Between Furn al-Chebbak and Monot, I managed to see two theatrical performances in the space of a single week. I will not analyze here, nor discuss what I watched. I am not a critic, and what I lived through during those performances is far too personal. But something awoke inside me. A fierce desire to speak, not to judge, but to bear witness. Theater. Light. The direct encounter with the other. The other who reveals himself before me in his body and his voice, in his sweat and his living breath. And I, I go alone, as if between me and the theater there is a romantic appointment. I ready myself for that encounter,








