Dissent. Not even the calmest, thoroughly domesticated soul has escaped its occasional visit. Somewhere beneath the carefully cultivated manners, the annual family WhatsApp greetings and the ability to smile politely at impossible relatives, lies a tiny revolutionary waiting for the right moment to declare independence. At some point in all our lives, that streak of rebellion has raised its head and briefly transformed us into freedom fighters of our own tiny causes.
Who hasn’t, as a child, staged a dramatic protest because parents refused to surrender to an utterly unreasonable demand? Or experienced that bewildering teenage outburst against what we were convinced was oppressive adult tyranny, only to discover that our curfew was not, in fact, a violation of fundamental human rights? Then comes adulthood, where rebellion grows more expensive. The employee who finally decides to tell the boss exactly what is on their mind discovers that honesty seldom features in promotion criteria. The random disagreement with one’s spouse is preserved in domestic archives and reproduced at strategic intervals for years to come. Dissent, in some form, is forever lurking around our lives, patiently waiting for the right trigger.
Sometimes, however, dissent outgrows living rooms and office cabins. It spills onto streets and public squares, as it has been doing now at Jantar Mantar.
The art world is no stranger to dissent. Its galleries may be quiet, but its history certainly isn’t. Across the world, artists have repeatedly swapped brushes for banners. In America, visual artist Dread Scott and playwright Lynn Nottage channelled that spirit into the Fall of Freedom movement, a creative resistance initiative that brought together artists to protest against authoritarianism. Launched in 2025, the movement emerged in response to the Trump administration’s pressure on cultural institutions. Instead of limiting their opposition to strong statements — which, as we know, governments typically ignore — they organised public readings and performances across the country in 2025. The movement now plans another series of events in October 2026 to defend their freedom of expression.
If dissent is difficult in a democracy, it becomes an act of extraordinary courage under authoritarian regimes. Few places illustrate this more starkly than Iran. In a country where censorship is uncompromising, anonymity became not merely an artistic choice but a survival strategy. Graffiti appeared overnight, encrypted music travelled where speeches could not, anonymous protest rap echoed through digital spaces, and artworks quietly slipped past internet blackouts.
Cuba offers another striking example. In 2018, independent artists formed the San Isidro Movement to oppose legislation requiring artists to obtain prior approval from the Ministry of Culture before exhibitions. Their protest methods were performance art and hunger strikes. The government’s response, however, were arrests and exiles. Those actions prompted another collective, known as 27N, to stage a sit-in outside the Ministry of Culture, calling for meaningful dialogue. Nothing changed.
Dissent is woven into the very fabric of being human. It reminds us that we possess the ability to think independently rather than merely echo the loudest voice in the room. It is when differing opinions are allowed to meet, challenge, and refine one another that the human race truly flourishes. After all, the opposite of dissent is not peace — it is silence.
