For Sohila Sakhizada, a veteran of the theatre since the age of twelve, the transition from the streets of Kabul to the spotlights of France has felt like a surreal continuation of a single, long performance. “I realized that not much has fundamentally changed for me,” Sakhizada explains, her voice carrying the weariness of a thousand rehearsals. “I have the same feeling I had back in Afghanistan. I am simply in a different place, speaking a different language, but I still feel as though I am standing on stage in Kabul.”
That stage, now located in Lyon, is a world of cold water and shifting light. For the ensemble, the setting is a stark metaphor for the life of a refugee.
Freshta Akbari, performing as Antigone, moves across a surface that is profoundly unstable. Every step requires a tense body to maintain balance on the liquid floor. Overhead, a prop moon hangs in the darkness—a silent, artificial witness. To the audience, it is a high-concept theatre; to Akbari, it is a bridge.
“The moon and the water have no fixed definition; everyone has their own,” she reflects. “But for me, even though this moon isn’t real, it feels like a presence. It is the same moon I saw for years in my homeland. It doesn’t judge, it doesn’t decree. It just is.”
This sense of being watched by a silent history follows the ensemble of women from Afghanistan as they breathe new life into the ancient Greek tragedy. Nearly five years after the fall of Kabul, these women are finding that while their geography has shifted, the core of their struggle remains remarkably static. For Freshta, the water is a manifestation of the precariousness of exile. “When I walk on it, balance is not guaranteed,” she explains. “This is Antigone’s reality. She stands where everything could collapse. For me, water is both that instability and the shajaa’at—the courage—to keep standing.”
The production was born from a place of radical hope. Rehearsals began a year after their harrowing evacuation to France, serving as a vital sanctuary. The performers spent hours with their director, building a family forged into the fire of shared trauma. In this new environment, the focus on professional artistry is a stark contrast to the conditions they fled. Hasnia Ahmadi, a member of the ensemble, notes that this rigorous process allowed her to master the “art of being on stage,” a source of empowerment in a life otherwise defined by the chaos of migration. For Ahmadi, the final performance is more than a play: “It is the story of our own lives.”
The choice of Antigone is a deliberate, political strike against silence. In a striking subversion of traditional roles, Sakhizada portrays the tyrant king, Creon. Delivering his decrees with a practiced, chilling power, she admits the role creates a painful internal duality. “I try to speak with strength, but inside, I am being destroyed,” she says. “Why should women be underestimated? By playing the king, I feel there is no difference between man and woman.” On stage, Sakhizada finds freedom that transcends borders: “I don’t feel like I’m acting; I feel like I’m living.”
Despite the play being performed in Dari, the linguistic barrier has not hindered the connection with French audiences. Viewers have described the language as “poetry,” a dream-like atmosphere where subtitles are almost secondary to the emotional frequency. Sakhizada believes this proves that the “language of the body” requires no translation. “Love doesn’t need a language,” she says, observing that the sorrow in a person’s eyes is understood instinctively across any border.
Ultimately, these performances are a reclamation of a voice that was meant to be buried under decree. Akbari reflects on the painful realization that Antigone’s words feel as urgent today as they did centuries ago. It is a sobering reminder that for the women of her country, a woman still has to pay a staggering price for the right to choose.
“I want to be a voice,” Sakhizada says, echoing the sentiment of the entire group, standing on a stage that spans the distance between what was lost and what must never be silenced.
Beyond the metaphors of water and light, Hasnia Ahmadi reflects on the profound internal strength required to inhabit another soul. For her, the process of character-building has been a source of personal empowerment, a way to reclaim the agency that was threatened during her journey from Kabul. She has mastered the technical demands of the French theatre, yet she remains acutely aware that the applause she receives is for a story that is still being lived by those she left behind.
As the curtain falls, Ahmadi offers the most grounding perspective of the ensemble. To her, the elaborate set, the poetic language, and the ancient script are all vehicles for a single, unvarnished truth. She reminds us that despite the technical mastery and the beauty of the performance, they are not merely actors playing a part.
“This performance is not just a piece of fiction or a distant Greek tragedy,” she notes, her voice serving as the final bridge between the ancient world and the modern one. “It is, in its essence, the story of our own lives.”
