*Photo credit: JDev Studios

HOW DOES ONE begin to tell the story of a victim of bullying? Empathy may allow us to glimpse the edges of their pain, but can we ever truly know its weight—the physical, mental, emotional and spiritual toll of being coerced, hurt and diminished by abuse, aggression or cruel words? How do you convey the dragging heaviness of desolation or the invisible bruises that mark the individual?

Yet, theatre and performance makers across the world have long turned to the stage as a platform to confront this darkness. Through movement, words and visuals, they embody the intangible, giving shape to the silenced voices of victims—the process of losing, of searching and of rebuilding one’s sense of self.

Tewas: No Light at the End of the Tunnel takes on the burden of telling these stories and much more. It was an intense experience: urgent, determined and unflinchingly intentional. To witness Tewas was to witness the lives of people no longer with us, each narrative a raw unfolding of torture, abuse, resistance, surrender and the eventual letting go.

The production tackled the harrowing realities of bullying and suicide fearlessly. But these were also Malaysian stories—accounts that once dominated headlines and gripped the nation. Those who followed these cases closely would have been able to recognise the events on which these narratives were based—the murder of Navy Cadet Officer Zulfarhan Osman Zulkarnain in June 2017 and the death of a 16-year-old girl in Sarawak who conducted an Instagram poll asking her followers if she should take her own life. 69% of her followers supported her decision to kill herself via the voting poll uploaded. Another case I assume to be referenced is more recent—Tay Tien Yaa, the 30-year-old head of the Chemical Pathology Unit in Lahad Datu, whose cause of death was linked to alleged workplace bullying.

Visceral and dynamic, Tewas demanded constant attention. The unpredictability of movements kept me on edge; yet, within the chaos, patterns of choreography would emerge, creating deliberate tension between structure and disorder. It was more than theatre; it was a bold statement which forced its audience to confront the weight of societal failure and the silent struggles of its victims.

Each actor delivered a monologue encapsulating a victim’s story, thus holding space and giving voice to those often unheard. In a country where little room is given for such experiences to be shared and understood without judgement, this approach felt particularly significant.

The performers made commendable efforts to embody their characters. While each monologue took centre stage, the rest of the cast supported the performer with intricate physical sequences to create an arresting interplay of movement and speech. However, this dual focus also highlighted an imbalance. On the one hand, I was deeply impressed by the physicality and choreography, which pushed boundaries and kept me visually engaged. It truly was the highlight of the piece. On the other hand, I found myself yearning for stronger storytelling. The play was marketed as “raw storytelling”, and while it succeeded in presenting accessible and uncomplicated narratives, some of the emotional displays felt unrefined.

As a result, the physical performances often overshadowed the narratives. While the movement conveyed powerful emotions, I found myself more drawn to the choreography than to the stories it was meant to complement. In some instances, the storytelling felt secondary—almost like a supporting device. Having said that, I did find that the pieces performed by Hong and Almond struck a delicate balance between movement and storytelling. Their performances were marked by emotional depth and a sense of performative restraint, which made their stories impactful.

The set design was simple yet symbolic. At its core was the cage—a central element of the production, and far more than just a prop. At times, the cage felt like a character in its own right, brought to life through the actors’ movements with and around it: falling from it, crawling through it, circling it and climbing over one another in desperate attempts to escape it. They wrestled with the cage, clung to it, detached from it and used it to physically articulate their struggles. It seemed to represent multiple states of being: body, mind, emotions. At moments, it reflected the weight of others’ words and actions—the bullying, societal indifference, systemic injustices and failures. This layered symbolism was one of the production’s most brilliant achievements, adding both emotional and visual depth to the themes.

The choreography, by Izzard Padzil, who also served as the scenographer, was purposeful, not only in the dynamic relationships between the actors, but also in their relationship with this symbolic structure. The combination of physical theatre and raw storytelling revealed the complex and layered nature of bullying. In many ways, Tewas illustrated that it is rarely a single event or act, but often a culmination of factors that build and ultimately lead to tragedy.

Another strength of the show was the multilingual approach, with the narratives delivered in Malay, Tamil, Mandarin and English. Each language brought an emotional resonance, and further grounding these stories in the Malaysian landscape. The performance and delivery by Hakim in Malay stood out for its restraint and steady deliberate pace, which conveyed a stoic composure while brimming with inner anguish. All that while, the actor was upside down for most of his piece! Similarly, the performances in Tamil and Mandarin brought a gravity that reminded me of the emotional weight languages have when spoken authentically. While I cannot speak for the writing process, these pieces underscored how language itself can evoke a depth of feeling that no translation can quite capture.

Tewas deserves to make its rounds locally and internationally. However, I believe it should go beyond the traditional theatre crowd into education settings to spark conversations about bullying and suicide prevention. But this also raises an important question: can productions like Tewas lead to actionable change? And what might that look like?

I suppose one way would be to advocate for bullying prevention programmes in educational settings or having productions like Tewas set in schools. Or we could educate ourselves on recognising the signs of bullying and mental health struggles, committing to offer support where needed. This might mean stepping up as mentors, volunteering in anti-bullying organisations or even checking in with friends, colleagues and family to create a culture of care, empathy and kindness.

As much as the play asks its audience to reckon with these questions, it also asks us to take action. While the light at the end of the tunnel may be elusive for some, Tewas serves as a reminder that change begins with us.