Shrine is a ritual, but not a religious ritual. Or, to put it another way, not a ritual confined to a single religion. It is a ritual to reclaim the pre-capitalist body, a ritual to celebrate the feminine, a ritual to mourn our lost mothers. But it is not just a ‘holy’ ritual: it is also fun, ironic and full of surprises. And indeed, it is not ‘sacred’ as we usually mean that word. It is a return to Bacchic rites, where the body was free and not a means of production, mixed with feminist-Marxist philosophy, Islamic tradition and politics, to help people unleash their political rage.

Against the laws of men

The main story in Shrine follows the trial of a daughter trying to sue the state for her mother's death. While this story has a literal and real meaning for Khadija El Kharraz Alami, dramatist and performer of the play - her mother was mentally affected by the struggles she faced with bureaucracy and the law while raising children as a single mother of Moroccan origin - I also saw another layer: the state, capitalism, kills our ‘mothers’, starting with the witch hunts in the European Renaissance.

The entire piece refers to Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation by philosopher Silvia Federici, who reads Marx through a feminist lens and attributes the primitive accumulation of capitalism to the exploitation of women and slaves in the colonies. From this perspective, women are the main instrument by which capitalism reproduces itself, because they are the ones who produce the workforce. As someone who has read the book, which is compact and complex, since its principles were presented in such a direct and accessible way, I found it really valuable for those not yet familiar with these concepts.

The trial also reminded me of the Greek tragedy Antigone, in which the main heroine rebels against the state law, which denies her brother a burial because he is considered a traitor. Because she buries her brother, Antigone is condemned to be walled up alive in a cave. She fights against the state and its injustices by respecting ancient, divine laws rather than those devised by humans.

After her speech to her mother, the protagonist in Shrine washed and changed by the Jinns, two typical spirits from ancient Arabic religions and Islam. The Jiins assist the protagonist, while at the same time trying to make sense of and understand the human world and its rules. They move like vengeful spirits, with voices that sometimes make them sound robotic, and at other times they sing in a way that reminded me of ancient ritual songs. As the daughter mourns, an unbearable rage rises within her, making her want to burn everything.

This anger is political

Grieving in this play is not only a matter of grief, but also of anger. As feminists said in the 1970s, ’the personal is political“, and so this pain over the loss of a mother becomes a broader, all-encompassing political rage that the dramatist asked us to share poignantly, by going into the audience and speaking directly to us.

The reference to feminist traditions was also evident in the banners used as décor, which resembled ancient, sewn religious ornaments, often made by women. Although sewing and the so-called “small arts” were not recognised as valuable for a long time, this tradition was revived by feminist artists in the 1970s to denounce unrecognised domestic work: in particular, the final banner on display during the show showed two legs under a skirt, with a wavy fold down and what looked like small heads.

If it is personal politics, Alami asks the audience, “Aren't you angry?” and encourages us to set everything on fire, reclaim our pre-capitalist bodies, free ourselves from capitalist slavery. Beyond the feminist tradition, this claim immediately reminded me of the more recent field of affect theory, which sees feelings as relevant to political decisions, as explored by scholars such as Lauren Berlant and Sara Ahmed. Anger, as Ahmed argues, can be instrumentalised in politics to fuel people's fear of the ‘other’, leading to restrictive human rights policies; but on the other hand, anger can also be a tool to bring down a system that benefits only a few. Alami explicitly asks the audience to express this anger here, in a theatre, where it is allowed; but also to take it outside the art world.

Unexpectedly, this sacred ritual ends with a bacchic ceremony, something we would call a ‘rave’ today, where the performers free their bodies through dance, and I sincerely wish I could have joined them.

English original:

SHRINE. Mourning Our Mothers: A Journey from Ancient Traditions to Marxist Philosophy

Shrine is a ritual, but not a religious one. Or, we could say, not a single-religion one. It is a ritual to reclaim the pre-capitalistic body, a ritual to celebrate the feminine, a ritual to mourn our lost mothers. But it is not only a “sacred” ritual: it is also fun, ironic, and full of surprises. And, indeed, it is not “sacred” as we usually intend this word. It is a return to Bacchic rites, where the body was free and not a means of production, mixing them with feminist Marxist philosophy, Muslim tradition and politics, to help people unleash their political rage.

Against Men's Laws

The main narrative in Shrine follows the trial of a daughter trying to accuse the State for her mother's death. Although this narrative has a literal and real significance for Khadija El Kharraz Alami, dramaturge and performer of the piece, her mother was mentally affected by the struggles she had to face with bureaucracy and law while raising children as a single mother of Moroccan descent, I also saw another layer: the State, capitalism, is killing our “mothers”, starting with the witch hunt in the European Renaissance. The whole piece references Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation by philosopher Silvia Federici, who reads Marx through a feminist lens, attributing capitalism's primitive accumulation to the exploitation of women and slaves in the colonies. From this perspective, women are the main tool through which capitalism reproduces itself, because they are the ones reproducing the workforce. As someone who has read the book, which is dense and complex, seeing its principles portrayed in such a direct and accessible way, I believe it was genuinely valuable for those not yet familiar with these concepts.

The trial also reminded me of the Greek tragedy Antigone, where the main heroine rebels against the State's law, which denies her brother a burial for being considered a traitor. For burying her brother, Antigone is condemned to be walled up alive in a cave. She fights the State and its injustices by respecting the ancient, divine laws rather than the ones made up by men. After giving her speech for her mother, the main character in Shrine is washed and changed by the Jiins, two typical spirits from ancient Arab religions and Islam. The Jiins assist the main character while also trying to interpret and understand the human world and its regulations. They move like spiteful spirits, with vocal tones that make them sound at times robotic, and at others singing in a way that reminded me of ancient ritual songs. While the daughter is mourning, an unbearable rage rises in her, making her want to burn everything.

This Rage is Political

Mourning in this piece is not only a matter of sadness, but also of rage. As feminists used to say in the 70s, “the personal is political” and so this pain for the loss of a mother becomes a wider, broader political rage that the dramaturg expressively asked us to share, coming into the audience and speaking directly with us. The reference to feminist traditions was clear also in the banners used as scenography, which resembled old sewn religious ornaments, often made by women. Even though sewing and the so-called “minor arts” were not recognised as valuable for a long time, this tradition was resumed by feminist artists in the 70s to condemn unrecognised domestic labour: particularly the last banner shown during the performance, representing two legs beneath a skirt, with a flow descending and what appeared to be small heads.

If the personal is political, Alami asks the audience “Aren't you angry?” and encourages us to burn everything down, to reclaim our pre-capitalistic body, to free ourselves from capitalistic slavery. Beyond the feminist tradition, this claim made me think instantly of the more recent field of affect theory, which considers feelings as relevant to political decisions, as explored by scholars such as Lauren Berlant and Sara Ahmed. Rage, as Ahmed argues, can be instrumentalised in politics to stoke people's fears towards the “other”, giving rise to restrictive policies on human rights; but, on the other hand, rage can also be a tool to burn down a system that benefits only a few. Alami explicitly asks the audience to express this rage here, in a theatre, where it is allowed; but also to bring it with us outside the realm of arts.

Unexpectedly, this sacred ritual ends with a Bacchic rite, something today we would call ‘a rave’, where the performers free their bodies through dance, and I genuinely wish I could have joined them.

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