Voices & tales
Meet the many ways a story can be carried: spoken, sung, remembered and reimagined.
Read a small tale →A living home for the voices, memories and imagination that connect us. Step inside a world where an ancient art finds new ways to be heard.
Hakawati is the Arabic word for a storyteller: the keeper of tales who brings a room to life with voice, gesture and imagination.
In cafés and courtyards, stories travelled from one listener to the next—woven from memory, myth, music and everyday life. We imagine a contemporary stage for that spirit: one where living traditions meet new voices and every listener can become part of the story.
Discover storytelling as a shared art: intimate, surprising and always changing with the people who gather around it.
Meet the many ways a story can be carried: spoken, sung, remembered and reimagined.
Read a small tale →Make room for the shared moment between the person telling and the people listening.
Why we gather →Explore the expressive worlds of performance, image, music and oral tradition.
Explore the art →At the edge of a city that had forgotten the water, an old lantern glowed blue whenever someone told the truth. One evening, a child asked it where the sea had gone. The lantern flickered—and every window in the sleeping city filled with the sound of waves.
Some stories do not give us directions. They remind us what we have been carrying all along.
Every voice deserves a space where it can be heard on its own terms.
Culture is not a museum piece. It grows as people carry it forward.
Our shared world is richer when different stories sit side by side.
A story can cross a border, a generation, or the distance between us.
Begin with a voice, a memory, a question. The rest unfolds when we listen together.
Begin here ↗At the edge of a city that had forgotten the water, there stood a lantern in the window of an old house. People said it had burned there so long that it had learned to remember.
Each night, the keeper polished its glass and asked, “What do you remember?” The lantern gave no answer. It only glowed the color of dusk.
Then one evening, a child came to the door. “Where has the sea gone?” she asked. The lantern flickered blue.
A woman opened her window. She remembered her grandmother’s songs. A baker remembered the salt wind in his father’s stories. One by one, the neighbors stepped into the street and began to tell what they carried.
And from every open window came the hush and rush of waves. By morning, the city remembered the sea—not as a place on a map, but as something it could keep alive in one another.