Monirah Hashemi about her process of making As the stars fall 

Working in Afghanistan with theatre and women’s narratives, I faced many challenges—threats, censorship, and constant pressure from patriarchal structures. But at the end of each day, when the women I worked with told me how theatre had changed their daily lives—and reshaped their hopes for the future—I found the strength to continue. Their belief in storytelling as resistance gave me the courage to face whatever obstacles lay ahead.

As the Stars Fall is not a project I suddenly decided to undertake just because Sweden offers safety and freedom of expression. The roots of this work run deep. This piece is part of a much longer journey that began in Afghanistan—where we believed that by freeing our narratives, we could begin to imagine and build a different kind of society.

In this performance, I explore silence—what it means, who imposes it, and how it can be broken. Drawing from my own lived experience, I confront the enforced silence the Taliban imposes on women in Afghanistan today. By breaking my own silence, I defy the dogmatic rules of this terrorist regime. I invite the audience to glimpse behind the thick curtains and high walls of oppression—to consider: What does silence mean to the perpetrator? What kind of power does it give them?

I'm also deeply excited to share the stage with my sister, who performs in the piece. The last time we worked together was in 2011. After years of separation, we are reuniting to explore this subject together—two women shaped by the same struggle but separated by time, distance, and history. She began working in theatre when she was eight and has used it ever since as a tool for social change.

Together, we examine what it means to liberate our stories—from the chains of patriarchy, from stigma, and from the institutional forces that try to silence us. By lifting the layers of memory, we attempt to reveal the dark color of silence—and to transform it through presence, performance, and voice.
 

I’m curious—and a little nervous—to hear how a Swedish audience will receive this work. But I also feel ready. After all, this is not just my story—it’s a continuation of all the stories that were once whispered in private, now finally being spoken aloud.
 

Dina about Lose again. Lose better. 

The process of creating this particular character has felt like excavating an ancient civilization. At first, you find a small iron fork that seems to date back to the Roman Empire. You keep digging—and then there’s a knife, a drawing, a love letter etched into stone—and gradually you realize you’re uncovering an entire epoch of human life.

When I started this project, I found an old grey suit that looked like something a pyramid scheme salesman from the '80s would wear. I kept digging. I found documentaries about American cult leaders, a broken flip chart, and someone’s PhD dissertation. It all pointed to a very specific world. And a very particular person began to make himself known to me.

As I continue working with this character, I discover more and more of his emotional range. Think of things about yourself that—if you told anyone—they wouldn’t quite know how to reconcile with your perceived personality. Say you're a chemist: rational, straight-laced, scientific—a serious person. Now imagine that same person being obsessed with the Eurovision Song Contest, especially the most cringeworthy entries. To me, those contradictions are compelling. They open up a space for the audience to fill in the blanks. To engage their own imagination.

I like to think we all have personalities that are continually in flux. Sure, we can generalize about people—but there will always be aspects of someone that surprise us. After all, we’re not one-dimensional cardboard cutouts. We’re complex and hard to define. We’re lucid and hard to pin down.

And I want to bring that strange, unsettling, and—hopefully—compelling character to the Studio at Malmö Stadsteater.