The year was 2020. We were suddenly confined to our homes, told that for the foreseeable future, the outside world was no longer ours. In an attempt to reclaim a sense of control, we turned inward: we picked up hobbies, mastered new skills, and sought connection through glowing screens. But perhaps the most profound shift wasn’t in our kitchens or living room; it was in our political culture. A collective urgency to make change was born.
We all witnessed the brutal, unjust killing of George Floyd, on our iPhone screens, no less. The image of his death became a rallying cry heard around the world. For once, it seemed, there would be accountability. The uprisings that followed were full of passion, rage, and deep collective sorrow. Ordinary people flooded the streets to demand justice. Conversations about racism that had long been silenced were suddenly at the forefront. Corporations were called out. Institutions were questioned. For a moment, it felt like the world might actually change.
Activism was no longer confined to artists, the marginalized, or the perpetually outraged. Now, everyone was angry.
And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, we went back.
I remember making a bet with one of my closest friends, just as the campaigns for Kamala Harris and Donald Trump began to take shape. I had noticed a strange shift on social media: conservatism creeping into spaces where it had never existed before. Fashion influencers who once dressed in punk aesthetics were now embracing “tradwife” ideals and modesty politics. “I hate to say this, and I really hope I’m wrong, but I fear he’s going to win,” I confessed, uneasily. I didn’t fully understand why I felt that way at the time. But now, in hindsight, I do.
When activism enters the mainstream, it begins to cycle like a fashion trend. It doesn’t take long for protest to be dismissed as passé, for “woke” to become a slur, and for progress to be rebranded as overreach.
So I began to wonder: Is there any space where activism doesn’t fall out of fashion?
The only answer I’ve ever been able to land on is this: the arts.
At the 2025 Facing Backlash in the Age of Reactionary Politics symposium, that belief was reaffirmed. Artists were still showing up. Still pushing forward. Still doing the work, even when it was no longer the popular thing to do. The symposium covered a wide range of urgent, difficult topics, from the ongoing struggles of Black artists to the courageous work being made about the genocide in Gaza.
What struck me most was how different each artist’s approach was. Philip Akin, a founding member of Obsidian Theatre who has worked in the industry for over forty years, spoke about how activism in theatre often stalls at words, rarely moving into real, lasting action. Karen Finley, a performance artist and educator, shared explosive feminist poetry, born out of anger and urgency. Their art couldn’t have been more different, and yet the spirit behind it was the same: a refusal to look away.
I don’t have a perfect explanation for why the arts remain such a fertile ground for activism, even when other spaces retreat. But if I had to guess, I’d say it has something to do with the artist’s innate curiosity. Artists are trained, almost compelled, to keep asking questions. To sit with discomfort. To dig deeper when everyone else is moving on. This is what I hypothesize keeps their activism alive: the fact that their curiosity is their shield against ignorance and instead their guide into a painful but much needed hyper awareness about the world around them.
While I’m deeply grateful for the fire that burns within the arts community, I can’t help but feel a quiet frustration at the bubble it so often exists in. I’m a young woman who’s been immersed in theatre since childhood, drawn to anything created by people with raw, burning desires. I’ve spent my life surrounded by artists who challenge norms, who embrace diversity, who push for progress. I know how rare and precious that is. And yet, as I reach the final years of art school, I’ve begun to feel conflicted. The very thing that makes these spaces feel safe, our shared values, can also make them feel insular.
Theatre, for all its ambition, too often exists only within itself. There’s a deep disconnect between the artists and the so-called “real world”- the corporate workers, the policy makers, the people whose lives aren’t shaped by creativity and critique. At the end of the Facing Backlash symposium, we participated in a “porch sitting,” where the audience and curatorial team sat together in reflection. As I looked around, I felt comforted. These were my people, artists who thought like me, who felt like me. But that comfort also made me uneasy. I genuinely wondered: Should I be sitting in circles of people who think like me? Will that make a change?
Maybe the reason our activism feels cyclical, rising with passion, then fading without impact, is because the people who most need to hear our anger never actually do. Our work rarely reaches those outside our sphere, and if it does, it’s often misunderstood, mocked, or ignored.
That realization both scares me and motivates me. It makes me wonder: what would it look like to truly bridge that gap? To create art not just for each other, but for the world beyond our bubble? To not aim to radicalize the already radicalized?
A thought that stuck with me during the symposium was from Rimah Jabr, an artist currently focused on making work regarding the Palestinian experience. Rimah asked a question critiquing the current state of activism, questioning why people tend to only wait until years later to condemn oppression. I believe the answer lies within the fact that it takes the non-artists much longer to realize the troubles of what is occurring around them, forcing the artists to wait for them to catch up. This insight confirmed my hypothesis that the undisturbed need to be disturbed into making change, and the artists need to lead them.
For better or for worse, when one signs up to be an artist- they unknowingly sign up to be a leader in revolutions.