What theater and what culture will we talk about? Message from Jawad al-Asadi on the occasion of Arab Theater Day

Hello, the scent of wood in our first home and shelter.
Hello, the stage is my refuge, my shelter, my boat and my bridge to you.
Hello to the paths of regret and forty years of forced exile on the sidewalks of cultures.
Hello to the applause emanating from the hiss of wounds, the spark of amazement, the sign of creation, and the home of dark meaning hidden behind shadows.
Hello Grotowski, Peter Brook, Josef Scheine, Yuri Lebimov, Everest.
Hello, dreams, obsession with hope, spelling lessons and hands that led us from our wrists to see the horror of darkness in the darkness of the scenes.
Hello to the years of longing and bitter hunger in the land of epics and natural scientists and to those who have driven and anchored the nail of writing and written myths and the imprint of enlightenment, and the ancient public rushing past the box office in modernist theaters writing and directing until the soot fell on that reckless day. The departure of free life and the aesthetic history of the railroads of the Enlightenment, the fall of countries into the storm of nothingness, the blocking of civil doors, the extinguishing of the flame of culture and the domination of hell of the sects who established dictionaries of hunger, write ruin, humiliation and bloodshed.
Hello to the actor of the role of Hamlet in “We will not be or how we will be”, rational, existential, civil, aesthetic, epistemological or illiterate? Salafists, backward-looking, occultists, fatalists, hanging in the sky of fires and migrating in seas of drowning and dying on the edge of the abyss in search of countries freed from the hell we became addicted to many years ago?
be? Who will we be and how will we be? Confined to the mountain of the abyss in the eye of freedom snipers chew bullets and dead camels? Or in the streets filled with holy sons of wars and mothers who trample the stage of crumbling theaters, hoping to make their children’s souls dance out of the trance of the roles they performed before crowds at reincarnation festivals?
Hello to writing and its captions, because in their texts they avoid codifying and inventing personalities that are dead and transformed into clichés of the fictitious market.
Good morning to the direction and directors as they cook up Shakespeare, Jean Genet, Beckett, Marlowe and Bulgakov to silent creative visual fire in a soft, gentle hearth, where the spirit lights up and the soul transcends.
Hello to the actor, the spirit of the theater and the secret of its secrets, as he rewrites his voice and his body with an expressive intensity and innovative signal far from the museum of the market and the free representation of the market, s’ flying with a high human intensity the spirit of the noisy game to the temples of the majesty of the great interrogations and confusions of the soul, until the day of tears of pain.
When the projections make brutal climates suffer, the maturation of ignorance and sectarian conflicts, the fall of countries into the divisions of hunger, the loss of civil rights and the removal of the tree from the culture of interest of the influential in the decisions of capital which fell in the presence of darkness, the darkness which led to the emigration of a large number of men of culture, including filmmakers, playwrights, visual artists and musicians. To countries other than their own, leaving behind them a terrifying discouragement, and the loss of hope that looms on the screen of a future without the spirit or freedom of innovation, which has plunged an innovative young generation into the abyss of uselessness. She throws them into a hellish labyrinth, far from their country and their people, consuming alienation like a bitter grass and a hot bloodletting in their stories, their research and their fights in order to carry out their creative projects. And the counterfeiting and the emergence of militias formed to steal the life of the Enlightenment and replace it with a dark and gloomy atmosphere, in the alleys of which the new generation wanders D, like a sacred and helpless sin, for an Arab public become without aesthetic and unimaginative dresses, deterioration prevailed in levels of reception and greed for real theatre, and a historical gap was established between the desire for aesthetic advancement in the works of a number of Arab designers and the growing cognitive gap in public theater priorities, until we become groundless Philosophical and aesthetic, helping people rewrite their great heritage and the future of textual modernity.
The theatrical tree of knowledge plummeted and fell resoundingly, to be replaced by a culture of instinct and the pursuit of tourist luxury, huge tourist propaganda, houses, coasts, cars, high-banks technology, and a resounding cultural collapse as there is no trace of an opera house, theater, music libraries or art galleries in the streets. Civil society.
The neck of pleasure and enjoyment has turned to the stomach and not to the flaming head of the arts, as people rush, as in many European countries, to attend the Opera Carmen, for example, or the Hunchback of Notre-Dame.
Here is the cosmic actor, dragging behind him crown people, text cars, the shine of actresses and actors, directors and set designers, spotlights and clothes and a mighty crowd, now I see him charred amid the bitter storm of applause outside the Opera House near the Atomic Tower, sitting on the nuclear beam, while Macbeth rehearses on the soccer ball. Playing with Dostoyevsky’s beard, shaving Karl Marx’s capital, flattering Bulgakov’s anger, here and there the crowds stretched out in different types of masks, demanded Pfizer and Sputnik, here they were, and here we were wallowing in temperatures hellish, where people beg for even a minute of electricity that can rekindle their suffocation. Or a bundle of bread for their kitchens, while billions are carried on the shoulders of the masters of investment market suspicions, trading in us, gas and oil, leaving behind burning peoples and dying boys in the stream of trains, seas and drownings, looking for other entities.
So what theater and what culture are we talking about, as long as all roads are impassable, and the rulers have done well to establish herd culture and polluted propaganda?
We see them here, running between the stock exchanges, these investors in our hunger and our nudity, accumulating billions of dollars in the brothels of their rotten kitchen in the extreme. Yes, I see them how they hang cultures and theaters on the barren gallows (their sponsors – their supporters), and pave the paths and squares with the cement of hunger and poverty, leaders who whip enlightenment and civilization Institutionalism and freedom with luxury and false media, and they bury countries of myth and beauty in their rotten tombs.
Is there a desired song of hope?
Is there rain on the earth to restore its fertility?
Is there a cloud casting over mankind friendly peace and secure peoples?
Is there a storm that carries away the ignorant and the thieves of ruin?
Is there a sun that ignites the world of a cosmic dance and cosmic men, passionate and fond of theater, our great sanctuary?
Will next year be a year of theater lighting up the pathways with thriving audiences and once again congregating outside the box office, listening to actors roar in a unique theatrical performance under the tree of light on our lovable planet that begs for mercy and kindness?

Dr. Jawad al-Asadi