Pink Rabbit ****

We all want to be seen. It’s especially true for Amna (Farah Ashraf).

She lives at her South London home with her mother; her father left when she was an infant. She is about to sit her A-Levels, while her mother prays that she will attain the grades required to study medicine at UCL. Umni has already mapped out this future for her daughter, calculating that Amna will be able to stay at home rather than move into student halls.

Barely 18, Amna has yet to experience the thrill of sexual exploration. She is drawn to Zee, a popular, handsome young man and they seem to have a connection. She arranges to see him at a party, only to discover him being intimate with another woman, crushing her nascent hopes.

In response, Amna turns to online content creation, initially as backlash against Zee but also as an outlet for a deeper desire to push back against the feelings of suppression that have shaped her life. When she is offered money for live video content, she accedes, creating the handle ‘PersianBaby’ on OnlyFans, the a subscription-based pornography internet platform.

Events spiral. Her content provision builds, as does her bank balance. But Umni is never far away, and her presence remains stifling. Her burgeoning stash of money may provide an option – she wonders whether she may be able to afford to leave home. She develops a virtual relationship with a Muslim man, old enough to be her father. She eventually agrees to meet him, resulting in her different worlds colliding.

Will mother and daughter ever have an honest adult conversation?

Pink Rabbit is a layered and fascinating piece of solo theatre. At first glance, it appears to be a familiar coming-of-age story, with a young woman discovering her sexuality. But there’s much more beneath the surface.

The production’s exploration of identity extends far beyond Amna’s decision to become an online content creator. Born in Pakistan and brought to England as an infant, Amna inhabits a complicated space between inherited culture and the world around her. We see the hijab she is expected to wear — the word itself deriving from a concept of modesty. Meanwhile, South London is melting pot of heritage and vibrant youth culture, and Amna yearns to participate fully in it. Yet the weight of generational inheritance looms large.

Her mother expects her to be an obedient, religious young woman. It is difficult to appreciate the challenges and sacrifices Umni must have faced as an immigrant single mother, both culturally and financially. Her fierce and suffocating investment in Amna’s education therefore carries another dimension: it is partly rooted in her own experience of financial hardship and her determination to give her daughter opportunities she never had.

Ashraf’s impressive performance is bold and unflinching. She powerfully conveys the innate conflict between heritage and liberation, alongside the volatility and fragility of youth. During the rapid-fire exchanges between mother and daughter, her physicality shifts strikingly between generations.

The tiny stage may have been intended to evoke the claustrophobia of Amna’s home life, but it also restricts Ashraf physically. At times, there simply isn’t enough space for her to fully demonstrate the breadth of her obvious talents — a slight shame given the strength of her performance.

Pink Rabbit is an accomplished debut from a highly skilled performer. Farah Ashraf’s next production will be eagerly anticipated.

Underbelly, Bristo Square, until 29^th August.