Mamman

A show for social justice activists of all sizes.

The little town where we lived only had one purpose. The factory.

Each morning before the sun had risen – sometimes it never rose at all – the fog was that thick – the factory whistle sounded:

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech - it cut through the foggy, smoky morning air. And from the tiny grey shanty houses they scuttled.The factory workers. 

And they weren't happy, because they hadn't slept enough and besides, in this town there was nothing to be happy about.

There they went – with their heads down; hunched over to protect themselves from the cold. Bad clothes and bad moods. The mud sloshing around their ankles. Towards the factory, the very hub and kernel of the town – a grey cube with big, black chimneys spewing smoke so thoroughly that neither birds nor sun were hardly ever seen. 

And then they worked all day.

All day – the machines sucked the life out of already nearly lifeless people. 

There were no such thing as day for them – day had been eradicated here – they were sucked into the grey cube. Not until evening were they let out again and then they were too tired to know if it was day or night. 

Every day the same, year after year.

Until one day, when you finally couldn't do it any more. And then it was just a relief to be put into a grave to rest. 

Well, that's what they said, the old ones, before they died.

And we kids, we just ran around – back and forth – among the gravel of those streets. We learnt nothing.

Because no one had time for us.

And we saw our parents and our older siblings go back and forth, back and forth, between factory and home. Every day. And we knew that it'd be our turn soon.

Because no one here ever asked themselves why – or for whom – They did all of this without knowing why they did it. Because no one had ever known. 

And no one had ever been taught words like change. Like freedom.

 "Inspired by Maxim Gorky's novel Mother"

From 10 years