In May of this year, I was selected as a writer-in-residence by the cultural organization KROKODIL in Belgrade, which promotes regional dialogue through literature and cultural exchange. This residency has served as a foundation for building a sustainable platform for cooperation among writers and artists across the region.

During my stay there, I was invited to attend the premiere of the play They Are All Gone, which was performed at the theater of the organization Heartefact, an initiative that combines contemporary art with transitional justice. The play was written by playwright Dori Basha and directed by Andrej Nosov. It is performed by a powerful trio of actors: Mirjana Karanović, Svetozar Cvetković, and Alban Ukaj.

To understand the emotional weight of this work, we have to reference the historical context that shapes it. The wars of Yugoslavia during the 1990s left deep scars on the region. The war in Bosnia and Herzegovina, in particular, had some of the most tragic episodes of ethnic cleansing, including the genocide in Srebrenica.

While there are various attempts to address the collective trauma of the post-war period, the play, They Are All Gone, stands out for its intimate and heartfelt approach. More than just an artistic interpretation, it is a journey into the psychological consequences of war, bringing to the stage the loneliness of those left behind.

Centering a region that still struggles with the denial of the past, the play pays homage to those who face the unbearable, through pain, survival, and the erosion of time. 

When mourning takes physical form

The play opens with a seemingly ordinary scene: Sadika, an elderly woman played by Mirjana Karanović, is preparing for her birthday. Her husband, Azem, played by Svetozar Cvetković, is attentive and caring, helping her with the housework. The conversations between them are warm and loving, but gradually, silent tensions begin to surface.

Sadika appears focused and troubled, especially by the absence of her son, Nermin, whom she has not seen since a past disagreement. Yet it seems that Nermin exists in another time — in a temporal dimension that does not align with the reality Sadika inhabits.

When Martin, the nurse, played by Alban Ukaj, enters the house, the play begins to shake the audience’s perception of reality. He gives Sadika her medicine, and she performs an unusual gesture: she adds a spoonful of soil to a glass of water and drinks it. This action marks Sadika’s entrance into a psychological realm, where mourning takes tangible form.

The taste of the soil becomes a metaphor for a pain that never goes away, but must be faced and swallowed every day. This moment is like a silent crack, a symbolic separation, reminding us that the space of the house is no longer based on reality, but on memories, absence, and the endless void of longing.

With the arrival of Sadika’s “guests” — her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren — the stage is filled with strange feelings of uncertainty and condolence. The children’s voices can only be heard through headphones given to the audience, creating a surreal effect, with sonic disconnections increasing the scene’s ambiguity: Are these presences real? Or are we inside Sadika’s burdened psyche? The characters on stage bring gifts from the past: childhood toys, old school reports, and photographs salvaged with the help of technology. The living room is transformed into a gallery of relics, a private museum curated by longing.

The illusion almost culminates in a moment of bliss — the sounds of children’s voices who are absent and present, shift into a shocking, carefully composed revelation. Sadika is not a mother hosting guests; she is a survivor of the Srebrenica massacre, left alone in a grim, repetitive routine. She inhabits a space between life and death, haunted by what she has experienced. Her past replays endlessly in her mind, turning it into a torture chamber from which there is no escape.

A play about war, but without war

It is not the first time that Basha has tackled themes of war and memory. Her previous play, The Finger, also confronts the dark shadows of conflict and its aftermath. But in They Are All Gone, she offers a more intimate view of a mother who continues to live, not to heal, but to bear witness.

What makes They Are All Gone so powerful is the care shown to the characters, stripped of any attempts at theatrical dramatization. The direction is restrained; the emotion is real, not exaggerated. The pain unfolds silently, in the slow rhythm of domestic routine. There are no scenes of war, only the trauma it has left behind. Sadika bathes in ice water because that is how her children died. She drinks water dirtied by soil because it brings her closer to those who have passed. These actions are not simply metaphorical; they are the rituals of someone living in permanent mourning.

The play confronts the audience with chilling questions: What remains when everything is lost? What happens when emptiness becomes the only reference to love? In a region where historical memory is often instrumentalized as a weapon or suppressed altogether, They Are All Gone does something rare and necessary — it places at the center not the event of war, but its emotional consequences. The play insists on recognizing personal pain beyond the narratives of the official history machine.

In this way, They Are All Gone transcends its local context. It is a narrative the entire Balkans can relate to, but also a universal reflection on survival, memory, and the torment of remaining alive.

Feature image: “They Are All Gone”.

Editor’s note: The translation of the play’s title is not official.

This blog was published with the financial support of the European Union as part of the project “Diversifying voices in journalism.” Its contents are the sole responsibility of Kosovo 2.0 and do not necessarily reflect the views of the European Union.

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