Our thoughts for Moh

Dear Mohamadou,
Dear Baboy,
You, Our sunshine,
Dear Moh,

I don’t know why, but I’m sure you’re here and that you can hear us.
I’m speaking to you, but please know that I’m speaking here on behalf of the whole theatre team. 

I want to believe that you can hear us; I think we all need to believe that.

Suddenly, we find ourselves orphaned without you.
You,
the anchor and foundation of the theatre, the keeper of the keys and the memory of the Varia,
Moh, our pillar—you take with you a part of the soul of this theatre that you carried so strongly within you,
““like the guy who steers the ship and who you quickly realise, if you need to, you can rely on.”

Anyone who crossed your path will say, “Of course, Moh! The quiet strength!”
Moh, the laughter and the big smile! “Moh’s morning
‘checks’ – they do the world of good! Moh’s clever

ways of catching EVERY possible ray of sunshine,
of finding a new secret path leading to the park, or of quietly posting photos of flowers spotted along the way in a group chat to brighten up our days because… well… have stayed glued to our computers instead of going out for a break… in the sunshine!

Honestly, there aren’t enough words to describe you, Moh.
We still need your presence—so precious and comforting—your humility, your willingness to listen, your modesty and your compassion. 
All these qualities come so naturally and spontaneously to you, and that is what makes you such an exceptional and rare person.

Every open door, every curtain, every armchair, every corner of the stage reminds us of your precision and your high standards.

You preferred short, effective sentences to grand theatrical monologues.
You were always tinkering with something for all of us, like Gyro Gearloose; you improved the spaces, you spoke to the walls of the Varia, an idea a minute.   

You used to say, “We need to align the different pieces with one another and work on them to meet our specific needs. The battens and panels aren’t always delivered straight and perfect; they need to be reworked.
” You’d straighten something that had been delivered crooked.  

And it’s not just wood that’s sometimes warped.
All the crying fits and anxiety attacks you managed to calm
with a hand on a shoulder!

Moh, interior designer and designer of our homes… 

Every time we use what you taught us or what you built, we’ll always know it comes from you.

Your words were always spot on, and we could certainly have done with them today.
Your presence, your gentleness and your calm are already missing from this world, from the very breath of this theatre.

Just give us a little time to realise how lucky we were to have known you. Just enough time to help us get through this immense sadness and find our smiles again as we think of you. As we think of your gaze, so deep and so full of meaning.

We can never repay you for all you taught us, but we will try to cultivate
your quiet strength to give to others what you gave to us. We are nourished by what you have sown.

You are one of the great architects of the Varia Spirit, of which we are proud. 
It is now up to us to nurture and sustain this spirit, this intangible yet oh-so-precious legacy. 

Thank you, Moh. Thank you for welcoming every artist, every person who set foot in Varia, whether they’d been there for 20 years or just 10 minutes.
Thank you for your profound kindness. 

You used
to say to us, “Borders and countries are an insult to the world. The whole world is my home, the whole world is your home too; it belongs to all of us. We are not strangers, anywhere.” “Give

us time to learn, in turn, to be generous, not to want to keep you here at all costs—perhaps a little selfishly—and to let you continue on your way. Time to understand and accept that we are merely passengers, that your journey continues without us, and that you are certainly in very good company; it cannot be otherwise.  

Let us travel with you on your next journey to Senegal, to your rediscovered Light. Let us dream with you, just as we used to dream with you of the home of happiness you built there, the one you showed us in photos, always with 36,000 people, spanning all generations.

Everyone needs a Moh close by, and we’re going to miss ours terribly.

It’s hard to say goodbye to you in the depths of this winter.
We’d like to cut winter short; we’d raise our index and middle fingers and say: “Let’s cut winter short.”
We’d look through the stage door to see if you’re coming out.
We’d keep an eye on that door, just in case…

I tell myself that perhaps we’ll have the chance to bump into each other and have a chat, over a cup of tea, a coffee or an Orval.
One of your kind glances will be enough for me.
 

Thank you, Moh,

thank you for the sparkle in life, thank you for being a big brother at heart to so many of us.

You remain our sun that always shone and will shine forever;

everyone who has passed through the Varia carries a piece of you in their heart.  
And now there are thousands of little Mohs in thousands of hearts.