Episode Details

On the morning of 21 August 2021, the theatre world was celebrating because the government had said they could open again. There was only one cost: segregation.

Only the vaccinated could go to the theatre.

I recall one director, who had always banged on about inclusivity, celebrating by posting a comment that read: “Good, I couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting next to a filthy anti-vaxxer.”

This acclaimed artist of note hadn’t transitioned into a Nazi; the Nazi had always been there, hidden under a virtue-signalling coat that, that day, he was not required to wear.

The tragedy was that I looked up to him. Going by his reputation and work, I took it for granted that he was a man of moral substance, of righteous defiance. Basically, I saw him for more than he was.

It made me question everything. Since Rohana and I refused to segregate audiences, we were cancelled.

On the same day, with all my dreams gone, I decided to start a podcast to defend free speech. That podcast was Cafe Locked Out.

I wrote this poem at that time to establish, for me, what the duty of artists was.

A CALL TO ARTS

What is the point of art and artists?We are told they should rock the boat—but only while it sitsin a playground of sand,where anyone who fallsbruises nothingbut their pride?

In a democracy,or even under a dictator,shouldn’t artists standin the frontline with the journalists,candles already litbefore the storm arrives,burning brighter than sunsso the lost can still seelong after the stormhas taken them?

Shouldn’t they hold their mirrors highwhen the pressure comes,so we can seewhether our morality is holdingor is only the painted facewe wore when the days were easyand the nights were soft?

If artists turn awayfrom the real fear of frightened people,who else will tend their sufferinguntil the harvest,whatever the weather,yields a crop called hope?

If they join the choirthat sings for compliance and silence,what poetry will be left for us?What paintings will stainthe walls of our shared cave?Move on, history’s eye—there is nothing here to see.We were here.Everything was fine.

Stand.I know it is frightening.The same storms move through me.Rain where there should be sun.Thorns where there should be blossom.Yet we are boundto gather what fruit we canand feed it to our childrenas we once drew lifefrom our Lucky Country’s breast.

Stand on the perch of historylike the navigator still searchingfor the star we never thoughtwe could lose.

Stand with every gift you have,soldiers of a force that has gone missing,and do what you were made to do:reflect what is before usso that, through you,we might find againwhat we have lost.

Michael Gray Griffith