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Uruguay’s military dictatorship is rarely the subject of public debate, and former government officials who were involved in human rights violations during this period have yet to be brought to justice. In a new theatre piece produced by the Goethe-Institut in Montevideo, the victims of this injustice have insisted on their right to be heard. By Hartmut Krug

Sitting at a beachside restaurant in sunny La Paloma, I strike up a conversation with guests at a neighbouring table. Our talk soon turns to the premiere of Antigona Oriental in Montevideo four days ago. 240 kilometres separate La Paloma from the Uruguayan capital, but our discussion is no less lively for that. We talk about the “Expiry Law” that protects former government officials accused of committing human rights violations during military dictatorship from prosecution and its treatment in Antigona Oriental. My fellow guests may not have seen the theatre piece yet, but they have already heard plenty about it. While they accept that Antigona Oriental is a spectacular achievement in itself, they take issue with some aspects such as the harsh criticism levelled at the country’s President from the stage. I’m astonished at the controversy which Antigona Oriental has generated.

Built to rival Milan’s La Scala, the Teatro Solis in Montevideo can seat an audience of over one thousand. Visiting the famous theatre three days before the premiere, I was fascinated by the contrast between the stunning gilded galleries of its vast auditorium and the bare expanse of the empty stage (the stage design reflected the lack of funding) upon which a crowd of women clad in everyday clothes shuffled down the ramp. Nineteen women; nineteen former political prisoners and exiles. Women who endured years of imprisonment and torture.

Now they have come forward to talk about their experiences and to make people understand: “We do not view ourselves as victims. We were the protagonists of a historical moment.” Their strength and confidence, both on stage and off, is impressive. These women endured acts of incredible cruelty under the military dictatorship that governed Uruguay between 1973 and 1985. When the piece begins, they are almost hidden from view in the gloomy recesses of the stage. Step by step, they shuffle forward on their chairs, recounting their stories in chorus, entering into the light. Their performance evokes awe rather than pity.

An expressive performance

“The women are kept naked. Always. They just take away your clothes. It doesn’t matter whether you have your period. Some force themselves upon us, others force objects into our vaginas – the sexual harassment is constant. One of them ejaculates in my mouth.” The text is gruelling at times, but there is nothing voyeuristic about this exposition of cruelty. Seated in the auditorium, Volker Lösch follows the rehearsal with an interpreter at his side. But the German director rarely refers to her for assistance. Lösch spent several years of his childhood in Montevideo until shortly before the dictatorship, and his rusty Spanish has served him well enough during the rehearsals. Choral theatre has a tendency to make drillmasters of directors, but Lösch has adopted another approach.

Volker Lösch has made a name for himself with a series of politically informed productions which bring experienced stage actors together with lay performers with first-hand experience of the respective themes. His works blend classical material with passages of documentary material recited in chorus. This latest project, produced in cooperation with the Goethe-Institut in Uruguay and with the support of the local theatrical community, was initiated by well-known Uruguayan director and playwright Marianella Morena. The work bears the lengthy title: Antigona Oriental nach Sophokles, unter Mitwirkung und mit Texten von ehemals politisch inhaftierten Frauen aus Uruguay (Antigone Oriental – based on the work of Sophocles, with the participation of and texts by former female political detainees in Uruguay).



In spite of the demanding material, the atmosphere at the rehearsal is relaxed and friendly, and it’s a pleasure to speak with the young actresses. The roles of Antigone and Ismene are performed by two young actresses somewhere in their twenties perform. Curious to see how I respond, they talk at length about Lösch’s unusual style and his rejection of psychological perspectives in favour of an expressive interpretation. This is clearly no ordinary theatrical production – matters of principle are at stake here. Pleased by this interest from abroad, the women give me a warm welcome. As I make my way to my next interview, I see many of them resting in the coat room of the theatre. Few of the women involved in this project return to their homes before the evening rehearsal, and bowls of apples are scattered about the kitchen among dozens of water bottles.

Recounting these horrific experiences is no easy task, as actress and political activist, Irma Leites, explains: “These stories are incredibly moving. And the more we talk about them, the more this inner monster comes to life. We often hug and comfort one another, and lend each other support.”

Then the night of the premiere is upon us; the culmination of two years of hard work. Outside the sold-out theatre, carnival celebrations are underway on the Plaza Independencia. Inside, the women insist on their right to be heard. Three men clad in light blue suits play the role of Creon, quoting Uruguay’s current president in their recital. A former member of the Tupamaros, President Pepe Mujica spent 13 years imprisoned in harsh conditions. Today, Mujica has sided with those who argue in favour of retaining the Expiry Law, which protects suspect torturers from prosecution. Taking his cue from the Uruguayan president, Creon insists that the time has come for his people to look towards the future.

The torturers names are recited

Señor Presidente, whose palace is located barely one hundred metres from Teatro Solis, is confronted with a series of demands from the stage. Volker Lösch’s work revolves around a central concern: the relationship between state rights and the rights of the individual. But Lösch emphasises that most of the text recited in the piece is taken from the work of Sophocles: “Whenever we discovered a moment of congruity between the experiences of Antigone and the Uruguayan women, we sought to bring this connection to the fore. There is a passage in the work, for instance, when the women speak about their experiences of torture – something that they expressly chose to do. I followed that up very carefully. In order to heighten the effect, I encouraged them to insert this passage at the point where Creon passes the death sentence against Antigone and punishes Ismene, triggering the trauma. Each part of this work feeds into the fable of Antigone.”

Following the death of Antigone, the chorus goes on to recite the names of numerous former torturers, many of whom have since become successful business people and have never been brought to justice for their crimes. Then, photographs of their victims are thrown into the auditorium. As the piece reaches its conclusion, three young women step forward to deplore their generation’s lack of interest in the crimes of the military dictatorship and appeal for change. But before they speak, the women, dressed in flowing evening gowns, sing a mocking ditty, known in Uruguay as a murga, about the Left and its relationship to power.

Antigona Oriental is not an overtly political work, instead it offers an experience that is both political and poetic. The audience was enthralled by the production, which clearly deserved the long and thunderous standing ovation that followed its conclusion – a rare gift from Montevideo’s otherwise reserved theatre audiences. Responses to the work were frequently emotional and many of my fellow theatre-goers left Teatro Solis with tears in their eyes.

P.S. All eight performances sold out and the play is now set to tour Córdoba, Buenos Aires, Colombia, Ecuador, and Spain.