Shaking with emotion, the singer places her mobile phone on the music stand. She picks up the microphone. The Leipzig Gewandhaus is hushed and tense. Struggling to hold her voice steady, the young woman in western dress sings the lyrics relayed to her phone via Twitter. It is a new protest song direct from the
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Stabat mater dolorosa Stood the mother weeping Over the coffin of her son She was holding a photo of him In a frame Her son a soldier, aged twenty-five * The mother didn’t shout, she wasn’t loud A pretty young woman in black clothes Her pain was decent and deep Not ostentatious She didn’t beat
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HIM: “Can you help me?” HER: “I can try.” HIM: “Where’s (mumble)Street?” HER: “I’m sorry. I don’t know.” HIM: “Do you have a boyfriend?” HER: “That’s not really relevant.” HIM: “Do you want to go for a drink?” HER: “No, thank you.” HIM: “Are you a prostitute?” HER: “No.” HIM: “Do you need money?” HER:
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