Lost
Gazes
Mohamed Abdelkarim
Prologue
I have always wondered how we ended up here, in this place where time no longer moves forward but instead coils around itself.
They say life has improved over the past decade. "They" refers to those researchers who exist alongside me during this time. Yet, I have never been able to pinpoint my place within it, whether I inhabit someone else’s future, exist in the past of an impending tomorrow, or remain suspended in the present as the beginning of a time segment.
I am not alone in this preoccupation with time, lack of documentation, archives, artifacts, or any tangible records that could reveal what was once done on this land. The only remnants that continue to be studied are the ruins scattered on the city’s outskirts and the oral histories passed down by elders, stories inherited from ancestors who survived what we call the "dark semi-centennial." Those who survived the disasters were few, and I doubt they had the will to recount their tales.
Three years ago, I received confirmation that I could move into a habitect restora1 in the old quarter, one of the few remaining buildings. Half of it was buried beneath the sand, meticulously restored by the community and made available for dwellright to those Technochronotaphists2 on the waiting list. The first three floors of the building housed a lab with research facilities and the rest of the floors were a habitect restora for living. The building primarily attracts Technochronotaphists and those fascinated by Technochronotaphy, as well as those who yearned to experience life as it once was.
The researchers in the lab refrained from calling it "the past" and referred to it as the "previous segment." I soon understood why. Their findings led them to believe that what we call the past is not truly a past, at least not in the conventional sense. A past, by definition, has threads that connect it to the present, and layers that accumulate over time. But here, there were no such continuities. No threads. No accumulations. What came before had been severed, leaving us unmoored.
I hadn’t realized our privilege as the people living right now in this segment of time, until I met one of the researchers responsible for the building. They offered me a tour where newly uncovered artifacts and objects were displayed. I recognized a few: keys, a printed circuit board, and everyday items devoid of allure. But then I came across ten separate bundles of papers, once tightly wrapped in aged plastic film, now carefully opened and displayed side by side. Nearby, photographs documented how they were first discovered, still sealed within their titanium capsules.
Language is the only thing that has not withdrawn through time, unlike tradition, culture, and other legacies. With every artifact discovered, we realize we are merely new inhabitants, disconnected from the past except through language, despite the changes that have occurred. I requested access to read as much as possible from this discovery, and fortunately, my request was granted as part of the privilege during the three years of dwellright. I was permitted to visit the lab and study the texts. It was unmistakably a diary, despite the researchers’ reluctance to define it as such. At the very least, I could still relate to some fragments, such as the ruins of buildings and structures mentioned in its pages. But the lived experiences themselves, the manner in which life was described, and even the terminology all felt foreign as if they belonged to an alien consciousness.
I have lived with these papers for nearly three years, which is the duration of my usufruct right to the habitect restora. Eventually, I decided to extract fragments of the papers that might weave a narrative to understand what had transpired on this land. Even if I cannot relate to those who inhabited this past, I can at least connect to the land itself, a land that seems to have suffered.
I reordered sections of the diary based on the locations where events took place. The one or many who wrote these diaries recorded them after the events, not when they occurred. I lean toward the idea that they were written later in life, collectively, as you can sense the effort they put into recalling details. I cannot determine whether these writings belonged to a single person or multiple authors. There were no personal details, only sporadic references. Some footnotes defined creatures like the Sala’wa, as well as tribes and political movements. Others contained details that, from our perspective, are easily decipherable; for example, the mention of Google suggests that, at the time, it was merely a search engine rather than a global security agency. There were also notes revealing how much the city’s geography and topography had changed.
I did as much as possible with the collaboration of my Technochronotaphist colleagues and friends to provide context for specific events, figures, names, and references that the authors assumed would endure but instead faded into obscurity. I combined my footnotes with theirs, and I edited their footnotes to be more comprehensible, weaving interpretations into the gaps they left behind.
I divided the fragments into two parts, titled “The City” and “The Desert,” despite not knowing whether the authors of these diaries visited the desert multiple times, or if their experiences in the city were similarly repeated. It's also unclear whether the apartment they describe is a single unit or a merging of different apartments within the same building. The building in which we assume these events occurred has undergone significant changes in how it appears in the landscape, but the structure of the terrace and the windows remain the same.
Lastly, several researchers have suggested that these diaries were authored by a single individual suffering from Neurogenic Urban Consumption Syndrome (NUCS)3 . This hypothesis is based on the irregular sequence used by the narrator, the absence of detailed accounts, and the narrative’s persistent impression that the city was entirely uninhabited except for the narrator. Such characteristics align with known symptoms of NUCS, particularly its tendency to blur reality with fabricated memories and distort perceptions of social environments.
I do not agree with this opinion or find it particularly relevant. Whether the diaries were written by a single individual suffering from NUCS or not, their value extends beyond the question of factual accuracy. These writings offer something more than reality, they provide fragmented yet profound insights into perception and memory during times of crisis. I am intrigued by how the narrators found refuge in the landscape, gazing at it and seeing their lives through the lens of the land shifting beneath their feet and the landscapes fading from their eyes. They capture an emotional and psychological truth that strict historical documentation often fails to convey. In this sense, the diaries function less as a record of events and more as a testament to how reality was experienced, distorted, and ultimately reimagined.
The following pages are remnants of a voice long buried, scattered across time like sediment. Though fragmented, they offer glimpses into a world that once was—or perhaps always was—on the edge of vanishing.
1 A restored dwelling designed to preserve historical architecture while integrating adaptive technologies.
2 A core discipline of temporal archaeology, Technochronotaphy examines the layered remnants of past civilizations, spanning geological sediments, architectural ruins, and fossilized data infrastructures. Since the late Post-Anthropocene, it has focused on decoding the ruptures and reconfigurations within Earth's stratified memory, tracing the buried footprints of lost worlds and their technological afterlives.
3 Neurogenic Urban Consumption Syndrome (NUCS) is a cognitive disorder linked to prolonged consumption of entirely genetically modified food. First identified in hyper-urbanized zones, NUCS causes sensory distortions, temporal disorientation, and an inability to distinguish organic from synthetic reality. Patients experience hallucinations of landscapes. The syndrome was caused when modified foods surpassed 98% of consumption, disrupting gut-brain symbiosis and triggering collective delusions. Entire city sectors were abandoned as afflicted populations became trapped in recursive behavioral loops, unable to reconcile memory with reality.
The City
(1)
Morning. The Cairo sun should have risen as it always had in summer. I began my routine, clearing away the sand that had gathered overnight on my terrace on the twelfth floor. It had also collected beneath the windows. Soon, the sand truck would arrive to haul it back to the desert.4
I sat in front of the terrace door, gazing at the scene that offered fragmented panoramic views. To the south lay Tahrir Square and the Arab League Headquarters building side by side with the old Nile Hilton and the Egyptian Museum.
On the western side, the terrace's view overlooked the River Nile, its waters a pulsing swampy green, adorned with water hyacinth floating serenely on the surface, gently swaying with the current. The river was penetrated by the sturdy concrete base of the four-tiered sixth of October Bridge, which used to be congested with cars twenty-four hours a day in the past, seamlessly connecting both banks of the river.
Turning my head to the north, I witnessed the transformation of Maspero Triangle, as the neighborhood was forcibly evacuated for a new project featuring modern complexes. Emerging from the background of this dusty, demolished site were two imposing buildings: the National Media Authority (Egyptian Radio & Television Union), also known as Maspero for the French Egyptologist Gaston Maspero, and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, a white cubic building. Shadowing over the whole view was the Iconic Tower5 , dominating with its huge conical shape.
In the kitchen, through a tiny, narrow window that barely covered the east view, I could catch glimpses of the Saladin Citadel and the Mamluks' City of the Dead on the horizon, in the heart of El Mokattam Mountain, stretching to the Abdeen Palace, which is now considered a museum but once served the monarch’s palace.
Standing on my toes and peering downward, the cosmopolitan downtown reveals itself. A blend of architectural styles forms a random cluster, attempting to replicate the scenery of an old European city in a unique, eclectic mix of colonial structures. The whole scene is framed from above by the Desert Guard Compound, a project that was planned for El Mokattam Mountain but was never completed due to the Sala'wa6 attacks. What remains of this project is the botanical garden dome, visible from a distance as a huge, transparent plexiglass shield.
The cardinal directions revealed a scenery of sediments where the past, present, and future can hardly be distinguished. The course of history was a rapid movement of events that took place in a landscape that had been more than a backdrop, as an active element that changed, reordered, reorganized, restored, demolished, constructed, and vanished. It was hard for me to tell if what I was seeing was a landscape or multiple landscapes that collapsed into one scene.
4 Over the past decade, a desertification process has impacted the inhabited valley region extending from northern to southern Egypt. This environmental issue is compounded by frequent sandstorms, which deposit significant amounts of sand onto urban areas. In the absence of action from the Ministry of Environment, efforts have been made to address the problem by employing trucks to transport the accumulated sand back to the desert. These trucks are part of a service operated by private investors, managed by the Beni Turab tribe from Sinai, as a temporary measure while seeking a long-term solution.
5 The Iconic Tower refers to a series of identical towers located throughout the capital, originally intended to accommodate various service facilities and government ministries. However, due to the state's increasing financial insolvency, these towers have been left abandoned.
6 Sala'wa is a creature not recognized by scientific authorities, despite numerous reported sightings and accounts of injuries. It is believed by some to have migrated from the desert to urban areas as a result of urban expansion. Interpretations of Sala'wa vary, with some viewing it as a mythical creature, while others suggest it is a viral condition affecting wild dogs. Since the 1990s, Sala'wa has been depicted in television programs as a figure that knocks on doors and occasionally haunts the night. During that period, some regarded its portrayal as a political distraction. The use of Sala'wa as a narrative tool by the regime appears to have been discontinued in the decades since.
(2)
From my living room, a song seeped through my laptop speakers, an offering from the everwatchful YouTube algorithm. The lyrics belonged to the longgone Mexican-American singer-songwriter Lhasa de Sela.
Soon this space will be too small
And I'll go outside
To the huge hillside
I refreshed the "Parameter”7 tracking system to monitor the victims of the Sala’wa attacks. The latest count is 10,004,537 deaths. My gaze drifted toward the deserted bridge while Lhasa’s haunting melody pulled my thoughts elsewhere, toward the uncertain fate of this land, its structures, and its shifting landscapes. The song looped in the background, a melancholic echo of my speculation.
Despite my fear of the Sala’wa, I couldn’t help but feel a strange sympathy for them. Not out of sentimentality, nor because they were animals, but because their very existence in urban spaces was an imposed fate. They had been forced into our world, much like we had been forced to coexist with them. It was paradoxical to feel both the urge to kill in self-defense and the weight of guilt for taking a life.
I often thought about zombie films, the way humans feared each other more than the undead in the height of terror. The dynamics of survival—the way terror reshaped human relations—echoed in the world where I now lived.
With few reliable sources of information left, I relied on private radio stations and the Bawwāb8 of my building. Occasionally, I stopped by his small room beneath the stairs for tea and conversation. He had the advantage of proximity to the street and rumors.
He claimed that in the villages, unlike in the city, people had managed to domesticate the Sala’wa. The creatures had nothing to fear with the Beni Turab military9 absent from those areas. The media, he insisted, suppressed such stories. With transportation disrupted, news from rural regions barely trickled in. I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. If true, the entire state was engaging in a grand deception with its private security forces and militias.
7 Following the widespread Sala'wa attacks in rural areas, the Ministry of Health and Population (MoHP) implemented new embargo regulations. However, after a significant incident in Sinai where a pack of Sala'wa attacked a NATO military base, causing the deaths of foreign lieutenants and soldiers, international organizations became involved. The World Health Organization (WHO) and the World Organisation for Animal Health (WOAH) intervened, requiring the Egyptian government to release information and provide regular updates on the situation. A dedicated webpage, publicly known as "Parameter," was established to track the progression of the disaster.
8 Bawwāb is a kind of doorman common in Cairo, Egypt. A bawwab's job is to watch the entrance of the house or building where they work and perform errands and tasks for residents, essentially combining the function of a doorman with that of a building superintendent and errand boy.
9 The Beni Turab tribe, one of the tribes in Sinai, was incorporated into the national army and designated as eastern border guards. They officially became part of the national security apparatus around 2027, following a government decision to transfer a significant portion of state security responsibilities to private agencies. At that time, the Beni Turab tribe had diversified its investments across various sectors, including construction, real estate development, import and export, and war tourism.
(3)
By 7 p.m., a time that once marked rush hour in Cairo but now signified the beginning of curfew, the bridge and streets emptied. Only private military patrols remained to scan for Sala’wa. From my terrace, the scene unfolded against the backdrop of the Nile’s murky green waters, now almost entirely covered with water hyacinths.10
The image before me, with its military brigades, scattered Sala’wa, and sand-laden roads, resembled a frame from a Hollywood apocalypse. It was eerily reminiscent of the American post-apocalyptic action thriller film, I Am Legend (2007).
I had seen this city in ruin before. In 2011, when Tahrir Square and its surroundings burned. In 2013, during the Rabaa Massacre. Before that, in the 1977 Bread Riots, the 1952 Cairo Fire, and even further back, the 1798 and 1800 revolts against French rule. These recurring images of destruction had shaped my way of seeing Cairo, reading its landscape as a testimony to its cycles of devastation.
I wondered if the landscape before me was nothing more than the reordered residue of power, real estate cartels, private militias, and infrastructure projects. A facade of continuity masking an unrecognizable present.
Lhasa’s voice returned, carrying its quiet refrain:
Soon this space will be too small
All my veins and bones
Will be burned to dust
I continued watching the city, my gaze lingering on its ruins. I practiced the act of gazing, not at events themselves, but at the residue they left behind. This was a landscape at the end of a time segment, a stage where the aftermath of destruction played out. I felt an unsettling desire for change—even for destruction. These buildings, these structures erected by force, had accumulated as physical manifestations of oppression, reordered again and again to fit a new scene.
10 In the 1880s, British colonial forces introduced the water hyacinth, a free-floating perennial aquatic plant, to Egypt. This invasive species, originating from South America, was brought on ships and used as an ornamental plant in British settlements along the Nile. The water hyacinth spread rapidly, colonizing nearly all aquatic habitats within the Nile ecosystem and threatening the survival of native species such as the elephant fish and Nile tilapia. Over time, native fish species developed adaptive defense mechanisms, employing aggressive strategies to resist the spread of water hyacinth. In recent decades, the plant's growth has accelerated, covering large portions of the Nile's surface.
(4)
From my terrace, I noticed a group of Beni Turab soldiers gathered under a lamppost on the bridge. One of them raised binoculars to scan the area. A wave of unease passed over me. My apartment lights were still on. I turned them off immediately.
The men appeared to be negotiating something. Their body language suggested urgency. My paranoia spiked. Had they seen me? My mind raced. Should I run? But where? The streets were unsafe. I could end up being caught or, worse, attacked by the Sala’wa.
Suddenly, the lamp posts on the street flickered and went dark. A blackout. Their voices grew louder in the darkness. Panic gripped me. I bolted down the staircase, seeking refuge in a neighbor’s apartment.
The Desert
(1)
“Wake up, wake up!” The words sliced through my unconscious. My head throbbed, my limbs ached. A blurry haze surrounded me. Shapes of men and women loomed overhead. I was lying on a blanket, disoriented, as if at the bottom of a well.
A small square patch in the tent where I was lying was covered by a see-through fabric, allowing the landscape to be visible. I fixed my eyes on the dunes outside, which looked like frozen waves on an ocean. I realized that gazing at these dunes had the same effect as looking at water, an inability to look away, as if I were hypnotized.
The only disturbance was the frequent call of "wake up, wake up," seemingly spoken by different people at different times. The light was the only indicator of time. I only awoke by myself at night, under a full moon's light. No one was in the tent. Curious to know if this small window with its desert view was the only direction in which the vast desert lay, I determined to stand and look through the other windows. Despite the darkness, I could tell it was a camp in the middle of the desert.
(2)
I remember the truck's caged interior rattling as it sped along the New Capital Highway. Through a narrow slit of a window, the desert rolled past, endless and unforgiving. Fear knotted my stomach. Were we being taken to one of the Beni Turab refugee camps11 in North Sinai?
Hours later, we slowed near the entrance of the Suez Canal tunnel, the only passage into Sinai. The sight of it filled me with dread. It had been years since I last crossed into that land, now controlled by private security forces and factions. My paperwork had never been enough to grant me access.
As we entered the tunnel, the sound of groaning metal and the truck’s vibrating engine filled my ears. When we emerged, the desert stretched infinitely in all directions. I had no idea where they were taking me.
Then came the sound, a chorus of screams rising from behind a curtain of sand. The chants overlapped, disorienting me. Among them, one stood out: “Allah Ghaleb.” I had heard it before, in footage of the H.A.Z. Liberation Front’s12 guerrilla operations. My vision blurred. I fainted.
11 Between 2024 and 2026, the state partnered with the Beni Turab tribe to establish a camp in eastern Sinai, intended to prevent refugees from crossing into the desert. In the context of a humanitarian crisis and the increasing presence of military equipment in the border area, some individuals opted to pay for incarceration in Beni Turab camps, viewing it as a safer alternative to the risks of death or starvation. Following this development, various money transfer agencies began to invest in these camps, facilitating financial transactions from families of prisoners around the world. This arrangement allowed families to provide their relatives with essential items such as food, medicine, blankets, and other necessities for survival.
12 H.A.Z. represents the remnants of guerrilla groups and militias engaged in resistance efforts, emerging from a complex web of ideological and political struggles shaped by the region’s turbulent history over the past century. The Liberation Front encompasses various factions, including religious-political organizations, secular movements, Marxist-Leninist cells, militant ethnic feminist organizations, nationalist forces, and revolutionary socialist coalitions. Despite their ideological differences, H.A.Z. remains unified by a singular objective: the resistance and overthrow of colonial regimes and their proxies, primarily targeting the Beni Turab forces, United Nations Peacekeeping contingents, and United Nations Security forces.
(3)
I woke up in a camp named SURF #1 after the H.A.Z. resistance fighters had intercepted our transport and freed us from Beni Turab. The days blurred into weeks, then months. As I moved among the other refugees, I found myself relearning the desert, reading its terrain with fresh eyes. I was captivated by the endless horizon of the desert. Initially I perceived this landscape as having fewer elements compared to the city. I only saw dunes, the sun, the moon, the sky, wells, mirages, reptiles, Sala'was, tents, and sometimes rain. What had once been an expanse of nothingness now unfolded with layers of meaning, more complex than any cityscape I had known.
On one of the less heated, sunny mornings, I decided to walk around the other camps. Although permitted, I had never been curious enough to explore them before. I borrowed a pair of primitive wooden sand gaiters from a friend to walk more smoothly over the sand. About two hundred meters from the neighboring camp, I noticed a group of people surrounded by what appeared to be either dogs or perhaps Sala’was. Panic and fear began to creep in, so I slowly moved toward a small dune where I could hide. I lay prone, like a sniper, exposing as little of my head as possible to observe what was happening.
I watched intently, and though I saw no signs of aggression, the dynamic of joy between the dwellers and the animals was confusing. Are those Sala’was, or just skinny dogs? I asked myself. The scene was so unexpectedly peaceful that I managed to collect my courage, standing up over the dune to wave and call out, “What’s happening? Is everything alright?”
One person in the group looked up at me, and from my voice, she seemed to sense how scared I was. She quickly held back one of the animals, preventing it from running toward me. I told myself that even if they were just dogs, though it didn’t seem like it, I already feared dogs, so it would be better to return to my camp. But then, I remembered what the Bawwab had told me.
One day, I heard a buzzing overhead. At first, I thought it was a hallucination. But when I mentioned it to the others, they only laughed. “You’ve never heard the quadcopter buzz before?”
I scanned the sky. Nothing. Only the hum of something unseen. Days later, I spotted a small surveillance quadcopter hovering behind the mesh net of our shelter. I ran outside. More quadcopters, like insects, dotted the sky. Soon after, an order came: we had to evacuate to U-SURF #2.
We gathered in small groups of five, led by a female guide at the front of the convoy. The convoy of dwellers cut through the desert like a snake slithering through the grains of sand until we came upon a massive sand dune with a narrow entrance that barely allowed a body to pass through. Beneath the dune, intersecting pedestrian tunnels lay in wait, where one could easily get lost if walking alone. After more than two hours of walking, the tunnels became more organized, with rooms and living spaces, kitchens, toilets, and other facilities. The tunnels branched into further living quarters and storage rooms. This was our sanctuary, our underground refuge. Though I’m unsure from whom we needed protection—Beni Turab, the old regime, or NATO—at least we were safe from quadcopters, safe from the watchful eyes above.
(4)
In the tunnels, at least during the first three weeks, the absence of sky and light weighed heavily on me. But I adapted over time. I began to understand why some people lived underground for decades. Down here, they felt free. At the time, I didn’t know if they genuinely felt free or if they were merely performing resilience, masking their devastation. I wasn’t sure if I was devastated, either. But in this tunnel, it felt as though we had buried life itself. I felt freer, or perhaps trapped in illusions, fueled by adrenaline and euphoria when the H.A.Z. members chanted against imperialism, colonialism, and their agents. I didn’t know it at the time—and even now, as I try to remember in order to write this, I honestly still don’t know.. But I do know that I am living at the closure of a time segment. Of course, there is nothing worse than what we are suffering. I haven’t experienced the Black Death, the Spanish Flu, the Great Chinese Famine, the Mongol Conquests, the Atlantic Slave Trade, or the Toba Supervolcanic Eruption. Yet I feel as though we are living through all these disasters at once, as if someone blended them together to create our segment.
I began again to practice my hobby of gazing, not at horizons but at layers of sediment. My eyes were privileged to witness a vertical landscape of the land, from its city and river to its desert, with its history captured in the soil beneath. I became captivated by the visible sediment layers in some unfinished sections of the tunnel walls. I gazed at the layers of gravel and larger stones, remnants left behind by time, as the wind stripped away the finer particles from the surface. Scattered among the layers were fossilized seashells, fractured and spread like crushed bones. At the base of the sediment, at least in the section visible to me, lay smooth, rounded reddish stones of Nubian sandstone, deposited by ancient rivers. These geological remnants were silent witnesses to forgotten epochs.
The sediment landscape interacted differently with my eyes, offering a new dynamic of different elements and meanings. The scenography shifted when there was no natural light to convey the feeling of time. Instead, LED lights illuminated the section of the wall. There was no natural wind there, just the faint breeze from a small fan, making the crustaceans clinging to the walls tremble and vibrate.
(5)
One day, we woke up to celebratory shouts and gunfire. The voices of the corridor leaders called for assembly, in preparation for the exit from the tunnel, blessing a foregone victory. The crowds rushed, and side conversations unfolded as some people who knew what was happening informed those who didn’t. From those side talks, I learned that the resistance struck a significant blow, and Beni Turab's entire system collapsed. The people assembled, and the H.A.Z. leaders informed us that we were returning home, evacuating the camps, and concealing the tunnels with sand because they were no longer needed. Others expressed concern that the dunes would swallow the city since there was no sand truck system in place there anymore.
Some people spread rumors that the sand had already buried the streets, buildings, and monuments. Only the top of the Iconic Tower remained visible, piercing through the golden expanse like a relic of a forgotten time, serving as a monolith of an era or segment of time we were no longer anchored to. It reminded me of the times I’d look at the Giza pyramids, feeling distant from them but aware their stones had witnessed injustice and slavery.
Unfortunately, as I emerged with the other dwellers from the tunnels underground, everyone seemed to share the same realization, what we had always ignored: that even though those brutal, repressive agencies and death squads had been running the infrastructure badly, the infrastructure had still been functioning. however without sand trucks, what remained of the infrastructure system was now facing total collapse. Ultimately, though, all that echoed in my head was, “I am going back home! Is my home still standing? Has it been transformed into a landscape filled with sand or reshaped by the shifting environment?” I didn’t know what I would find. Perhaps my twelfth-floor apartment was now at ground level or wholly buried. Either way, I knew one thing: the horizon would still be there, waiting to be gazed upon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mohamed Abdelkarim is an artist, writer, and researcher. His performance-oriented work considers performance as a form, history, research apparatus, and practice. His current umbrella project focuses on the agency of the landscape as a witness of “a history we missed and a future we did not attend yet.” Mohamed Abdelkarim lives and works between Cairo, Rotterdam and Vienna where he is currently PhD candidate at the Akademie der bildenden Künste in Vienna, Austria. His works and performances have been included in PhotoCairo 5 (2012) and PhotoCairo 6 (2017); Cabaret Voltaire as part of Manifesta 11 (Zurich, 2016); Centrale Fies (Italy, 2017); At the Crossroads of Different Pasts, Presents and Futures at Fondazione Sandretto Re Rebaudengo (Turin, 2018); Berlin International Film Festival – Berlinale Forum Expanded (Berlin, 2022); Our People are Our Mountains at De Appel (Amsterdam, 2024); and Performative 04, the international performance festival at MAXXI L’Aquila (L’Aquila, 2024), among others.
Editors: Neha Choksi, Elbe Trakal. Proofreading: Claire Baker