Silencing dissent: The world over, art often becomes a frontline in political battles

The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.

— Milan Kundera

Artists hold a paradoxical place in society — undervalued in daily life yet powerful enough to be targeted when their voices and thoughts provoke. This invariably leads to intimidation and incarceration.

Artists speak because they must; it’s in their blood to act as witnesses and record the truth of their times, even if threatened, vilified or silenced. They become chroniclers for posterity, holding multiple mirrors that record, reflect and investigate the human condition in all its fragility and decay. In democracies, where free speech is supposed to be protected, eliminating artists isn’t just about silencing voices, but erasing resistance.

Saadat Hasan Manto cut through the madness of 1947 with brutal honesty. ‘Tamas’, Govind Nihalani’s unforgettable series based on Bhisham Sahni’s novel, laid bare the circumstances that led to communal riots. Anne Frank’s ‘The Diary of a Young Girl’ revealed the horrors of the Holocaust through a girl’s intimate voice.

The Nazis had trashed modern art as being degenerate and confiscated the works of Paul Klee and Wassily Kandinsky, forcing them to flee or face imprisonment. The list is endless.

Artist MF Husain. File photo: The Tribune

India has seen numerous instances where artists have been targeted by self-styled vigilante groups, often invoking “hurt sentiments” or blasphemy laws to justify censorship or violence towards the arts that did not adhere to the ideology of the ruling dispensation. Unlike straightforward journalism or activism, art can sometimes evade direct censorship because it is interpretive, metaphorical and at times encased in euphemism. Creativity thrives on freedom, which inherently clashes with authoritarian conformity. Artists often reject norms, experiment with ideas, and push boundaries, asserting individual imagination. Regimes view this as a threat to social order, fearing that artistic freedom could be a threat to existing ideologies. By banning, jailing, or killing artists, leaders send a message: dissent will not be tolerated.

In the late 19th century, the British had imposed restrictions on public assemblies to suppress nationalist activities. To avoid these strictures, Lokmanya Bal Gangadhar Tilak transformed Ganesh Chaturthi — traditionally a family-based Hindu religious festival — into a public celebration.

This started around 1893 in Maharashtra. He installed community Ganpati idols in mandaps, with processions, patriotic songs, lectures and discussions infused with nationalist themes. This allowed thousands to gather “legitimately” under the guise of religious devotion, fostering unity across castes, promoting self-rule and subtly criticising British policies, without directly violating assembly bans. It became a powerful tool for mass mobilisation, hence laying the ground for the freedom struggle.

Similarly, during World War II in Nazi-occupied France, the French Resistance used cabarets, music halls and performance spaces as a cover for covert activities. Cabaret artistes used their fame and international tours to spy, hiding notes in music sheets and eavesdropping on Nazi officers at performances. Cabarets in areas like Montmartre in Paris continued operating under occupation, allowing performers and audiences to network discreetly.

Both cases show ingenuity in using innocent cultural spaces — festivals or entertainment — to bypass surveillance, build solidarity and advance political goals under repressive regimes. History has many parallels, from coded messages in theatre during occupations to protest songs in authoritarian contexts today. These examples serve as a reminder of how art can become a quiet but potent form of resistance.

Safdar Hashmi was a prominent playwright, street theatre artiste and activist. His group, Jana Natya Manch, performed plays like ‘Halla Bol’ that critiqued exploitation, casteism, and corporate-political nexus — issues that directly challenged the ruling Congress party’s interests during that period.

On January 1, 1989, during a performance in Sahibabad, Hashmi was brutally attacked and killed by alleged political-backed goons. The assault was linked to his play’s criticism of local politicians and industrialists.

Why the fear? This is a question I often ask. If art and artist have no real significance in most people’s daily life, then why this need to stifle, muffle and silence the artist? Hashmi’s art wasn’t just entertainment; it was a political message, marking him as a threat. Despite India’s constitutional protections for free speech, such killings highlight how democratic governments use violence to silence dissent when it hits close to home. This case led to widespread protests. It underscored that democracies aren’t immune to fear.

Vsevolod Meyerhold was a revolutionary theatre director whose innovative, avant-garde style clashed with Stalin’s socialist realism doctrine. Meyerhold was tortured and executed in 1940 on fabricated charges of espionage. His experimental art challenged the state’s monopoly on cultural expression. Stalin feared Meyerhold because he revealed the absurdity of propaganda. This wasn’t unique to Russia; it reflects how dictatorships eliminate individual perceptions and viewpoints to enforce ideological conformity.

A plaque saying “Vsevolod Emilyevich Meyerhold lived in this house in

1902-1903”

in Kherson, Ukraine. Istock

Federico Garcia Lorca, a celebrated poet and playwright, famous for his rural trilogy (‘Yerma’, ‘Blood Wedding’ and ‘The House of Bernarda Alba’), explored themes of repression, sexuality and social injustice in rural Spain. He was killed in 1936 as his works were considered subversive and clashed with the values of the right-wing government. These plays were seen as promoting liberal, even revolutionary, ideas about women’s rights and also explored women’s desire, a definite challenge to patriarchy.

Artists are feared because they wield “soft power” that can disrupt hard power. This fear persists when art intersects with politics and is amplified in repressive systems like Stalin’s Russia or Franco’s Spain. While protections exist on paper, history shows that when artists become too effective in mirroring society’s flaws to its leaders, retaliation follows.

Painter MF Husain faced severe backlash for his depictions of Hindu deities, which some groups deemed offensive. In 1998, his house was attacked and his paintings vandalised, demonstrating how “hurt” became a tool for cultural policing, with both the attackers and the supporters invoking religious and emotional rhetoric in public debates.

Habib Tanvir, a renowned playwright and director known for incorporating folk traditions and tribal performers into his work, encountered opposition from right-wing groups. His play ‘Ponga Pandit’ was cancelled at the last minute, turning the iconic Tanvir into a cultural pariah. This particular play, like most of his work, critiqued social hierarchies, drawing ire for perceived religious insensitivity.

The story of repression of ideas recurs across nearly every era of human history. In ancient Greece, Socrates was tried for his failure in honouring the city’s gods and corrupting the youth. He was made to drink the poisonous hemlock for questioning norms.

These are examples of how art — whether in India or globally — often becomes a frontline in political battles. A brilliant film like ‘Punjab 95’, directed by Honey Trehan, is languishing in cans, becoming a sign of how narratives get supressed. A tragic fallout becomes self-censorship.

— The writer is a theatre director