Mardi Gras, the Rainbow Precinct, and the Price of Being Seen

Mardi Gras, the Rainbow Precinct, and the Price of Being Seen

This weekend, as Mardi Gras walks the streets of the Rainbow Precinct, we’ll do what queer communities have always done under pressure: we’ll take up space anyway.

We’ll laugh loudly. We’ll wear joy like armour. We’ll dance as if that is a political act, because sometimes it is. And we’ll do it in a moment where the world feels… sharper. Less patient. More addicted to contempt. More willing to punish difference simply for existing.

And if that sounds dramatic, I’d invite anyone to read the ABC investigation into gay and bisexual teenagers in Sydney being lured and bashed on camera in IS-inspired attacks. This isn’t “online toxicity.” That’s organised hatred, expressed as violence, with a camera turned on because the humiliation is part of the point. So, no we are not imagining the shift.

The pattern we keep refusing to name

Here’s a sentence that keeps circling in my head, because it’s both true and infuriating:

When hate spikes in one direction, it rarely stays politely in its lane.

After antisemitic incidents rise, the social temperature rises. After any major “othering” campaign gets airtime, other minorities feel the knock-on effects. It’s as if society’s most anxious instincts learn a new trick, and then try it out on everyone who looks “different enough” to blame.

In Australia we’ve seen intense concern (rightly) about antisemitic incidents and the human toll they carry. But we’ve also seen something else: a strange reluctance to say out loud, that queer people remain one of the most reliably targeted cohorts when the public mood turns sour, whether through direct violence, harassment, or the slower, quieter grind of intimidation.

This isn’t “competing traumas.” It’s the same machinery, just pointed at different people on different days. And that machinery thrives on a simple lie: that safety is a private luxury, not a public duty.

Mardi Gras is not “just a party”

Mardi Gras is joy; yes but never doubt it is also a cultural safety signal. It says: we are here, we are part of the city’s story, and we are not asking permission to exist.

That visibility is the whole point. And it’s also why Pride has always triggered backlash. Some people experience queer visibility as a personal offence. Not because we harmed them, but because our existence interrupts their preferred narrative about who society is “for.”

Which brings me to the corporate side of this conversation… because we need to stop whispering.

Hey corporates: if you pulled out, don’t call it “neutral”

I too read the Star Observer opinion piece calling out corporations pulling out of Pride events, and I say, the bluntness is earned. Why? Because this is what’s happening: for years, plenty of brands treated Pride events like a seasonal campaign. Rainbow logo in June, executive selfie, a few carefully edited words about “belonging.” They happily absorbed the cultural capital of being seen on the right side of history, and many profited from it.

Then the political wind shifted. Suddenly “support” looked like risk. And some of you discovered you had a spine only when it was convenient.

Let’s name the dynamic: if you disappear when it gets harder, you weren’t an ally; you were a sponsor.  And sponsorship is not moral courage. It’s marketing.

I’m not asking corporations to be saints. I’m asking them to be consistent. If you built brand equity from the idea of inclusion, you don’t get to quietly step away when inclusion becomes contested. Because that is precisely when community needs you most.

If your “values” only operate in fair weather, they’re not values. They’re a costume.

Government, too: stop making safety a press release

Now that I have the mic, I pivot to government; with love, and with the bluntness the moment requires…

If teenagers can be hunted, lured, bashed, filmed, and shared online, we don’t have an “incident” problem. We have an ecosystem problem.

We have gaps in prevention, gaps in policing intelligence, gaps in youth diversion and deradicalisation, gaps in platform accountability, gaps in anti-vilification frameworks, and gaps in the way we treat hatred when it targets queer people.

Here’s what I’m tired of: the reflex to treat queer safety as optional depending on the week’s headlines. If we can mobilise public outrage for one cohort (as we should), we can do it for others too without turning it into a hierarchy of pain.

The ABC reporting shows something chilling: the violence wasn’t random; it was ideologically fuelled and socially performed. That means the response can’t just be “more patrols.” It has to be reduce permission.

Because hate needs permission. It needs cues. It needs a cultural nod that says “you’re allowed.” And right now, the global mood is full of permission-giving.

The DEI backlash is not “a debate,” it’s a signal

Let’s say something that makes people uncomfortable:

The global DEI backlash the sneering at inclusion, the mocking of pronouns, the framing of equality as “special treatment,” the lazy “culture war” cynicism, is not harmless. It’s a signalling system.

It tells certain people that cruelty is once again socially acceptable. It tells them that humiliation is witty. It tells them that punching down is “common sense.” And it tells them that the people being targeted will be left to manage it alone, because “it’s all too political.”

And as soon as that signal spreads, violence becomes easier. Not inevitable, but easier. That’s why the attacks on queer teenagers matter beyond the immediate horror: they are a warning flare about where permission is heading.

What do we do with this, beyond slogans?

Here’s my practical, slightly gloves-off list of what “getting a spine” looks like, without turning Mardi Gras into a moral panic:

1) Treat queer safety as core civic infrastructure. Not a festival issue. Not a nightlife issue. Not a “special interest.” If a group can be targeted for existing, that is a civic safety failure.

2) Update hate laws and enforcement so they actually match modern harm. When attacks are lured via apps, filmed, and distributed online, the crime isn’t just the punch. It’s the network effect.

3) Fund prevention where it actually works. Schools. Youth services. Community organisations. Digital literacy. Deradicalisation pathways. These aren’t soft options; they are the early intervention layer that stops a future headline.

4) Platforms: enough with the “we’re looking into it.” If content is being used to recruit, coordinate, and amplify hate, the response must be rapid, transparent, and independently auditable. “Community guidelines” aren’t a substitute for duty of care.

5) Corporates: show up like adults. If you benefit from diverse workforces, diverse consumers, and diverse cities, you don’t get to vanish when the culture gets spiky. Put money into safety, services, and long-term inclusion not just a float and a logo.

6) The rest of us: practice bystander courage. Not heroics. Just small interventions: check in, report, accompany, interrupt. The opposite of hate isn’t a hashtag; it’s people refusing to leave each other alone in it.

Mardi Gras is not the end of the story, it’s the beginning of the question

There’s a reason Pride matters in moments like this. It reminds a city what it claims to be.

Sydney is not only beaches and property prices. It is also a living experiment in pluralism: different cultures, different faiths, different bodies, different loves, different ways of being human. It is about sharing streets. And sharing streets is the point.

So, if you’re coming to Mardi Gras this weekend, come for joy and bring responsibility with you. Let it be loud. Let it be beautiful. Let it be safe. Let it be the kind of night that tells every kid watching from the sidelines: you are not alone.

Because here’s the deeper truth in all of this:

A society’s commitment to diversity is not proven when it’s easy. It’s proven when it’s inconvenient. And right now, it’s inconvenient.

So, corporates and governments, get a spine. Not a statement. Not a campaign. A spine. And the rest of us? Keep choosing each other. That’s how the permission structure changes.

Author’s Note: This reflection is informed by my ongoing work and writing on LGBTIQA+ issues, particularly the power of language, community resilience, and what makes safe, inclusive public spaces possible. I’m currently Chair of the Rainbow Precinct, and I was Co-Chair of the City of Sydney’s Oxford Street Business Charter Steering Committee during its development.

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