#infusing that character with that voice and embedding that in all of our minds

[hausofmamadas]

As I said, wildly fucking behind on reblogs because literally every one of my friends fucking kills it when they come out with a new thing and lowkey also have 20,000 tribute vids that I’m working on sksksksks

BUT I’m going to pretend like I timed this one in honor of this special day, mi majita, mi nena quien me encanta por toda mi pinshe vida, @cositapreciosa, today - the sweet, beautiful day when we were graced with her presence aqui en la tierra sjsjsjsjs see what I did there. Here is my gift to you, yes ofc me screaming in your face about how magnificent and talented you are. Happy Birthday, manita🥹🤗

Obv, I’ll be quoting because we Stan properly in this here House of Mamadas, juh feel.

߷

He caresses your face every chance he gets, promising you the brightest stars and the shiniest earrings.

BRO, BRO. OKAY, the way I can fucking picture him saying this in my minds eye, all “amor de mi vida, te mereces todo el mundo, todo el universo, las estrellas, la luna, y voy a darte todo que necesitas y que quieres, la joyería que más bonito, más brillante. Ya verás.” Just- Chapito the sweetest little blorbo of all time🥹

… you could see how he tried to stop the biggest smile from pulling at his lips.

Once again, I can fucking see him doing this, like actively suppressing a smile. He’s 100% done this more than once on the show.

You feel him slowly making his way to you, groaning a little when he sits on your side of the bed. The mattress slumps a bit, gravity pulling you towards him.

OKAY BUT I REMEMBER WHEN YOU SHARED THIS IN THE DISCORD AND IT STILL SLAPS JUST AS MF HARD AS EVER. It’s so evocative like I can fully picture everything in this moment, particularly the detail about the mattress slumping as he sits down and it causes you to roll that direction ….. because….. MF GRAVITY, LIKE YOU KNOW MY NERDY ASF PHYSICIST BRAINCELL BECOMES ACTIVATED WHEN YOU TALKIN BOUT GRAVITY IN THE CONTEXT OF A SWEET, INTIMATE MOMENT LIKE THIS. YOU ARE TRYIN TO KILL ME.

The idea was smart, the logical solution for their customs problem, and to put it simply, innovative in this field of work.

The way that I fully fuckin snort-cackled reading this skskskksks like, idk if it’s the matter-of-fact phrasing here that makes it so hilarious, but the way it makes it seem as though working for a drug cartel is like working in any other “legit business,” like playing the stock market or working in Silicon Valley sksksks but let’s be real, there are crooks left and fucking right in all three of industries, so it’s not that much of a stretch now that I’m thinking bout it.

You remember sitting with him in his mom’s kitchen, telling you about the Arellano’s taxes and Hector’s harsh words as he put all his bitterness in pressing the tortillas. Güero will wish this idea was his … You watched him press and press again the small balls of dough you gave him.

OH-KAY SWEET CHRIST. The straight mf canon-consistency of this …. Like this whole-ass paragraph positively f u c k s. The bitterness in the tortillas, the lowkey rivalry/ever-present chip on his shoulder with Guero, I truly can’t think of a more fitting way to contextualize our sweet little leon Chapito.

It all makes sense now, the dirt on his tank top, the scratches on his face.

In no way did this make me think of a certain someone’s sweaty, hot asf gleaming, sexual sexy muscles in that panty dropping ribbed tank top, no sireee, no way, not this thot over here. But ofc I did skskskskskss like what do you take me for, an adult who refuses to sexualize every possible thingpfffft what.

The moment would have been intimate, romantic almost, if it had happened any other day, a morning where his forehead wasn’t bruised and bloodied.

Sosksksks not another situation wherein I am deeply questioning reader’s lack of sex-ing bc I’m not picturing sweaty, glistening muscles in that goddamn fucking ribbed tank. But in all seriousness, I actually love the way that this moment is one of genuine intimacy and safety bc like having been in a long-term relationship, when shit hits the fan and you just need someone to listen to you and take care of you and these little physical, affectionate gestures have absolutely no expectation of sexual gratification, like that’s an authentic relationship and I love how that’s the vibe with Chapito x Reader here.

… and as he slowly rubs your back, taking in the hot water, fingers softly digging in your flesh, trying to give back as much love as you just gave him, he knows. He’s sure of it now.

ⁱᵐ sorry.

“TRYING TO GIVE BACK AS MUCH LOVE AS YOU JUST GAVE HIM”

BEG YOUR PARDON

WHAT THE EVER LOVING SWEET FUCKING MOTHER OF FUCK, DUDE. THE PURE POETRY OF THIS, NOT TO MENTION THE FULL-FUCKING RELATIONSHIP GOALS. SHOOKETH, SHOOKETH STRAIGHT TO HELL. ARE YOU JOKING *lets out primal scream, flips table over, runs away on knuckles like an ape*

It’s only the beginning.

Pack of lies. I need more but there is no more. And I have absolutely not a clue how to continue this because it’s kind of a perfect one-shot. But am fully tempted to berate you into making more because I NEED IT.

hello ! finally here with a request 🤩 what about "why wont you let people see the good in you?" OR "i didn't know where else to go/i didnt have anywhere else to go" with our chapito? i think either or both could be juicy but its all up to you!!! (narcolini)

Juro Que

Joaquin 'Chapo' x gn!reader, 1169 words

With '' I didn't know where else to go " As always it's the fictional, not the real deal

a/n : I too extraño el bigote. A lil something for our chapito lindo

The sun is already bright and warm on your skin, seeping through the bay window, but it’s not the daylight that wakes you up this morning. It took you all of your might to fall asleep last night, overtired and anxiously waiting for Joaquin to call you back. You know about his work, and you know how busy he can get, but you also know how dangerous all of it is. He always tries to downplay it, everything is under control, mi amor, he says, no te preoccupes, hm? He caresses your face every chance he gets, promising you the brightest stars and the shiniest earrings. You won’t have to move in with me, because I’m building us a home, mi vida, he tells you again and again, but you know it’s because he doesn’t want you to see the guns and the drugs that are scattered in his house.

That day before he left you gave him your spare key, holding his hand tightly in yours, it’s so you can come here whenever you want, yes? I miss you when you don’t come by. He squeezed your hand back in answer and you could see how he tried to stop the biggest smile from pulling at his lips. You love him, and he loves you. You know I won’t call before coming over now, right? he had said. You know he’s mostly joking and he will call like he always does.

You know it’s him the second the bedroom door opens. It’s the way his weight shift and how his boots scrape on the floor, the heavy sigh that leaves his lips. You feel him slowly making his way to you, groaning a little when he sits on your side of the bed. The mattress slumps a bit, gravity pulling you towards him. You can’t escape the feeling of relief that washes over you. He’s safe, he’s here,

‘’ Buenos días, mi rey. ‘’ You whisper, eyes still half shut as you raise your hand to wrap around his forearm, welcoming him back. Your thumb rubs gently on his exposed skin,

‘’ I called you all night yesterday and you never answered. You had me worried, baby. ‘’

He’s covered in dirt, you notice, probably worked in his tunnel all night again. You have to admit that when Joaquin first told you about building a tunnel to the states, you were surprised. The idea was smart, the logical solution for their customs problem, and to put it simply, innovative in this field of work. You remember sitting with him in his mom’s kitchen, telling you about the Arellano’s taxes and Hector’s harsh words as he put all his bitterness in pressing the tortillas. How disrespectful and blatantly dismissive he had been. You’ll see, ma, he had said, pressing harder on the small handle, Güero will wish this idea was his. You watched him press and press again the small balls of dough you gave him.

Porque tú no eres igual a los demás, his mom had said, and you had understood it then, how different he was from everybody else. You could see the gears turning behind your man’s eyes, nothing was gonna stop him now.

His fingers reach up, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face,

‘’ I didn’t want to wake you, amor. I- I just didn’t know where else to go. ‘’

You don’t miss how his voice cracks, how exhausted he sounds. It startles you like a cold shower. You are fully awake now, as panic settles in. You gently pull him towards you by the arm when you sit up on the bed and his hand reaches for your waist, bringing you even closer. He smells like old wood and sand,

‘’ What happened, cariño? Are you hurt? ‘’

‘’ I don’t think so. ‘’ He breaths out, ‘’ Tijuana found out about the tunnel. They blew it up. ‘’

It all makes sense now, the dirt on his tank top, the scratches on his face. Your eyes are wide, meeting his tired ones. You try to speak, to ask more about what happened, but your mouth stays open, lips moving, trying to get something out. You can do nothing more than to try and comfort him, a familiar presence with only words and soft touches to help your cause. His fingers go under your chin, absently caressing the skin. He forces an exhausted smile on his lips,

‘’ I’m just glad I’m home, mi vida. I just want to take a shower and - ‘’ He swallows hard, his voice cracks again, and you think he might start to cry, but he doesn’t, he never does.

‘’ We can do that, baby. ‘’

The words are quick to come out, eager to finally be able to help. You hustle out of bed, sheets and covers flying, almost tripping over in the process. Your hold is still on his arm, a small clean spot on his bicep where you have been rubbing the sand with your thumb for too long.

He’s safe, he’s here.

He stands up when you pull on his arm. He’s much closer to you now, chests almost touching. The moment would have been intimate, romantic almost, if it had happened any other day, a morning where his forehead wasn’t bruised and bloodied. You can feel how warm his breath is, how cold his arm is under your fingers,

‘’ I’ll go start the water for you, so it’s warm, okay? ‘’

.

The water runs dark for a while as you wash his hair under the water stream. The temperature is exactly how he likes it, he realizes, and the floral notes of your shampoo fill the steam. He would usually complain about it, adding something about how the boys would be able to smell it off him, but those moments always come with your nails in his hair, on his neck, so he lets you do it every time. You work harder on his scalp, gently pulling the knots and the clumps of dirt out. He can barely remember the ride back home, grip tight on the wheel, sand crushing under his fingernails.

His head falls on your shoulder, his hands holding your waist, gently bringing you flush against him. Would they think it could stop him, he wonder, would they think it could go back to how it was, without payback? It’s the feeling of your skin against his, how your hands keep washing away the doubts, the guilt, he knows. It’s a dangerous game he is playing, and as he slowly rubs your back, taking in the hot water, fingers softly digging in your flesh, trying to give back as much love as you just gave him, he knows. He’s sure of it now.

It’s only the beginning.

[blancheludis]

A/N: @iron-man-bingo square: Withdrawal

Fandom: Marvel, Iron Man Characters: Tony Stark, Obadiah Stane, JARVIS Tags: Alcohol Abuse, Withdrawal, Sick Tony, Hurt No Comfort, Stane is a Villain, Angst Words: 2.540

Summary: Tony knows the criteria for diagnosing an addiction since Pepper has helpfully supplied him with a flyer once or five times. He is not an addict. He could stop. It is not withdrawal making him feel miserable. That is just his life. At least Obie understands that and helps - even if that means putting a bottle of whiskey in his hand at eleven in the morning. Tony is fine.

---

Tony wakes with a start. The transition from sleep to awake happens in a panic-infused second that catapults Tony from a mostly forgotten nightmare of hands pulling him under black waves to the sensation of being unable to move, unable to escape the lingering feeling of unease. It takes him several breathless moments to realize that his dream has not become flesh but that he is only entangled in his clam, sweat-soaked bedsheet.

He struggles against its grip without success, then falls back against the cushions pressing uncomfortably against his skin. Only then, with great reluctance, does he open his eyes. The light feels like daggers embedding themselves in his skull, relentlessly driving forward and making the already unbearable pounding ache worse. Tony groans, swallows against the dryness of his throat. His tongue feels like a swollen, foreign thing inside his mouth.

“What day is it?” Tony asks into the emptiness of his bedroom. His own voice is enough to make his ears ring and his head ache.

He wants to take the question back, certain he cannot stand another sound, but his ever-diligent AI answers before he can muster the energy to speak again.

“Tuesday,” JARVIS says, “Eleven in the morning.” Tony is certain JARVIS speaks louder than he has to, just as there is no mistaking the disappointment accompanying the words.

In turn, Tony closes his eyes as if that will help him escape that. He does not want to think about how his own creation’s disgust makes him feel, how lost he is already, mere minutes after waking up.

When the actual words register, Tony stills. Tuesday, he thinks, the word echoing hollowly inside his mind. He could have sworn it was just Friday. That means he is losing days again.

Tony wants to pull his pillow over his head and get back to sleep, a dreamless one this time. Everybody is always so angry with him when he is losing time – at least when he is not doing so inside the workshop. Nobody minds when he does not come up for air while he is working. Sleep is such a waste of time, though, theirs and his.

Pepper will be waiting with stacks of paperwork, and Obie will have projects to discuss. Shivers run through Tony’s body at the mere thought.

As if JARVIS has read his mind, he says, “Mr. Stane is waiting for you downstairs.”

Something gathers inside the pit of Tony’s stomach that might be dread, but could also be simple nausea instead. He sometimes gets that from just thinking about moving.

He does not want to get up, does not want to pour all his energy into pushing through the pain that is pulsing through his body. If he has to, he will. He has a lot of experience with it, but he wonders whether it is too much to ask to just get a break for once.

Taking a deep breath, Tony sits up. Despite the turmoil this causes inside his stomach, he goes all the way from lying down to sitting at the edge of his bed in one not very smooth motion. Once sitting, he regrets having ever woken up. His headache increases tenfold with a roar, nearly blinding him with pain. He does not know where is up and down, whether he is still sitting or already falling.

Cradling his head inside his hands, Tony waits for the agony to pass. Someday, he fears, it will stay with him forever, a constant companion like the whispering thoughts in the back of his mind that sound suspiciously like Howard that he never quite managed to silence, no matter how hard he tries.

Minutes pass that feel like hours. His heartbeat is a stumbling staccato in his ears as his heart rattles against the inside of his ribcage, demanding to be let out, to be laid to rest.

Finally, things calm down enough for Tony to dare look around. He is in his bedroom, which is a good sign. He has woken up in much worse places. The bedsheet is still clinging to his legs and he takes it with him, wondering how he is going to disentangle himself from it without falling over.

He is awake enough now to notice the rotten taste inside his mouth and searches for something to wash it away with. The thirst he feels is merely a secondary concern. Two bottles sit on his nightstand. One has fallen over, lying in a small puddle of clear liquid. The other one still has perhaps an inch of its content left.

Tony reaches out for it. His hand is trembling badly and misses the bottle by a good deal on his first try. His entire arm feels too heavy, straining to stay in the air. That feeling passes the moment Tony’s fingers close around the neck of the bottle.

The vodka does not burn as it slides down his throat. The shame lurking somewhere in the back of his mind does, however.

These thoughts are not something to linger on. In fact, they are exactly what made him end up here, miserable and in pain. Avoidance is a good motivator, though, so Tony pushes himself to his feet without further stalling.

He does not even make it all the way up before he falls right back down onto the mattress because his vision swims and all the blood drains out of his head. It is a good thing he did not strip the bedsheet away yet, because he thinks that is the only reason why he falls backwards instead of flat on his nose.

“Do you want me to call for assistance?” JARVIS asks, and only belatedly adds, “Sir.”

Nothing clears Tony’s minds faster than the thought of being seen like this. It is funny, how pride works. He should not have any of that left. And yet.

It takes Tony the better part of an hour to get out of bed and into the bathroom. His legs and hands are shaking too badly for him to take a shower, so he falls more than climbs into his bathtub and sits there while he lets hot water trickle down his back. He drinks some of it but that amplifies his nausea. After that, he just sits there, wondering about how easy it would be to drown here.

When he finally makes his way downstairs, his shirt is unbuttoned but he feels almost human again. Not enough to be actually up for company, but he does not walk right back to his bedroom at least.

Obie is standing at the window, looking out over the sea. His back is straight and he does not turn around when he hears Tony’s steps coming closer. That is as sure a sign as any that he is angry. People usually are where Tony is involved.

“Good morning,” Tony greets, as he walks over to the couch, his legs feeling weak already. He winces at the hoarseness of his own voice and wishes he had said nothing. It makes Obie stop ignoring him, though. Tony is not sure whether that is a good thing.

Something flickers over Obie’s face and while it is too quickly replaced by the usual wide smile, Tony knows what it was. Pity and disgust and a whole lot of questions about his remaining worth. Some nights, when he is actually sober, Tony looks in the mirror and sees the same questions on his own face.

“You’re going to make me late for the board meeting,” Obadiah says by way of greeting, as if Tony has called him here, actually wanting to entertain guests instead of wallowing in self-pity.

Reaching the couch, Tony lets himself sink into the cushions with a sigh. He did not know there was a board meeting scheduled. Then again, he did not know what day it is either. For a fleeting moment, he imagines Howard’s disappointed face at Tony’s lack of interest in Stark Industries. Tony is good at what he does and he can spew out a dozen good ideas in a row when he is on a working binge. It just does not feel like his. Not after his father’s constant tirades and then his sudden death, leaving Tony to continue a legacy he never managed to live up to before.

Most of the time, it is easy to ignore that weak sense of duty, drowning it beneath parties and alcohol and beautiful women. Sometimes, though, Obie looks at him the way Howard always did, and that makes it hard to cling to his chosen irresponsibility.

“Perhaps I should come with you,” Tony offers, and is sure he only does because he knows Obie will refuse.

He still cannot ignore the slight disappointment he feels when Obadiah shakes his head. Tony does not want to go to a board meeting and face an entire table full of judging faces and constant scrutiny. He would like to be needed, though. Even if it is only for a little while and for something as unimportant as a meeting with ever circling conversations.

“You should take care of yourself first,” Obadiah answers with that same generosity he has always shown Tony since Howard and Maria’s death.

It gave Tony time to grieve – or to accept the fact that he was not grieving – and to finish his studies, to live before Stark Industries is going to swallow him whole. It has been some years but Tony is not any closer to finding any peace. Obie is not rushing him, though.

“It’s still my company,” Tony argues, surprising himself.

It is not as if he even has time to care for Stark Industries in between hiding away in his workshop and drowning his worries in alcohol. The latter is a coping mechanism he learned from Howard, which really should make him stay away from it, but he has never actually listened to common sense.

“And I speak for you,” Obadiah counters calmly. He looks hurt, as if Tony has just questioned his loyalty. “I’m here to help you like I helped your father.”

Tony thinks he should have gone looking for a new bottle before coming downstairs if Obie is in the mood to discuss Howard. His insides are tense and curled into aching knots already. The nausea still has not passed, even though he takes care not to move.

“But I can –” Tony tries to insist, but is secretly glad when Obie interrupts him.

“I know you can,” he says. He has used that same tone for as long as Tony can remember, encouraging him even when Howard threw his projects and ideas directly onto the junk pile. “But you don’t have to.”

Tony’s entire life consists of things he has to do, of expectations he has to meet. His effort always falls short. It is nice to have someone looking out for him, to see when he is doing badly. Pepper and Rhodey do too, up to a certain point, but they are always so eager to fix him and not his circumstances.

“You look a little pale,” Obadiah continues. It feels like Tony has missed a portion of their conversation, drifting off along the currents of his rambling mind. “Do you need a drink?”

Something inside Tony immediately perks up. The taste of the last drops of vodka he had after waking up is still lingering on his tongue, calling for more. He does not need to drink, of course. It is just a way to calm his mind enough that he can work properly. His brain has always had the habit of running in overdrive, leaving him lost amongst his own thoughts.

“I shouldn’t,” Tony says nonetheless. He tries calm his mind through other means, to keep his fingers occupied so they will not itch to close around a bottle. “There’s work to do.”

“And you’ll get it done,” Obadiah reassures him easily. He is already moving towards the liquor cabinet, anticipating Tony’s needs despite his protest. “You don’t have too hurt yourself for it.”

That remark rankles Tony. It does not hurt him not to drink. Yes, he feels the ever constant tremble in his fingers, and his headache would be crippling if he had not had years of practice of working through it.

He can trust Obie, though. Out of all the people in the world, it was always Obie who stood at his side without question – at least since Jarvis died. Tony loves Pepper and Rhodey, but they never seem to accept that this is who he is, that there is no fixing that.

Rationally, Tony does not want a drink, but the familiar craving is spreading through his chest, pulling at his sternum. His skin itches with the need to feel cool glass beneath it. Time always drags by so slowly when he tries to do the right thing and stay sober. His brain, too, gets muffled, distracted by the memory of bottles clinking against each other.

One glass cannot hurt.

“One,” he tells Obie, and the roaring inside his head is already dissipating. One will be enough to calm the shaky feeling of his body and give his mind some clarity.

Obadiah nods benevolently at him as he gets out a glass. He pours and pours, then brings over a glass that is filled almost to the brim. It is only practice and sheer need that keeps Tony from spilling any of the precious liquid.

It does not even taste good anymore, tainted by his thoughts, by imagining his friends’ faces. They do not know what he needs.

Tony knows the criteria for diagnosing an addiction since Pepper has helpfully supplied him with a flyer once or five times. Hazardous use of addictive substances. Social or work-related problems due to substance use. Failure to meet responsibilities. Tolerance. Unsuccessful attempts to quit. Giving up on other activities. Spending too much time using the substance. Craving. Withdrawal symptoms.

He is not an addict. He could stop. It is not withdrawal making him feel miserable. That is just his life.

Obie is right. Why should he make things unnecessarily hard for himself? He gets his work done just as well, and if he is losing some days to oblivion, it is not like he misses much. Life only happens when he is there.

The bottle is standing within reach, and Tony moves before he knows what he is doing. Obie watches him with a smile, not judging.

“I’ll call you if something interesting happens during the board meeting,” Obadiah says as he gets to his feet. “Just concentrate on yourself and your work.”

Busy draining his glass, Tony just nods his thanks and waves Obadiah off. He is doing well. The exhaustion is already falling off him, so he is sure he is going to get some profitable hours in in the workshop – after he is done with his drink.

Obadiah whistles as he walks out of the room, leaving Tony behind, knowing he is well cared for. Already, Tony’s brain gets ready to create, the alcohol promising to mute the worst of its background noise.

When Tony goes down to the workshop, he takes the bottle with him.

[ankitasadarjoshi-blog]

A Piece About Morocco And Healing Through Theatre

Admittedly, this is one of the more generic quotes of the last three weeks, but I’m going to go ahead and plug it in anyway - Carrie Fisher said, “Take your broken heart and make it into art.” Romanticizations of deep personal - and communal - pain aside, there is enormous value embedded in the attempt to process trauma by creating artistic work through, about, and in spite of it. Theater in particular is riddled with the potential to engage citizens of a historically traumatized nation in conversations about recognition and healing.  I have personally been struggling to retain a focused interest in theater lately, but meeting the passionate artists we did in Morocco and witnessing their stunningly intelligent, driven work renewed in me a long-lost faith in the ability of theater to acknowledge and mend broken hearts, bodies, and minds, while also recognizing that there exist different traumas to address and equally varied means to do so.

In order for a community to heal, its members first have to see one another and engage in the mutual recognition of a wound to be mended, a remedy or relief to be attained. More often than not, relief is effectively sought through humour and communal enjoyment. The model that most exemplified this communal need was the one followed by the storytellers in the Halqa traditions of Jemaa al-Fnaa, whose primary urgency was to assemble a crowd of people and constantly perform a desire to engage them in the story being told or the performance happening within the so-formed circle of spectators. Locals of all classes mix with tourists to create a halo of spec’actors’ who willingly (and also, perhaps, helplessly) submit to the vulnerability associated with watching a performance in the round. We watch each other wait for something to happen, we watch each other be picked on and mocked and laughed at - sometimes, in languages we don’t even understand - and yet, we actively choose to participate in this loud, dizzying attempt to experience ourselves through the performative choices of other people. There was a certain fear and reservation I experienced while watching the storyteller/crowd-herder of the first circle at the Square pester Bernice for more money than she could offer. However, these momentary paralyses of free will and individuation are reimbursed through a process of recognizing and applauding those brave spectators who voluntarily and involuntarily sacrifice themselves to the altar of unpredictable public art practice. In this way, public art becomes social art by asserting its ability to create communities of audiences who interact to arguably a higher degree with each other than they do with the actual performance. Jemaa al-Fnaa in particular acts a medium of communication and recognition amongst Moroccans themselves, who are reminded of their own ideas of culture.

Jemaa al-Fnaa represented to me the role of enshrined yet accessible art in facilitating conversations among people of varying classes, races, and genders. Hunter being pulled into the belly-dancing circle to dance with a performer was a moment of joy in which socio-cultural differences between two very different people were transcended to produce a phenomenon of communally enjoyed behaviour. Afterwards, when the belly dancer asked for pictures with some of the people in our NYUAD group, I was struck by how willing audiences are to engage in performative phenomena when such phenomena is made spatially available to an unprescribed public. While perhaps a smidgen more endearing and legible to Moroccan locals, the power of such theater lies in its claim to invite all to witness and be part of it. This is not to say that the cheeky storytellers in Hangman’s Square didn’t know to gravitate towards visibly better off people for more money, but rather, that the prices of loose change and fleeting embarrassment associated with being part of a public audience are easy to pay in exchange for the healing effects of togetherness and humour that arise from such experiences. It is also worth mentioning that so much of the excitement that came from those circles of vulnerability was incited by the storytellers’ and jokers’ abilities to think on their feet, address each new audience differently, and mend faults in their own communication and storytelling. The magic of Halqa thereby lies in its goal of creating and mending disruptions, while also critiquing the efficacy of itself in doing so – a stronghold of inspiration to those seeking to effect social change. By actively engaging with forms of theater that erase the delineation between subjective performers and objective spectators, we as audiences are enriched with a new understanding of what it means to experience spectrums of human emotion through and from one another.

While the performances at Jemaa al-Fnaa constituted efforts to bring people together and make them laugh, worry, pay money, and watch others do the same, we were privy to equally significant ways in which theater is used to unite people through perhaps slightly more serious attempts to soothe trauma. Haouasse Abdelmajid, the director and designer of Theatre Aphrodite, frightened me in the best way possible with his humility, passion and intelligence in creating theatrical works of extremely well-researched art, in which the liminal spaces between Morocco’s historicized trauma and contemporary representations of the same could be delved into. The YouTube videos he unassumingly pulled up on his laptop screen contained beautifully executed scenography that I will probably retain in my vocabulary of theatre imagery for the rest of my life. Among the videos he shared with us, the ones that stood out most to me were undoubtedly _Violenscene _and Schizophrenya - pertaining to sexual violence against women and cyclical abuse perpetuated through the internalized misogyny of mothers who sell off their daughters, respectively. Both pieces were infused with formal experimentation, challenging the limits of how exactly to stage testimonial trauma documented from and experienced by real people.

In Violenscene, we watched a man play a woman like a violin, with the final stroke of his bow slicing the female body down to its raped end. While this image presented itself on one end of the stage, we watched a woman narrate her rape on the other. By literally distancing a victim of rape from the representation of her experience, the piece puts forth the argument that victims of trauma resulting from sexual assault possess the capability to regain subjecthood through narrations of their experience - a method often encouraged by mental health professionals as well. It is pivotal to note that the groundwork for Violenscene was generated from interviews with single mothers who were victims of sexual violence during Morocco’s Years of Lead, thus historicizing the systematic use of rape as an instrument of political warfare and using it as evidence of inexplicable suffering in contemporary testimonial theatre. In this way, theatre quite literally offers a voice to the previously silenced and visualizes for its audiences – sometimes containing victims of the staged violence – the ways in which trauma can be poeticized to some extent as long as the truth of it is not lost, and that some amount of relief and agency is gained through such poeticization.

To me, Abdelmajid exemplified the importance of working in firm collaboration with the victims of the trauma one is attempting to portray on stage. In Schizophrenya, we watch the theatrical manifestation of a woman systematically abused by the household she was sold into as a girl, and the trauma she experiences as a severely mistreated prostitute. We watch an actor playing an abused woman cower and tell her story in one corner of the stage, we see a large screen projecting an actor suffer the torture inflicted on her by an invisible abuser in the middle of the stage, while a third corner presents another element of her torture. In this classic case of form mimicking and speaking to subject matter, an audience is asked to consider the conditions due to which the singular story of one person’s experience would have to be fragmented into separate stage installations, each depicting a different visual and visceral aesthetic idea attached to trauma. The liminal spaces bubble up in moments of multi-formal theatre, where an audience is fed an idea of what torture and abuse feel like, rather than didactic images of torture and abuse themselves.

Such choices to implicate audiences in a character’s experience of trauma further speaks to the fact that stories of sexual violence, trauma, and abuse, though experienced first-hand by real life victims, belong not only to individual narratives of suffering, but to the history of an entire nation and its people. The idea of national belonging is thus complicated to encompass questions of what it means to witness representations of suffering you did not experience, but that are embedded in the socio-political memory of a nation you belong to. Through his in-depth investment in representations of female trauma, Abdelmajid proposes methods in which a history of gendered torture is confronted in an attempt to deliver some semblance of hope, justice, and recognition to victims continually struggling to reconcile their fractured psyches.

A community of recognition is inherently political and charged with a conscience to enact change – but to what degree does an audience retain this conscience once they leave a theater? It is here that the question of audience participation becomes crucial, as the primary danger of traditional proscenium theatre is its risk of paralyzing its audiences with cathartic empathy. In rebellion to notions of paralysis in the face of desired change, the incredibly inspiring Théatre De L’Opprimé Casablanca (The Casablanca Theatre of the Oppressed) valorizes attempts to interrupt and disrupt that which claims to be the norm of society. The enthusiastic students of the company thrust us into an immediate example of theatrical image-making that asks its audience to solve the reality being represented in a picture without providing magical solutions. We sat down – once again in the round – and watched the female members of a house cater to the arrogance, laziness and misogyny of the male characters of the same household, and were called to attention by the joker figure who acted as an intermediary host between actor and spectator, a narrator of events, and a questioner of the audience’s desire for change.

By voicing my opinion on the image, intervening to change it, and watching my classmates do the same, I realized something of extreme importance – there are ways to streamline outrage so that it leads to productive solutions. Most of all, it was so heartening to watch our contributive solutions build up on, and due to, one another, elegantly landing us in the lap of Shaima’s conclusion – a proposal that the education of Morocco’s male population be considered an integral solution to internalized misogyny. A community of passive conscience is thereby transformed into one of active resistance to the paralysis of empathy, and an audience of social change is born. The energy of the different forms of theatre we experienced in Morocco reminded me that it is exhausting to have to confront the trauma of oneself, others, and an entire nation, but it is a thousand times more defeating to remain complacent in the face of a war cry. By activating and puzzling the liminal spaces of delineation, accessibility, and participatory behaviour, Moroccan theatre claims stake in creating dialogues about social change that arise when passive spectators are made to realize their agency in demanding a recognition of a communal behaviour that seeks to heal history.