SARAJEVO
SARAJEVO: WHEN THEATRE STOPS FEELING LIKE THEATRE
A haunting descent into love, war, betrayal, sexual violence and the unbearable intimacy of witnessing
There are plays you watch.
There are plays you experience.
And then there are plays that make you question the morality of sitting in a theatre seat at all.
SARAJEVO belongs to the last category.
I walked into Theatre on the Square in Sandton knowing that I was going to see an award-winning play. I knew the reputation. I knew the Naledi Awards had crowned it four times. I knew it had been celebrated for its writing, direction and performances.
I did not know that I would leave feeling as though I had witnessed something I was never supposed to see.
There is a warning waiting for you before you enter the auditorium:
“WARNING: THE PLAY DEPICTS THEMES OF SEXUAL VIOLENCE, EXPLICIT LANGUAGE AND THEMES OF AN ADULT NATURE.”
Believe it.
The warning is not decorative theatre etiquette. It is a door.
Behind that door are bullets, blood, profanity, desire, French kisses, nudity, fractured friendships, collapsing identities, sexual violence and human beings attempting to remain human while history tears the world apart.
And somehow, amid all of it, the most frightening thing is not the war.
It is how intimate everything feels.
The sex feels real.
The affection feels real.
The hatred feels real.
The friendships feel real.
The betrayal feels real.
And when violence arrives, it does not feel choreographed.
It feels lived.
That is the great achievement of SARAJEVO.
It does not simply tell us about war.
It makes us feel what it means to be close enough to smell it.
FOUR Naledis. ONE DEVASTATING PLAY.
The accolades tell their own story.
At the 21st Naledi Theatre Awards, covering productions staged during 2025, SARAJEVO won four major awards:
Best Production of a Play.
Best Director of a Play — Thorsten Wedekind.
Best Lead Performance in a Play (Female) — Aimée Mica Komorowsky.
Best Breakthrough Performance in a Play — Ivan Nedeljkovic.
It was also nominated in seven categories, including Best New South African Script/Adaptation, Best Supporting Performance in a Play (Male), and Best Theatre Set- and AV Design.
Those awards are impressive.
But after sitting through SARAJEVO, I understand something about awards:
Sometimes they are not really awards.
Sometimes they are attempts to put a frame around something that refuses to be contained.
SARAJEVO is one of those works.
Written by Aimée Mica Komorowsky and directed by Thorsten Wedekind, the play has its roots in the war-torn former Yugoslavia and centres on the collapse of friendship under the pressure of ideology, nationalism, fear and violence. The current production follows Mirela, Aleksander and Slobo, childhood friends whose shared world is progressively destroyed by conflict, while Peter, a South African photographer, enters their lives as an outsider and witness.
And that word matters:
witness.
Because ultimately, that is what the audience becomes.
Witnesses.
And SARAJEVO asks what happens when witnessing becomes unbearable.
BEFORE THE WAR: WHEN THEY WERE JUST PEOPLE
Before history turns them into categories, they are simply friends.
Mirela.
Aleksander.
Slobo.
Three people bound by childhood, familiarity and the ordinary intimacy of knowing another person before the world tells you what you are supposed to think about them.
That is what makes the destruction so painful.
They do not begin as enemies.
They begin as people who know one another.
They have memories.
They have jokes.
They have desire.
They have arguments.
They have bodies.
They have dreams.
They have a shared history.
And then Yugoslavia begins to fracture.
The political becomes personal.
National identity becomes weaponised.
Fear becomes a language.
The old world begins disappearing.
And the people who once occupied the same emotional territory suddenly discover that they are expected to belong to different sides.
This is one of the play's most devastating insights:
war does not begin when the first bullet is fired.
It begins earlier.
It begins when people stop seeing one another as people.
It begins in suspicion.
In slogans.
In whispered accusations.
In the question of who belongs.
In the moment when someone's name, ethnicity, religion or political identity becomes more important than the person carrying it.
The official production description speaks of “countless small fractures” — silences, suspicions and impossible choices — rather than one single event destroying the friendship.
And that is precisely why the play hurts.
The friendship does not simply explode.
It decays.
One crack.
Then another.
Then another.
Until eventually you look at the people who once loved one another and realise that the distance between them has become a battlefield.
ENTER PETER: THE CAMERA AND THE QUESTION OF WITNESSING
Then comes Peter.
A South African photographer entering this Balkan catastrophe from outside it.
He carries a camera.
And the camera is important.
Because Peter is not merely a character.
He is a question.
What does it mean to watch another person's suffering?
What does it mean to photograph pain?
What does it mean to enter someone else's war and then leave?
What does it mean to be an observer when observation itself changes the relationship between you and the people being observed?
Peter comes searching for something beyond the life he left behind, but the conflict gradually destroys the comfortable distinction between observer and participant.
And sitting in the auditorium, I felt the same problem being transferred onto me.
I was watching.
That was my job.
I had bought a ticket.
I had taken my seat.
The actors knew I was there.
The director wanted me there.
The theatre had invited me to witness.
But when the violence became unbearable, I began wondering whether witnessing is always morally innocent.
That is where SARAJEVO becomes psychologically dangerous.
Because it turns the audience into Peter.
We watch.
We cannot intervene.
We cannot stop the war.
We cannot rescue Mirela.
We cannot undo what has happened.
We cannot climb onto the stage and tell the characters that they are actors.
Because for approximately two hours, they do not feel like actors.
They feel like people.
And that is terrifying.
AIMÉE MICA KOMOROWSKY: NOT ACTING, BUT LIVING
I have watched great performances.
I have watched technically brilliant performances.
I have watched performances where I admired the actor's control, timing, voice, physicality and emotional intelligence.
But Aimée Mica Komorowsky did something different to me.
She disappeared.
Mirela was not being performed in front of me.
Mirela was there.
Komorowsky is also the playwright, meaning the body inhabiting Mirela is the same artistic consciousness that created the world surrounding her. The Naledi judges recognised that extraordinary work by awarding her Best Lead Performance in a Play.
But an award does not explain what it feels like to watch her.
There were moments when I stopped seeing technique.
I stopped seeing choreography.
I stopped seeing theatre.
I saw a woman.
A woman loving.
A woman desiring.
A woman frightened.
A woman trying to understand what is happening to her country.
A woman trying to preserve some fragment of herself while the world around her becomes unrecognisable.
Her emotional life does not feel presented to us.
It feels exposed.
And that is why the performance is so devastating.
There is no protective glass between performer and audience.
She does not say:
“Look at me acting.”
She seems to say:
“Look at what happened to me.”
And that is a completely different relationship.
LOVE BEFORE DESTRUCTION
One of the reasons the play's violence hits so hard is because SARAJEVO allows tenderness to exist first.
The lovers touch each other.
They kiss.
They flirt.
They laugh.
They fuck.
They desire.
There is nudity.
There are French kisses.
There is profanity so natural and constant that it becomes part of the texture of the world rather than some theatrical attempt to shock.
And this matters.
Because the play refuses to sanitise human beings.
War does not transform people into symbols.
They remain sexual beings.
They remain jealous.
They remain horny.
They remain affectionate.
They remain cruel.
They remain funny.
They remain frightened.
They remain capable of falling in love while bombs are falling around them.
This is one of the most important things SARAJEVO understands:
The body does not stop being a body because history becomes horrific.
People still want to touch.
They still want to be touched.
They still want to kiss someone.
They still want to sleep beside someone.
They still want to feel another human being against their skin and pretend, for a few seconds, that the outside world has disappeared.
And perhaps that is why the intimacy feels so dangerous.
The lovers are not merely having sex.
They are trying to preserve humanity.
THEN THE BULLETS BEGIN
The bullets become part of the soundtrack.
Not music.
Not melody.
Bullets.
Gunfire interrupts intimacy.
Violence interrupts conversation.
History interrupts desire.
The soundscape refuses to let the audience forget that somewhere beyond whatever private moment is occurring, the world is collapsing.
And that contrast is brutal.
A kiss.
A gunshot.
A touch.
A bullet.
A laugh.
A scream.
A moment of tenderness.
A moment of terror.
This is not war as spectacle.
It is war as intrusion.
The battlefield enters the bedroom.
The political enters the lovers' embrace.
The national enters the personal.
And eventually there is nowhere left to hide.
THE RAPE: WHEN THE AUDIENCE BECOMES A BYSTANDER
Then comes the scene that I cannot simply describe as “disturbing.”
It is more complicated than that.
It is horrifying.
And what disturbed me most was not simply what was happening on stage.
It was the fact that I was watching it happen.
The warning had prepared me intellectually.
It did not prepare me emotionally.
The sexual violence is staged with an uncompromising physicality. The victim's clothing is violently displaced; her bra is pulled down, her underwear is ripped away, and the assault proceeds before the audience.
There is no cinematic cutaway.
No convenient fade to black.
No comforting suggestion that something terrible has happened somewhere beyond our field of vision.
We see the violation.
We are forced to remain present.
And suddenly the theatre becomes morally uncomfortable.
Because the actor is not actually being raped.
I know that.
You know that.
The performer knows that.
But the image is real.
The humiliation is represented.
The body is exposed.
The struggle is visible.
The violence is communicated through physical action rather than safely narrated from a distance.
And the brain does something strange.
It understands the artifice while responding to the emotional reality.
That is where I became conflicted.
I felt like a bystander.
I felt complicit.
I wanted to look away.
But looking away felt like another form of participation.
And staying felt unbearable.
That is the genius — and the cruelty — of the staging.
The audience is denied the easy moral position of the spectator who can say:
“How terrible.”
We are made to experience something closer to:
“Why am I still sitting here?”
And then the answer arrives with brutal clarity:
Because I cannot stop it.
Because this is what bystanders experience.
Because watching violence without the power to intervene is its own psychological horror.
Because war creates millions of spectators who are not perpetrators, but who nevertheless find themselves standing near suffering with no ability to reverse it.
The scene is traumatic precisely because it does not allow sexual violence to become abstract.
It makes the violation bodily.
The pulled clothing.
The exposed flesh.
The forced penetration.
The struggle.
The terror.
The loss of control.
The humiliation.
And then the silence inside the audience.
That silence is almost as violent as the scene itself.
I could feel people processing what they had just seen.
No one knows what reaction is appropriate.
You do not laugh.
You do not applaud.
You do not want to breathe too loudly.
You sit there.
And you witness.
That is SARAJEVO at its most devastating.
It does not allow the audience to consume sexual violence comfortably.
It makes you sit with it.
And that is important because sexual violence in war is not simply about sex.
It is about power.
Possession.
Humiliation.
Control.
The destruction of dignity.
The reduction of a human being into a body that someone else believes they have the right to conquer.
The scene therefore becomes part of the larger argument of the play:
war does not only destroy buildings.
It destroys boundaries.
It invades bodies.
It corrupts intimacy.
It weaponises sex.
It turns the most private parts of human existence into battlefields.
And when the scene ends, the audience does not simply “move on.”
At least I couldn't.
Something stays.
THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE PLAY
The most frightening thing about SARAJEVO is that the violence is not its real subject.
Its real subject is what violence does inside people.
The play is psychological warfare disguised as historical drama.
Its battlefield is the mind.
The question is not merely:
Who is fighting whom?
It is:
What happens to a person when the world they understood collapses?
What happens when your childhood friend becomes your ideological enemy?
What happens when love becomes politically dangerous?
What happens when survival requires betrayal?
What happens when loyalty to your country conflicts with loyalty to your friend?
What happens when the person you once trusted becomes the person you fear?
And perhaps the darkest question:
How much of yourself can you surrender in order to survive before survival becomes another form of death?
That is where the play transcends Sarajevo.
It is about Sarajevo.
But it is not only about Sarajevo.
The production's own creators describe its themes as identity, loyalty, betrayal and the human longing to hold onto something that is slipping away.
And those themes are universal.
Because every society has its versions of “us” and “them.”
Every generation invents categories.
Every political system can turn identity into ammunition.
Every friendship is vulnerable to ideology if the surrounding world becomes sufficiently poisonous.
THE COLLAPSE OF FRIENDSHIP
Perhaps the saddest character in SARAJEVO is not Mirela, Aleksander, Slobo or Peter.
Perhaps it is friendship itself.
Because friendship is supposed to exist before politics.
You know someone before you know their category.
You know how they laugh.
How they swear.
What they are afraid of.
What they look like when they are tired.
Who they love.
What makes them angry.
You know the human being.
Then society tells you:
No.
Forget the human being.
Look at the category.
Look at the flag.
Look at the ethnicity.
Look at the religion.
Look at the political allegiance.
And suddenly the person you once knew becomes a representative of something larger.
The friendship becomes impossible.
That is the tragedy.
War does not merely kill people.
Sometimes it kills the possibility that people can continue knowing one another.
THE SET: A WORLD THAT CANNOT REMAIN INTACT
The intimacy of Theatre on the Square becomes an important part of the production.
This is not a gigantic auditorium in which war can be safely converted into spectacle.
The theatre is close.
The audience is close.
The actors are close.
Bodies occupy the same emotional air as the spectators.
And that proximity makes everything more dangerous.
The stage becomes less like a constructed theatrical environment and more like a room in which something has gone horribly wrong.
The set does not need to compete with the actors.
It serves the psychological architecture of the play.
We are not invited into a museum reconstruction of Sarajevo.
We are brought into a world whose boundaries are constantly collapsing.
That is the appropriate visual metaphor.
The world itself is falling apart.
So the stage must feel unstable.
There is an extraordinary tension between the apparent simplicity of the theatrical environment and the enormous history being carried through it.
A room can become a home.
A home can become a place of intimacy.
That same intimacy can become a site of terror.
And suddenly the audience understands:
There is no safe room.
That is war.
LIGHTING: WHEN SAFETY DISAPPEARS
Lighting in a production like this cannot merely illuminate faces.
It has to manipulate psychological safety.
And SARAJEVO understands the power of darkness.
Light can create intimacy.
It can isolate a body.
It can expose.
It can conceal.
It can make a space feel private.
And then, in an instant, destroy that privacy.
That is particularly powerful when contrasted with the sexual intimacy of the play.
A kiss under one kind of light can feel almost sacred.
A body exposed under another can feel suddenly vulnerable.
The lighting therefore participates in the play's central obsession:
visibility.
Who gets seen?
Who gets hidden?
Who is forced into the light?
Who disappears into darkness?
Peter carries a camera because he wants to see.
The audience sits in darkness because we want to see.
The characters are desperate to hide because being seen can become dangerous.
And the play keeps asking whether seeing is salvation or violation.
THE SOUND OF WAR
Then there are the bullets.
The gunfire is not merely an effect.
It becomes punctuation.
A sentence can be interrupted by a bullet.
A kiss can be interrupted by a bullet.
A memory can be interrupted by a bullet.
Silence can be interrupted by a bullet.
The sound of war becomes the sound of a world that no longer allows people to control the rhythm of their own lives.
And that is why the bullets become the soundtrack.
The war does not need a narrator.
It announces itself.
IVAN NEDELKOVIC: THE BREAKTHROUGH THAT HURTS
Ivan Nedeljkovic won the Naledi for Breakthrough Performance in a Play, while also being recognised in the Supporting Performance category for SARAJEVO.
And there is something remarkable about his presence.
Slobo is not simply another participant in a war.
He is another human being caught inside the machinery of history.
Nedelkjovic gives the character the instability that the play requires.
He can be affectionate.
He can be volatile.
He can be vulnerable.
He can become frightening.
He can seem like somebody you recognise.
And then something changes.
That change is essential.
Because the most terrifying monsters in history rarely begin as monsters.
They begin as people.
They begin with grievances.
With fears.
With loyalties.
With wounds.
With ideologies.
And then the ideology starts speaking louder than the human being.
That is what makes the performance so painful.
DAMON BERRY: THE OUTSIDER WHO CANNOT REMAIN OUTSIDE
As Peter, Damon Berry occupies the peculiar position of the outsider.
He is the camera.
The witness.
The foreign body inside this intimate catastrophe.
But the more he sees, the less possible it becomes for him to remain detached.
And that is another of the play's great psychological ideas:
You cannot witness suffering forever without being changed by what you have witnessed.
Peter arrives with the possibility of observation.
He encounters reality.
Reality does not ask his permission before entering him.
ANDRÉ LÖTTER: ALEKSANDER AND THE HUMAN COST OF FRACTURE
André Lötter's Aleksander exists at the centre of the play's emotional architecture.
Because Aleksander is part of that original triangle.
The friendship matters because these people had a life before the war.
And that “before” becomes increasingly painful as the production proceeds.
Every memory becomes evidence of what has been lost.
Every moment of tenderness becomes a ghost.
The past does not disappear.
It becomes a haunting.
THORSTEN WEDEKIND: DIRECTION WITHOUT MERCY
Thorsten Wedekind won Best Director of a Play at the Naledi Awards.
After seeing SARAJEVO, I understand why.
Because he does not protect the audience.
He does not soften the ugliness.
He does not allow the production to become a tasteful historical drama about sad things that happened a long time ago.
He brings the audience dangerously close.
The production's creators have described it as an intimate experience that asks audiences to come closer and hold their breath in shared silence.
That is exactly what the direction accomplishes.
Closer.
Closer to the actors.
Closer to the bodies.
Closer to the sex.
Closer to the profanity.
Closer to the violence.
Closer to the moral question.
And once we are close enough, there is nowhere to hide.
EXPLICITNESS AS TRUTH
Some audiences will be disturbed by the profanity.
Some will be shocked by the nudity.
Some will be uncomfortable with the sex.
Some will struggle with the violence.
Good.
Because SARAJEVO is not a play about comfortable people living in comfortable circumstances.
The explicitness is not there merely to titillate.
It creates texture.
People swear when they are frightened.
They swear when they are angry.
They swear when they fuck.
They swear when they are grieving.
They swear when they are trying not to cry.
The bodies are naked because bodies are naked.
People kiss because people kiss.
People have sex because people have sex.
People are violated because war destroys the boundaries that should protect the human body.
The play does not sterilise human existence.
And therefore, when the violence arrives, it does not feel like a sudden genre change.
It feels like the same world becoming monstrous.
THE CENTRAL QUESTION: WHAT DOES WAR DO TO LOVE?
This may be the question that stayed with me most.
Because SARAJEVO is not simply a war play.
It is a love story trapped inside a war.
And war is the ultimate enemy of intimacy.
Love says:
You are an individual.
War says:
You are a category.
Love says:
I know you.
War says:
I know what you represent.
Love says:
Come closer.
War says:
Choose a side.
And eventually the lovers, friends and witnesses are forced to decide whether they can continue seeing one another as human beings when the world around them insists that they see enemies.
That is the tragedy.
Not merely that people die.
But that people lose the ability to recognise one another.
WHY THE RAPE SCENE MATTERS
The sexual assault is not an ornamental shock tactic.
It is the moment when the play's philosophy becomes physical.
Throughout SARAJEVO, the body is a place of intimacy.
The body kisses.
The body embraces.
The body desires.
The body makes love.
Then the body becomes a battlefield.
The rape destroys the meaning of touch.
That is why the scene is so traumatising.
A kiss earlier in the play communicates:
I trust you.
The assault communicates:
Your body no longer belongs to you.
The contrast is devastating.
The same physical language that previously expressed love becomes a language of domination.
And the audience is forced to witness the transformation.
That is not easy theatre.
It should not be.
Sexual violence should never be made comfortable.
THEATRE AS WITNESS
There is something uniquely cruel about live theatre.
A film can cut away.
A novel can turn the page.
A television series can pause.
But theatre happens in front of you.
The actor is breathing.
The audience is breathing.
The room is real.
The silence is real.
The bodies are physically present.
And so when SARAJEVO depicts violence, the mind knows it is theatre while the nervous system responds as though something real is unfolding in front of it.
That contradiction is the source of the production's power.
I knew it was a play.
I knew nobody was actually being raped.
I knew the actors would eventually stand, breathe, change costumes and return to their lives.
But for those moments, the emotional truth was real.
And that is why I felt complicit.
The play had turned me into a witness.
And witnessing is uncomfortable because it carries responsibility.
What do we do with what we have seen?
What happens when the lights come back on?
Do we simply return to dinner?
Do we applaud?
Do we walk out into Sandton and continue our evening?
That is the uncomfortable brilliance of SARAJEVO.
It makes the distance between the theatre and the real world feel much smaller.
THE AFTERLIFE OF THE PERFORMANCE
The official material says the production is about friendship, love and the devastating human cost of war.
That is accurate.
But after experiencing it, I would add something:
It is about memory.
What survives when everything else has been destroyed?
A friendship?
A photograph?
A body?
A kiss?
A betrayal?
A name?
A story?
A theatre production?
The play itself becomes an act of remembering.
Its earlier iteration, Cheers to Sarajevo, was featured in the Routledge Handbook on Historical Reenactment and was connected to an international workshop examining sexual violence in war and its trans-generational effects. The work has also travelled internationally, including to festivals in Austria, Ottawa, Rwanda and Kosovo.
That history matters.
Because SARAJEVO is not simply pretending that something happened.
It is asking what it means to keep remembering that it happened.
And perhaps that is theatre's most sacred function.
To refuse disappearance.
THE BEST PLAY IN SOUTH AFRICA?
After four Naledis, calling SARAJEVO one of South Africa's best plays is not hyperbole.
The judges already made the institutional argument.
Best Production.
Best Director.
Best Lead Performance.
Best Breakthrough Performance.
But awards cannot explain the feeling of sitting in that auditorium.
For me, SARAJEVO became something more intimate.
It became the rare theatrical experience where I stopped analysing the craft because I was too busy surviving the experience.
I was not thinking:
Wonderful acting.
I was thinking:
Please let this end.
I was not thinking:
What clever staging.
I was thinking:
Why am I watching this?
I was not thinking:
What a convincing performance.
I was thinking:
This feels real.
And that is the highest compliment I can give Aimée Mica Komorowsky.
She did not make me believe that Mirela was real.
She made me forget that Mirela was fictional.
THE FINAL CURTAIN
When the lights eventually return, the war is not finished inside you.
The bullets have stopped.
The bodies are no longer moving.
The actors have become actors again.
The stage is a stage again.
The theatre is Theatre on the Square again.
Sandton is outside.
Johannesburg is outside.
The cars are moving.
People are talking.
Somebody is probably ordering dinner.
And yet something has changed.
Because for a short while, we were in Sarajevo.
We saw friendship disintegrate.
We saw ideology infect intimacy.
We saw love attempt to survive history.
We saw the human body become a battlefield.
We saw sexual violence represented without the comforting distance of abstraction.
We saw a photographer struggle with the morality of witnessing.
We saw people become strangers.
We saw strangers become witnesses.
And we were witnesses too.
That is what makes SARAJEVO haunting.
Not the bullets.
Not the nudity.
Not the profanity.
Not even the rape scene.
It is the realisation that the people on stage are not fundamentally different from us.
They want love.
They want safety.
They want belonging.
They want to be understood.
They want their friends to remain their friends.
They want to touch somebody and feel safe.
They want to wake up tomorrow.
And then history arrives.
That is all it takes.
History arrives.
And suddenly the ordinary becomes impossible.
SARAJEVO is a play about war, but its deepest subject is the fragile architecture of being human.
It asks how much violence a person can witness before they are changed.
How much ideology a friendship can withstand.
How much betrayal love can survive.
How much trauma a body can carry.
How much memory a generation can inherit.
And whether, after everything has been destroyed, we can still recognise one another.
That is why the warning at the entrance matters.
It tells you there will be sexual violence.
It tells you there will be explicit language.
It tells you there will be adult themes.
But it cannot warn you about the most devastating thing:
how real it will feel.
Because SARAJEVO does not feel acted.
It feels lived.
And perhaps that is why Aimée Mica Komorowsky's Mirela broke something open in me.
Perhaps that is why the rape scene left me feeling like a bystander.
Perhaps that is why the intimacy felt almost indecent in its realism.
Perhaps that is why the bullets sounded less like theatrical effects and more like an invasion.
Perhaps that is why, when the curtain fell, I did not feel entertained.
I felt haunted.
And isn't that what the greatest theatre sometimes does?
It does not give you an evening.
It gives you a wound.
SARAJEVO is that wound.
A wound shaped like friendship.
A wound shaped like war.
A wound shaped like love.
A wound shaped like a woman's violated body.
A wound shaped like a photograph.
A wound shaped like a theatre seat from which you could do nothing but watch.
And when you finally walk back out into the world, you realise:
The play has ended.
But you are still its witness.
SARAJEVO
Written by: Aimée Mica Komorowsky
Directed by: Thorsten Wedekind
Mirela: Aimée Mica Komorowsky
Slobo: Ivan Nedeljkovic
Peter: Damon Berry
Aleksander: André Lötter
Venue: Theatre on the Square, Sandton
Return season: 5–22 August 2026
Awards: 4 × Naledi Theatre Awards
Best Production of a Play
Best Director of a Play — Thorsten Wedekind
Best Lead Performance in a Play (Female) — Aimée Mica Komorowsky
Best Breakthrough Performance in a Play — Ivan Nedeljkovic
Theatre remembers what history forgets.
