Moscow. More than 1,000 people attend the ceremony. Not one representative of the Russian government among them. No one from any official party. No one from their newspapers. One of the highest ranking men of the establishment is asked the question, do you have any comment on the death of Anna Politskowskaya? He replies, sorry, I don't know who Anna Politskowskaya is. This was truly an outstanding reading, thanks to the play company, Kate and Mother South. And everybody, again, it was written by Stefano Massini from Italy, directed by Lee Sunda Evans, translated by Paula Waring, who will join us also on the panel. Stated by Jamie Mundyke and performed by Nadja Bowers, Sabrina Gugovara, and Sakina Jeffery. Thank you so much. So we will now have Valeria O'Reilly, Elena, and Kate with us for the shorter discussion, but in 15 minutes, because we'll do it all, but in case we still have time to have some more insight into the play, please do stay, if not, if you have to go, absolutely understand. I'm Kate Lowald, and I'm the founding producer of the play company. And we have very little time, I think we have a hard out here at 9.30, so I'm going to try to... Well, five minutes over. Okay, five minutes over, good. I'll keep bargaining with you. So we just have this wonderful group up here, and I'm going to try to ask at least one question and also save some time if you all have questions. Valeria, I would like to start with you. Valeria works with an organization here in New York, as Frank said, that creates sort of cultural bridges with Italy. And Valeria, if you would just talk a little bit about Stefano Massini, and who he is as an artist in Italy, and how this play fits into his work. Stefano Massini, we met also here for the first time in New York with Frank at the Italian player arts project 2016, still. He's an author and a director, and his work has grown up a lot in the last 10 years since he wrote this play, and then little by little he arrived to the direction of Ronconi. It was the best director in Italy since he died in 2015 with the lemon brothers, so the lemon trilogy. And now he is the director, the artistic director in the sense of an artistic counselor of Teatro Piccolo di Milano, and also an author very kind of all of Europe. So his play is translated and played in all of Europe, in all the states of Europe, especially the lemon trilogy again, that is directed this year by San Andes at the National Theatre. This play also was translated in many languages, and the main characteristic of the work of Stefano Massini as an author is he is like a documentary poetry. Documentary poetry, that's yes, it is my opinion, but I can't describe his work as a documentary poetry because also here in this play it took some real documents and put together as fragments of a broken glass and leave the shape of every piece of glass and give to the audience as a poetry. So I love this kind of work because it's very unique and I think his luck is also because it's unique. Paula, you wrote the translation and I know that you're a writer and an actor also and that your work is produced around Canada, but you wrote this translation and I wondered if you could just tell us a little bit about what drew you to the play and also if there were, because it's documentary poetry, let's say, what were some of the challenges for you? What did you think was important in the translation? I agree with Valeria that that documentary poetry was what really drew me to it. One of my close friends who's also an artistic collaborator named Michelin Chevrier was drawn to the play. She saw it in French in Montreal and so when I was translating the play I actually, I had the Italian and I also had the French because I read French too, so I had these two languages. So as a friend of mine said who called me when I was doing it and he said can you come out tonight and I said no, no I'm translating tonight and he said ah so you're looking up words like ah and the pretty much and I think the tricky thing is to maintain the integrity of that the simplicity and the starkness of what Stefano writes and that was the job of it. The difficult, I really feel like I didn't, the title was the hardest. I think among translators titles and swearing are kind of the hard things to do and this title, the title in Italian is like something that would be stamped on a dossier and I really, really worked at it but I, the title I always think there's always that little thing where you don't because it was like woman unreeducatable is the literal but not being able to be reeducated is hard to bring across the bridge to English so for me that was the hardest and it still gives me a little pain in the kidney when I hear it but there you go. Okay thank you and Elena, I think everyone's bio was in the program but just to say that you're an activist and a journalist from Russia and I believe that you were a colleague of Anna's and that she was an inspiration to you in at the beginning of your career. Yeah sure. Yeah would you share with us a little bit about that in terms of what what her work meant to you and maybe what she was like as a colleague I don't I don't know what your working relationship was exactly but yeah basically she changed my life because I mean I lived in Yarostov it's in our town in Russia and I was working in local newspaper but I didn't took serious really but and then I fortunately bought Noveliseta and opened it on the page with her article about changing children and I still remember that article and I don't know how to describe like I was shocked because I never ever thought that there is such kind of journalism and I always thinking I was always thinking that I like know what's going on in my country because I was watching TV you know and like and then I understand that I know nothing so I decided to move to Moscow and to join the Noveliseta and I did and I mean I do remember her of course I repeat remember her like she was incredible beautiful like maybe one of the beautifulest people I ever met in my life and like she was working all the time I mean like everybody is working but she never had some time to chat with somebody you know to go smoke together kind of I mean and I do remember the line of people standing near her doors because everybody wants to talk with her just people came to our office to meet here and it was just a very usual thing like then you for example entered to the our news office lobby and you see the people and people are asking like can we meet Anna like how we can contact her we had some story we have some son lost in Chichnya killed in Chichnya or we just have some crazy story and we're going to share it exactly with her so it was like that yeah and so I joined Noveliseta in 2005 in April 2006 they took me as staff writer and she was murdered in October 2006 and like I never had a chance to tell her how important she was for me because I was like too shy I thought that when I become a good reporter I will tell her but you see so and like till the time I never made the same mistake I just want to tell that we lost like three more staff people after her and there was some people before her so from time to time they just murdered our journalist so yeah I think certainly because we're working on this play we're very focused on on that right now and I are you based here now are you still right where are you no I'm here for a fellowship so I'm based in Moscow and just here studying yeah I don't is there anything that you can tell us about do you feel the atmosphere has changed for journalists since since Anna was with us or do you do you think it's the the same no it's not the same it's became worse and worse so kind of and Lee thank you for for directing this reading tonight thank you so much and I know this was sort of one of your first opportunities to start exploring the play and again as documentary poetry when you see this play on the page it's just it looks like poetry the lines aren't assigned or anything like that and so I would love to know what you're thinking about right now in terms of imagining staging the play it so the play is a really interesting experiment in form and on the first page the writer says that it's a theatrical memo which is an interesting way of describing it and so I think there is something about the darkness of the language that's really exciting because it's really putting you as the audience member like very close to her experience of not reading her journalism which is also an incredible experience but but being with her as she lives through kind of these moments that became really key events that she covered and key moments kind of understanding how she saw the larger context of what she was doing so I think in this very very early part of the process the kind of big questions are how to use three women as the performers to not kind of fall into a more conventional idea of representation that we think of in the theater representing a character but how to actually in a way be able to create a communal public experience where we're experiencing her language but also to in a way be performing her absence or be using three women to be creating something that can't actually be recreated the text is all written in present tense and she's describing what she's going through present tense but that play happened in the past and I think a lot of people would come to it knowing that some of these things happened in the past there's kind of an interesting haunting of the the play in that way and I think the other big question is the text is so the text is so visual and the images are so incredible particularly to read on the page how what what kind of visual text and physical text and what the actors are doing are you putting on stage in order to be able to provoke the audience to hear those images more acutely and more deeply and more viscerally so I think I think those are the kind of like really key key questions when thinking about how to put this on stage and hearing it tonight was a really interesting experience of thinking about how to help transport the audience into that experience without creating a cinematic experience but still creating a deeply oral experience so those are some which is kind of like the first initial questions about I think really exciting challenges of putting this play on stage yeah thank you and the play company is producing this play it'll be on in September beginning September 10th at the Madelmines theater on First Avenue in the Performance Space New York building so to find out how all of those ideas work out come see it are we out of time do we have time for a question no I think that we will go ahead and uh the close the evening we have to be out the already and maybe join us at the reception and we'll be at the archive bar on the 36th between fifths of Madison on the uh the south side right in the middle of you have the time and I would like to thank you all for coming for staying so long and for this beautiful evening and this incredible story Massimo put together