by Natalia Oprea, photo: Maria Ștefănescu
From somewhere deep within the ashes of burning cities, from the soil that weeps and is reborn, comes Gloria—not as a story, but as an invocation. And the Voskresinnia Theatre from Lviv brought it to life at the BABEL Festival in Târgoviște, setting the night sky ablaze and transforming the public square into a mythic stage where fire, sound, and movement fuse into a theatrical experience that lingers in memory.
There are performances that speak to you. Others that shake you. And then there are some—very rare—that ignite you. Gloria, created by the Academic Voskresinnia Theatre of Ukraine, is exactly that fire. Performed in the street, in public squares, in full view of the world and the echo of memory, the show becomes an urban ritual, a mystical liturgy where the actors—giant figures on stilts, shrouded in flame and the smoke of history—return again and again to proclaim: we are still here.
Voskresinnia doesn’t just bring props. They bring pain, faith, tradition, and a music that seems to come from another realm—one where war is not a headline, but a living wound. In Gloria, there are no words—yet everything is heard: longing, family, suffering, struggle, love, and death. Here, silence sings, and flame recites.
From the very first moment, the audience is immersed in a world of warmth, fire, light, smoke, and shadow, with slow movements but intense vibrations.
The actors ascend from earth to sky, suspended in slow, sacred motion. They pass before us not as people, but as symbols—angels, mothers, shadows, bearers of light. Everything is image. Everything is a story written in fire. The musical dimension of the show is deeply rooted in Ukrainian tradition. Folk melodies, solemn choral voices, drumbeats, and archaic instruments shape an enigmatic soundscape that connects the spectators to a celestial pulse. The music does not simply accompany the action—it becomes the show’s inner thread, a form of hope that requires no words to bind human hearts.
Of course, Gloria can be read as an allegory of the many Ukraines within each of us—those inner landscapes that have been bombed, yet refuse to fade. Or as a collective prayer. Or as a story of what happens to the soul when it can no longer speak, but still must express itself. There is no single meaning. Nor should there be. Because in Gloria, theatre no longer demands understanding—it asks only to be witnessed and lived.
And yes, it can be seen as political—but not through slogans. It is political through presence. By taking over public space. By bringing people together. By offering unity through emotion in a divided world. No ideology—just fire and music.
In an age where theatre risks being lost in convention and comfort, Gloria tears down everything false. It is living theatre. It is theatre that burns and heals. And it is theatre that shows us—with painful and beautiful sincerity—that even amid destruction, there can still be… glory.
If you’re lucky enough to catch Gloria in your city, don’t miss it. Not just because it’s a rare performance, but because it is an encounter. With others. With the past. With yourself—and perhaps, with the future.
And maybe, just for a moment, you’ll understand:
fire doesn’t always destroy.
Sometimes, it’s what rekindles life,
and theatre becomes our final hope.
