By: Shqipe Malushi
It was a night lit not only by lights, but by spirit.
Just as the burial of shame began to settle into silence,
we broke that silence with drums— not as weapons, but as wombs of sound birthing joy, memory, and unity.
At 21:00 sharp, a couple entered the stage holding frame drums like ancient scrolls.
They did not just play— they summoned.
From the first beat, it was as if the ancestors arrived,carrying stories sewn into melodies of love, weddings,and the sacred union of souls wrapped in ritual and hope.The theatre walls breathed.The audience rose—not commanded, but called.
Men and women sprang to their feet,
hands lifted, feet dancing, as if tradition was not a cage, but a circle of belonging.
And in that moment, FemArt did what art is meant to do— it transformed pain into presence,
memory into movement.
This was no performance.
This was a reclamation.
A declaration.
A celebration.
A festival of resistance,
where every beat whispered:
“We have survived.”
And every footstep answered:
“And I Still Rise.”
Following the aching intensity of Marrja e Zezë,
this felt like breath returning to the body—
like light returning after the storm, like joy insisting on being felt.
It was a dance not away from pain,
but through it.
If Marrja e Zezë was the burial,
Hands of Fire, Hearts of Freedom
was the resurrection.
