on Indirect Censorship and Self-Censorship

contemplative reflection following the creation of RAGE

When I think of censorship, I first associate it with authoritarianism or even fascism: a ban, a red line, an act of silencing. However, in the democratic contexts where I work and live, censorship is rarely so direct. Instead, it appears in more subtle and insidious forms — what I understand as indirect censorship. It shapes itself through unspoken rules, cultural sensitivities, peer expectations, funding conditions, institutional boundaries, and social media dynamics. These pressures rarely forbid, but they constantly signal. They hint at what is welcome, what is risky, and what might cost you belonging, recognition, or opportunities.

Over time, these signals move inside. They are absorbed into one’s artistic process, one’s voice, and even one’s body. This is where self-censorship begins. It can look like hesitation before speaking, abandoning an idea before it is articulated, or softening a gesture in rehearsal out of fear of “misinterpretation.” It is rarely the result of direct coercion, but of a heightened awareness of being watched, judged, or misread.

My own perspective on censorship is shaped by moving between two very different contexts. In Israel, I grew up in a society that once encouraged liberal values such as freedom of speech, universalism, and coexistence, but which has since shifted dramatically. Today, cultural funding is cut from projects and institutions that do not align with the government’s agenda, and public criticism of its policies carries serious consequences. At the same time, in Europe, where I work and live, I face another form of silencing: cultural institutions often distance themselves from Israeli artists altogether, or stipulate collaboration on the condition of publishing pre-written statements about the war in Gaza. In both contexts — though through different mechanisms — it becomes nearly impossible to express a critical, compassionate, and nuanced relationship with my own culture, history, and community.

What concerns me most is how these mechanisms not only restrict expression but also reshape desire itself. The more one internalises the codes of acceptability, the harder it becomes to even imagine alternatives. The danger of self-censorship is not only silence, but the erosion of imagination.

In a climate in which people are increasingly filtered or reduced to identity categories, I find that communication itself is easily reduced to automated readings of certain words, gestures, or symbols. Instead of pausing to ask a question that encourages curiosity, complexity, and critical thinking, reactions are triggered instantly, often detached from the actual context in which these signs are used. It is important to emphasise that my concern is not with the content or the values being raised in conversation, but with the rhetoric and modes of address themselves.

Within artistic, academic, and activist fields, I see the emergence of new norms that, while motivated by the important aim of amplifying marginalised voices, can sometimes result in excluding voices that do not fully align with the dominant agenda. The danger here is that critical thinking can give way to virtue signalling, and adherence to trending moralities may replace genuine dialogue. Too often, it seems less about what is being said than about who is saying it. In such climates, content and craftsmanship risk losing their value, while identity alone becomes the measure of legitimacy.

As an artist, I notice these dynamics in multiple layers:

• In the studio, where it has become increasingly difficult to speak or experiment without the risk of being perceived as threatening someone else’s “safety.” The space for trial and error, for bouncing unfinished or raw ideas, feels endangered — as even a slip of language, or an imprecise use of “today’s vocabulary,” can lead to misunderstanding, discredit, or cancellation. For the sake of maintaining a sense of safety, performers often avoid risk — yet risk is imperative to art. Without it, creation risks becoming polite, cautious, and hollow.
  
  

• On stage, where the awareness of reception can become a censoring force, shaping not only what is presented but also how it is embodied.
  
  

• Interpersonally, where language and artistic choices are carefully filtered to avoid conflict or offense, reducing complexity to correctness. This constant self-monitoring takes away from one’s authenticity, making honest relationships harder to conceive. Instead of fostering dialogue, interactions are often marked by a rhetoric that leans toward gaslighting or cancellation, leaving little room for vulnerability, ambiguity, or repair.

In my solo RAGE, I respond to these tensions by crafting a character, an alter-ego, whose voice allows me to raise questions, provoke, and speak thoughts I cannot safely or comfortably express as myself. Through her, I can stretch language, embody contradictions, and expose discomforts with a sharpness that would otherwise remain censored.

By exposing the contradictions and discomforts of navigating between hyper-visible and hyper-sensitive cultural landscapes, I ask to be seen as an entity who can hold contradictions, and I hope to open a shared space for recognising how censorship and self-censorship are not abstract concepts, but embodied realities that affect the way we create, communicate, and relate.