In front of me, trees of “A Casa”, shaken by the wind, a light breeze for this August 17th, a night in Tías.
A writer friend who suffers from foot pain - we have both curiously been recently informed of future surgeries - and the writer, with soul pain, trying to find
a chair for her friend.
Silence. Names of women on the screen. A poem. The beginning of a subtle dance. There are no words for these deaths. María and Petra are a dance, but they are in turn the dance
of all the women who have suffered sexist violence – physical or psychological-.
The Lolailo company stages it perfectly. The movements follow one another. There are two women dressed in black and a man in white.
I observe the dance as a chessboard that provokes an almost forgotten tremor.
It's 9 p.m. My friend is brave. My friend observes, my friend has been my handkerchief many times.
My Ondina is floating. It's almost 10 p.m. and we're going to leave. It's not an easy night for either of us.
We must remain on guard. There is still a long way to go. Sexist violence is still there, but it hides something worse: The incomprehension and blindness of those who do not want to
solidarize and see the social reality of our days, that current cave of Plato that Saramago already announced, of those who continue to see feminism as a threat or
invention.
I remember the beautiful film Ancora Domani. I've been carrying that song from the final scene in my ears for a month and a half: A bocca chiusa.
It's ten o'clock at night and I can't write another word. Gratitude for making the invisible more visible or showing reality to the blind. Gratitude to Casa Saramago, Lolailo group, friend S, and Cruz sisters, always in memory.