We are an avant-garde theatre group, and after our successful performance of The History Boys by Alan Bennett in 2017, we turned to a wild and daring experiment: a production based on Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Just like the novel, we wanted the performance to be long and complex, with each scene shaped by distinct gestural structures and unique theatrical conventions. Every scene was conceived as a complete, self-contained piece of performance art. Seven years ago, we began rehearsals with dance and song. Gradually, through structured practice and constant trial and error, we managed, after two years, to build a precise, three-hour-long performance. We shared this privately with our close friends, just as we were preparing to go public—when suddenly, the era of COVID and quarantine descended upon us.
For a whole year, everything came to a halt. We were forced to reimagine and create new, smaller scenes, duets and trios, to keep the work alive and breathe new life into the performance. But that was far from the end of the story. The protests of 2019, and ultimately those of 2022, shook us even more deeply. After the death of Mahsa Jina Amini and the Woman, Life, Freedom protests that followed, it seemed entirely possible that our group would fall apart. No one knew whether theatre, as we had known and practiced it, could still function or be meaningful.
And yet, almost unbelievably, this group stood its ground. A dedicated ensemble of twenty of Iran’s finest theatre artists with age range of 24 to 49 which was financially supported by Tazeh Theatre Group, under the direction of Ashkan Kheil-Nejad, carried this production forward. In the autumn of 2024, we finally made it to the Iranshahr Hall. The only available time slot was on Saturdays, the one day of the week when theatres in Iran are traditionally closed. For us, simply being able to perform—and for the group to remain intact—was a dream come true. A wish fulfilled against all odds.
The reviews were overwhelmingly positive, and the audience entered our theatrical world with ease and openness. According to many, the performance’s seven-hour length lost all meaning—they felt time dissolve. So we performed it every week for six months. Then something unimaginable happened: Tehran—and all of Iran—was suddenly engulfed in war with Israel for twelve days in June.
Mehdi Shahedi in The History Boys. Photo by Mehrdad Motejali.
At first, it was hard to believe. We waited constantly, anxiously, for it to end. But soon came the official announcement: all theatre activities in Tehran were suspended until further notice. Suddenly, the city was no longer a place to stay. The unrelenting wail of sirens, the roar of missile defense systems, the horrifying buzz of drones, the thunder of explosions—all became part of our everyday lives.
The group grew increasingly worried for one another. Messages were exchanged urging everyone to leave the city as soon as possible. And so, one by one, we scattered—seeking refuge in different corners of the country. Two weeks later, a ceasefire was declared on June 24. We returned to Tehran exhausted, emotionally crushed, and hypersensitive to sound—any sound. We came back with questions weighing on our hearts: Is there still a home for us here? Will the war return?
For ten days, we lived in a haze of shock, fear, and fragile mental states, trying to tend to our personal affairs and regain a sense of normalcy. Then came the announcement: theatre performances would resume the following week.
Our director called a meeting so we could see one another again. During that gathering, in the closed theatre each of us shared our experiences from the time of war—our fears, our moments of panic. Gradually, laughter and lighthearted jokes returned, tentatively. And with uncertainty still hanging in the air, we decided—almost hesitantly—to try and move forward. We scheduled two rehearsals before returning to the stage.
Shahedi in Brothers Karamazof. Photo by Avazeh Javaherian.
During those rehearsals, we focused on warm-ups and releasing physical tension. Then came vocal exercises. But everything felt dull and drained. Muscles were stiff, voices trembled with emotion—hoarse, tear-choked. Conversations inevitably drifted toward our anxiety about the future. We ran through the scenes, but the actors couldn’t even reach 50% of their former performance level. Still, they clung to the hope that the presence of an audience—and perhaps the miracle of theatre itself—might restore what had been lost.
The day of the performance finally arrived. On July 5, we gathered at the venue three hours in advance and began our routine warm-ups with difficulty. Everyone was doing their best to reawaken their bodies and voices. Faces were tense, somber. Still, each person was searching for something—a grip, a mental anchor—to regain focus, balance, and energy.
It was no small task: preparing for a precise, detail-rich, seven-hour performance and maintaining its rhythm throughout was anything but easy.
Five minutes before the curtain, we stood in a circle. Ashkan, our director, addressed us:
“You know, the audience tonight came here in a bad state, just like us. Getting themselves back into a theatre seat, returning to normal life—it must have been even harder for them. And buying a ticket, especially in these economic conditions, is no small gesture. We can’t take this lightly. It’s our responsibility—not just to ourselves as theatre-makers, but to them. We have to bring them back to life. We have to bring ourselves back, too. Theatre’s role now is far greater than ever before.”
In that moment, I felt as if both sides—the performers and the audience—were about to enter battle against sorrow itself. A kind of strength rose up within us, a shared force. We would use these next seven hours as a chance to forget everything—to fight despair with presence, with performance.
For each performance, approximately 150 spectators attend. At times, during the performance, they are invited to come on the stage and sit on the chairs around the set. Although they do not act, their presence is everything for us. A close connection is what we try to create and maintain. The comeback performance began —cold, spiritless. Even the opening was shaky. That initial connection with the audience simply wasn’t there. We moved forward hesitantly, uncertain. It felt like a collective effort to move an enormous boulder—but no matter how hard we pushed, it wouldn’t budge.
And yet, little by little, as if by silent agreement, we began to shift the weight of it—not from the stage or the audience, but from the moment itself. We began to lose ourselves in the scenes, and the audience in their watching, in their pleasure. Midway through the performance, it was as if everything else had vanished. The pain in our legs disappeared. Our voices grew stronger. The actors’ playfulness returned with warmth. The theatre itself became a space of release—a ritual of transition and healing.
And that collective release carried us through to the very end. After the curtain call, we embraced the audience. We cried together. And over and over, we whispered to each other:
Thank you. Thank you so much.
Together, we had crossed over. Together, we had passed through the wall of sorrow.
This post was written by the author in their personal capacity.The opinions expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not reflect the view of The Theatre Times, their staff or collaborators.
