{"id":3399,"date":"2016-05-18T15:47:25","date_gmt":"2016-05-18T13:47:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.monikabulaj.com\/pl\/teatro\/"},"modified":"2022-12-31T09:42:21","modified_gmt":"2022-12-31T08:42:21","slug":"teatro","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.monikabulaj.com\/pl\/teatro\/","title":{"rendered":"Nur. Zapiski afga\u0144skie. Teatr"},"content":{"rendered":"

[vc_row 0=””][vc_column 0=””][vc_column_text 0=””][\/vc_column_text][\/vc_column][\/vc_row][vc_row type=”boxed”][vc_column 0=””][vc_video link=”https:\/\/vimeo.com\/179430597″ align=”center”][vc_column_text 0=””]<\/p>\n

NUR.\u00a0Zapiski afga\u0144skie<\/p>\n

performing reportage<\/em>
\nczyli<\/em>
\nreporta\u017c na \u017cywo<\/em><\/p>\n

fotografia, film, opowie\u015bci
\npie\u015bni i g\u0142osy Afganistanu<\/p>\n

autor i storyteller: Monika Bulaj
\nre\u017cyser: Daria Anfelli<\/p>\n

\u201cPojecha\u0142am do Afganistanu, \u017ceby zobaczy\u0107 jak wygl\u0105da Kabul, bo nie wiedzia\u0142am. Moje oczy by\u0142y wype\u0142nione medialnymi ikonami wojny: kurz, trupy bez g\u0142owy, \u017cywi bez n\u00f3g, zasieki, czo\u0142gi, strach pomy\u015ble\u0107, ludojady.
\nA jak Kabul wygl\u0105da? Czym pachnie? Us\u0142ysz\u0119 noc\u0105 bul bul,<\/i> czyli s\u0142owika? Jak brzmi rubab na wysoko\u015bciach? Czy wci\u0105\u017c z wioski do wioski w\u0119druj\u0105 poeci? Us\u0142ysz\u0119 w\u0119drownych pie\u015bniarzy? Spotkam kalandar\u00f3w?\u00a0 Jak wygl\u0105daj\u0105 mieszka\u0144cy Kabulu? P\u0142acz\u0105? Smiej\u0105 si\u0119? W ilu j\u0119zykach \u015bni\u0105? I o czym? Jak grzej\u0105 zim\u0105 domy? Czego si\u0119 najbardziej boj\u0105?
\nIkony z\u0142a staj\u0105 si\u0119 alibi wojny i w\u0142a\u015bnie dlatego s\u0105 fabrykowane z takim zapa\u0142em. Sztuczka polega na tym, by wype\u0142ni\u0107 obrazami grozy pierwsze strony gazet, by przestraszy\u0107, zap\u0119dzi\u0107 w zastawione sid\u0142a.
\nGdy z obrazu znika cz\u0142owiek, jego miasto mo\u017cna bombardowa\u0107, jak Sarajewo, Grozny, Wukowar. A migaj\u0105ce na ekranie cienie, jak w przypowie\u015bci Platona o jaskini, s\u0105 jedyn\u0105 wersj\u0105 rzeczywisto\u015bci. S\u0105 ludzie pierwszej i drugiej kategorii, jak wagony kolejowe, i ci jeszcze mniej ludzie, ze stemplem \u201cefekty uboczne\u201d, odpadki bez r\u0105k i n\u00f3g a je\u015bli ju\u017c w ca\u0142o\u015bci, to bez twarzy, niczym sylwetki z obraz\u00f3w Magritte\u2019a.<\/p>\n

(…)<\/p>\n

– Kaaba jest w sercu tego, kto nic nie ma. Chod\u017a ze mn\u0105.<\/p>\n

Sadza mnie przy sobie,\u00a0 przy mihrabie wskazuj\u0105cym Mekk\u0119, duchowy kierunek modlitwy ka\u017cdego muzu\u0142manina.\u00a0 Naprzeciw nas siedzi t\u0142um m\u0119\u017cczyzn. Patrz\u0105 na mnie a ja na nich. Meczet wype\u0142nia si\u0119, jest ju\u017c ze dwie\u015bcie os\u00f3b.<\/p>\n

Nag\u0142y krzyk. W g\u0142\u0119bi sali chudy brodacz wo\u0142a, \u017ce tu jestem a nie powinnam by\u0107.\u00a0Nie wiem co zrobi\u0107. Wyj\u015b\u0107 nie wyj\u015b\u0107.\u00a0 Siedz\u0119, rzeczywi\u015bcie, dziwnie. Tak z przodu. Naprzeciw wszystkich. Obok mihrabu. Wszystko jest zas\u0142oni\u0119te jak trzeba, stopy, w\u0142osy, nadgarstki, ale tak w meczecie, obok szajcha siedzie\u0107, kto to widzia\u0142.<\/p>\n

A oni prosz\u0105, by on wyszed\u0142, nie ja, szajch prosi, wszyscy prosz\u0105. Wychodzi. Talib, m\u00f3wi\u0105. Poszed\u0142 sobie. I po co si\u0119 tak z\u0142o\u015bci. Szajch opowiada wszystkim, dlaczego tu jestem, kim jestem,\u00a0i d\u0142ugo modli si\u0119 za mnie, za m\u00f3j kraj, za ca\u0142y Zach\u00f3d. Jego mowa jest nag\u0142a\u015bniana a g\u0142o\u015bniki znajduj\u0105 si\u0119 r\u00f3wnie\u017c na zewn\u0105trz budynku. Bardzo g\u0142o\u015bne g\u0142o\u015bniki. A tam te\u017c du\u017co ludzi. Meczet wype\u0142ni\u0142 si\u0119 po brzegi. Opowie\u015b\u0107 o chrze\u015bcijance w meczecie, o Polsce, o moich spotkaniach z innymi nauczycielami, o mojej babci, idzie po ca\u0142ym cmentarzu, do grobu barda Afganistanu, w dolin\u0119, do jeziora, do miasta. Ca\u0142a chanaga p\u0142acze, kilkuset m\u0119\u017cczyzn we \u0142zach. Siedzimy, patrzymy sobie w oczy, p\u0142aczemy. Ju\u017c o nic nie pytam. Zamykaj\u0105 oczy i zaczynaj\u0105 zikr bez s\u0142\u00f3w. Ja te\u017c zamykam oczy”. (fragment ksi\u0105\u017cki i spektaklu „Nur. Zapiski afga\u0144skie”)<\/em><\/p>\n

Obrazy przywo\u0142uj\u0105 opowie\u015bci, opowie\u015bci odwo\u0142uj\u0105 do spojrzenia – a raczej\u00a0spojrze\u0144 – oraz spotka\u0144, \u015bwiat\u0142a, pejza\u017cu, w kt\u00f3rym leika Moniki,\u00a0niczym magiczna brama otwiera przes\u0142on\u0119, by umo\u017cliwi\u0107 nam poznanie Afganistanu,\u00a0nie przestaj\u0105cego zdumiewa\u0107 bogactwem sprzeczno\u015bci.
\nS\u0142owa p\u0142yn\u0105 razem z fotografiami, \u0142\u0105cz\u0105 si\u0119, nawarstwiaj\u0105, a ka\u017cdy kolejny\u00a0szczeg\u00f3\u0142 rozpoczyna narracj\u0119. Bohaterowie ofiarowuj\u0105 si\u0119 spotkaniom, pozwalaj\u0105 si\u0119 zbli\u017cy\u0107, dotkn\u0105\u0107, pozna\u0107, gdy Monika prz\u0119dzie tkanin\u0119, kt\u00f3ra owinie\u00a0widza u\u015bciskiem Azji, jego py\u0142em, \u015bwiat\u0142em, \u0142a\u0144cuchem dawnych i wsp\u00f3\u0142czesnych los\u00f3w ludzi, \u017cyj\u0105cych pomi\u0119dzy pi\u0119knem a terrorem.
\nNasz spektakl opowiada t\u0119 podr\u00f3\u017c w 67 minut, w aran\u017cacji s\u0142\u00f3w, muzyki, filmu,\u00a0d\u017awi\u0119k\u00f3w zebranych w Afganistanie oraz – fotografii, w reporta\u017cu na \u017cywo, ods\u0142aniaj\u0105cym \u00a0Afganistan nieoczywisty, daleki i oboj\u0119tny medialnemu show-u.\u00a0Daria Anfelli<\/i><\/p>\n

Wideo zosta\u0142o zrealizowane przez Francesca Comello podczas w\u0142oskiej premiery spektaklu \u00a0„Nur. Zapiski afga\u0144skie” w by\u0142ym klasztorze \u015bwi\u0119tego Franciszka w Pordenone.<\/p>\n

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