
Let us recall one of the most shattering art events of last year: in June 2025, just days before the premiere of Kosovar artist Petrit Halilaj’s outdoor opera Syrigana, massive containers carrying the stage sets and costumes were arsoned by unidentified individuals. Sprayed with Serbian nationalist hate speech, the containers, along with the Garden of Eden sets inside, were reduced to ashes. However, Halilaj and the collective did not give up; rebuilding the sets in record time, they staged the opera right on schedule. Now, that attacked, gunmetal-blue scarred container stands divided into 11 colossal pieces and turned inside-out, rising directly at the center of the ChertLüdde gallery in Berlin-Schöneberg. On the no-26 art radar today is a monumental landscape of resistance that transforms violence into an artistic counter-gesture.
Conceptualized in parallel with the artist’s monumental museum exhibition An Opera Out of Time at Hamburger Bahnhof (which concluded on May 31, 2026), this showcase is the most refined fruit of a deep partnership spanning over 15 years between Halilaj and ChertLüdde gallery. That dark arson incident, which remains merely a catalogue detail on the museum walls, takes on the leading role of a deconstructive narrative within the gallery space.
The moment visitors step into the gallery, they find themselves inside a warm space of hospitality adorned with traditional Kosovo rugs (qilim), tambourines (defa), and books. This area draws inspiration from Kosovo’s traditional social spaces: the Odë (a guest room historically reserved only for men to discuss politics, derived from the word Oda in Ottoman Turkish) and the Çajtore (Teahouse).
Halilaj deconstructs these spatial structures that carry a patriarchal and exclusionary past. By spray-painting “Gaytore” above the entrance, he turns this space into a queer, inclusive, radical collective oasis where everyone can drink tea and share stories. In the library on the shelves, Balkan political texts challenging the region’s heavy political past stand side-by-side with books written on birds and poultry.
The decoration of this room was inspired by a small drawing of an “Oda” that Halilaj made as a child. Saved by the artist’s mother by being buried underground during the Kosovo War (1998–1999) before fleeing the ethnic cleansing campaign of the Milošević-led Serbian army, this damp, yellowed, and torn drawing is the most concrete proof of the connection established with the soil in the exhibition.
Moving into the main gallery hall, we are confronted by that famous shipping container burned last year. Halilaj has divided this metal giant into 11 pieces, installing it as a long rectangle with its inside facing out. When viewers look inward through the narrow slits between the metal panels, they can see the original blue paint remaining on the interior surfaces and the hate-filled graffiti upon it. The object that was once a vehicle for violence transforms into a mirror hitting the viewer’s gaze.
Echoing against the backdrop of this burned industrial space is the artist’s video work titled Who does the earth belong to while painting the wind?! (2012). Recorded continuously for 24 hours on a summer day on the grounds of his family home burned during the war in his birthplace of Kostërrc, Kosovo, this video fills the gallery with the movements of butterflies, the whisper of grass, and the sounds of birds. Nature shimmers as an ecosystem healing itself in the midst of destruction.
Orbiting like planets around the container and on the gallery walls are sculptural symbols through which Halilaj parodies regional mythology and racist narratives:
The exhibition closes the circle with a second childhood drawing sketched by Halilaj in black ink as a child, which was likewise hidden beneath the soil during the war period. On the water-faded surface of this drawing unearthed after the war, the child Halilaj had added new trees and an upright bird figure holding a fish in its beak.
Like that bird rising right from the middle of a geography that was ruined, burned, and intended to be obliterated, Petrit Halilaj, through this exhibition at ChertLüdde, continues to sing that stubborn song of life and freedom from amidst the ashes, hatred, and fires—right into the face of barbarians in the middle of Berlin. The absolute most mandatory, unmissable visit on the Berlin calendar until the end of July.






