By: Shqipe Malushi
Author: Euripides
Contemporary Text: Shpëtim Selmani
Co-Directors and Playwrights: Maja Mitić & Zana Hoxha
Cast: Shpëtim Selmani, Maja Mitić, Semira Latifi, Qendresa Kajtazi, Branka Stojković, Labinot Raci, Aleksandar Stoimenowski
Choreographer: Robert Nuha
Composer: Liburn Jupolli
Costumes: Yllka Brada
Sound & Lighting Technician: Skender Latifi
Production Managers: Venera Ismaili, Elira Lluka, Valza Sijarina
Set & Graphic Designer: Arber Matoshi
Under the visionary direction of Zana Hoxha and Maja Mitić, The Women of Troy was not merely performed—it was birthed with raw truth and beauty, emerging from the ancient sorrow of Euripides’ text, reshaped through a contemporary voice by Shpëtim Selmani, who boldly steps into the role of the writer—attempting to rewrite history, only to find that its cruel cycle persists.
The stage opened with waves—water rising and receding—cradling the lifeless, echoing the eternal rhythm of loss. As the waters pulled back, women emerged, mourning, lamenting the fall of Troy. Their cries were not only for an ancient city—but for every city that has crumbled under the weight of war.
Fear and powerlessness lingered in the air. The characters, caught between memory and uncertainty, struggled to imagine a future. Their grief became universal. Their silence deafening.
Each element of this production exceeded expectation.
Liburn Jupolli’s haunting composition pierced through the silence like the cry of a mother in mourning modern, ancient, and eternal all at once.
Skender Latifi’s lighting sculpted shadows of memory and despair, bathing the stage in flickers of loss and resistance.
Yllka Brada’s costumes transformed bodies into vessels of history—timeless, wounded, defiant.
Robert Nuha’s choreography translated unspeakable grief into movement, allowing bodies to speak where words could not.
And Arber Matoshi’s set design painted a world that felt both collapsed and sacred—a Troy that is everywhere, and always.
The cast was electric. Every gesture, every word, every breath carried generations of pain and resilience. Together, they did not act—they embodied the truth.Shpëtim Selmani’s presence as the writer who cannot undo violence, Branka Stojković’s fierce voice crossing borders of memory and guilt, and the ensemble’s collective grief, this was a performance that transcended art.
The Women of Troy called out across time:
“This whole world is our ancient Troy—and your modern one. Not wooden horses, but steel. Iron Pegasuses dropping bombs.”
The audience sat stunned. War had turned people into numbers. The tragedy of Hector’s son “sentenced to death”, and the cruel fates of Cassandra, Polyxena, Hecuba, and Andromache were not relics of mythology. They were warnings. Echoes. And Truths.
Cassandra, condemned to Agamemnon’s bed, and the messenger’s cold remark—“Is it not an honor to share a prince’s bed?”—exposed the misogyny that festers through centuries, the ownership of women that persists even in silence.
The actors didn’t just perform; they transformed the National Theatre of Kosova into a sacred space of mourning and resistance. They cried out in Albanian and Serbian, not as a symbol, but as a living act of sisterhood. Their shared language, their shared pain, became a shared prayer for peace.
Maja, as Hekuba, stood at the edge of despair, wrestling with the ruins of existence, only to rise and deliver a final, fearless cry—a voice that echoed across centuries, speaking to both past and present with haunting truth.
Quendresa embodied Andromache, daughter-in-law to Hekuba and widow of Hektor, in a performance steeped in sorrow and defiance. Her portrayal of love, sacrifice, and vengeance culminated in a devastating silence—the loss of her child sealing her fate.
Semira, as Cassandra reimagined in the present, gave voice to the unspeakable. Her raw truth—drawn from the wounds of Kosovo’s women who endured wartime sexual violence—cut through the myth and laid bare the price of prophecy, pain, and being disbelieved.
Branka, as Athena, brought a serene and untouchable poise to the stage—the presence of a goddess who watches over destruction with the calm of the divine, unmoved yet all-seeing.
Aleksandar, in the dual role of Poseidon and soldier, embodied the ease of power—delivering tragic news with chilling detachment, a man who wears authority like a borrowed coat, enjoying its weight without bearing its burden.
Labinot appeared as the eternal soldier—lost in the fog of duty, marching through history’s battles without knowing whose cause he serves or what name he dies under. His presence was a mirror of every forgotten warrior.
Each actor was a force of their own—original, unflinching, and deeply human—reviving the voices of ancient Troy and grounding them in the present. Together, they reminded us that the war never really ends—it just changes its name.
This performance was not simply theatre, it was political ritual, remembrance, and plea. From Kosovo to Cambodia, from Rwanda to Ukraine, from Gaza to Yemen, The Women of Troy became the mirror to our global despair and our collective yearning.
In a time when art is often afraid to take a stand, this performance stood tall grieving, courageous, unapologetic. Under Mitić and Hoxha’s extraordinary guidance, this production turned pain into testimony, and testimony into transformation.
Can peace ever truly be possible? the play asked.
And then whispered: Perhaps. But only if we begin to listen to women’s voices.
The audience wept. And rose
—
Pozorišna predstava: Žene Troje – Kosovo & Srbija
Autor: Shqipe Malushi
Autor: Euripid
Savremeni tekst: Shpëtim Selmani
Ko-rediteljke i dramaturškinje: Maja Mitić & Zana Hoxha
Glumačka postava: Shpëtim Selmani, Maja Mitić, Semira Latifi, Qendresa Kajtazi, Branka Stojković, Labinot Raci, Aleksandar Stoimenowski
Koreograf: Robert Nuha
Kompozitor: Liburn Jupolli
Kostimi: Yllka Brada
Ton i svetlo: Skender Latifi
Producentkinje: Venera Ismaili, Elira Lluka, Valza Sijarina
Scenograf i grafički dizajn: Arbër Matoshi
Pod vizionarskom režijom Zane Hoxhe i Maje Mitić, Žene Troje nisu bile samo predstava—već ponovno rođenje istine i lepote, rođene iz drevnog bola Euripidovog teksta, oživljene savremenim glasom Shpëtima Selmanija, koji se pojavljuje kao sam pisac—pokušavajući da prepiše istoriju, ali nemoćan da zaustavi njeno okrutno ponavljanje. Jer dok muškarci započinju ratove, ubijaju, tlače i dominiraju, žene i deca bivaju ubijeni, silovani i nestaju.
Predstava počinje vodom—talasi se dižu i spuštaju—noseći tela žrtava. Voda, simbol života, povlači se, a neki od preživelih ustaju, oplakujući pad Troje. Užas i nemoć preplavljuju scenu. Likovi su zarobljeni između sećanja i neizvesnosti, nesposobni da zamisle budućnost. Njihov bol postaje univerzalan. Njihova tišina – zaglušujuća.
Svaki element ove predstave nadmašio je očekivanja.
Muzika Liburna Jupollija bila je krik ožalošćene majke—moderna, drevna i večna.
Svetlo Skendera Latifija stvorilo je senke sećanja i očaja, kupajući scenu u bolu i otporu.
Kostimi Yllke Brade pretvorili su tela u nosioce istorije—večna, ranjena, nesalomiva.
Pokreti Roberta Nuhe dali su jeziku tela snagu—onda kada reči nisu bile dovoljne.
Scenografija Arbëra Matoshija stvorila je svet koji je istovremeno porušen i svet.
Glumci su bili izuzetni. Svaki gest, svaka reč, svaki dah nosio je bol i otpor generacija. Oni nisu glumili—oni su postajali.
Prisutnost Shpëtima Selmanija kao nemoćnog pisca pred nasiljem, snažan glas Branke Stojković i kolektivni bol čitavog ansambla—učinili su ovu predstavu više od umetnosti.
Žene Troje su vikale kroz vekove:
“Ceo svet je naša drevna Troja—i vaša savremena. Ne drveni konji, već čelični. Pegazi od gvožđa bacaju bombe.”
Publika je zanemela. Rat je pretvorio ljude u brojeve.
Tuga zbog Hektorovog sina – “osuđenog na smrt” – i surove sudbine Kasandre, Poliksene, Hekube i Andromake nisu bile mitovi prošlosti, već upozorenja sadašnjosti.
Kasandra je osuđena da bude rob Agamemnonu, a grčki glasnik je imao smelosti da kaže:
“Zar nije čast deliti postelju s princom?”
Ovi umetnici nisu bili samo glumci. Oni su bili svedoci. Postali su glas svih žena iz svih ratova. Njihovi glasovi su odjekivali unutar zidova Narodnog Pozorišta Kosova, kao molitva za kraj rata. Kao poziv za početak mira.
Maja, u ulozi Hekube, stajala je na ivici očaja, suočena sa ruševinama postojanja, da bi se zatim uzdigla i izrekla svoju poslednju, neustrašivu besedu — glas koji je odjeknuo kroz vekove, govoreći i prošlosti i sadašnjosti istinom koja odzvanja.
Quendresa je utelovila Andromahu, snaju Hekube i udovicu Hektora, u izvedbi ispunjenoj tugom i prkosom. Njeno tumačenje ljubavi, žrtve i osvete završilo se razornom tišinom — gubitak sina zapečatio joj je sudbinu.
Semira, kao savremena Kasandra, postala je glas neizrečenog. Njena ogoljena istina — ukorenjena u ranama žena sa Kosova koje su preživele seksualno nasilje tokom rata — probila je mit i ogolila cenu proročanstva, bola i neverice.
Branka, kao Atina, donela je božansku postojanost na scenu — prisustvo boginje koja gleda uništenje spokojno, neuznemirena, a svevideća.
Aleksandar, u ulozi Posejdona i vojnika, utelovio je lakoću moći — saopštavao je tragične vesti sa zapanjujućom ravnodušnošću, čovek koji nosi autoritet kao pozajmljeni plašt, uživajući u njegovoj težini bez osećanja odgovornosti.
Labinot se pojavio kao večiti vojnik — izgubljen u magli dužnosti, marširajući kroz istorijske bitke ne znajući za koga se bori, niti u čije ime gine. Njegovo prisustvo bilo je ogledalo svakog zaboravljenog ratnika.
Svaki glumac bio je sila za sebe — originalan, neustrašiv i duboko ljudski — oživeli su glasove drevne Troje i spustili ih u današnjicu. Zajedno su nas podsetili da rat nikada ne prestaje — on samo menja ime.
Ova predstava dotakla je svako sećanje na poslednji rat na Kosovu i svaku otvorenu ranu sveta: Prvi svetski rat, Drugi svetski rat, Vijetnam, Kambodža, Ruanda, Avganistan, Irak, Ukrajina, Gaza, Sirija, Jemen, Iran… milioni mrtvih, nevine žene i deca masakrirani. Ova predstava je vikala za mir.
U vremenu kada umetnost često ćuti iz straha, ova predstava je govorila hrabro—sa bolom, ljubavlju i dostojanstvom.
Pod izuzetnim vođstvom Mitić i Hoxhe, ovo delo je prevazišlo vreme i mit. Dalo je glas tišini. A njen glas je pitao:
“Da li je mir moguć?”
I zatim šapnulo: “Samo ako počnemo da slušamo žene.”
Publika je plakala. I ustala.
