Dear audience

It was a beautiful yet deeply unsettling experience that prompted Anne Reijniers to write her first letter on behalf of Collectif Faire-Part. After performing The Queer Passion, a work that weaves together Bach's music with queer histories of suffering and resistance, and learning that our Prime Minister would be in the audience, she felt compelled to speak up. Her letter urges us to move beyond symbolic solidarity, confront hypocrisy wherever it appears, and draw strength and common ground through art.

Three weeks ago, I stood before you on the stage of the Antwerp Opera, surrounded by my dear friends and fellow singers from the Antwerp Queer Choir. We were about to perform The Queer Passion — a reimagining of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Johannespassion. The suffering we sang of was not that of Christ, but of queer people — past and present. We sang of historical events often left out of official narratives: the execution of a trans person in Halberstadt, Germany, and the large-scale persecution of gay men in Utrecht in the eighteenth century. These historic stories were interwoven with more recent tragedies: the 2016 shooting at Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando, and the ongoing violence against lesbian women in Mexico. All of it — all this grief, resilience, and remembrance — was carried by the melodies of Bach.

That moment on stage was charged with many emotions. On the one hand, I felt joy. It was powerful to bring such a moving, beautifully written work to life before a large audience. None of us expected to stand in such a grand concert hall, singing lines of queer solidarity to the sound of Bach. And yet, another feeling raced through me — one I couldn’t shake. A feeling I tried to capture in a letter I carried in my back pocket. You couldn’t see it, but I could feel its weight.

I had written the letter a week earlier — directed to you, the audience — a message of solidarity and rage. It spoke of struggles for freedom unfolding on other continents, but also in my own city — in the very place where I was singing.

As I stepped onto the stage, arranging my papers and adjusting my position so I could see the conductor, my eyes drifted toward the first balcony — there he was. Someone whose conflictual presence I had thought about a lot since his attendance was announced to us only a few days earlier: our Prime Minister. Not only did he attend — he had also written the introduction to the concert booklet. His words seemed to frame The Queer Passion, as though he were its supporter.

I had been wondering: how could he — the figurehead of a government that weaponises the term ‘woke’ to discredit social justice — be the one to introduce a work rooted in queer resistance?

I had been wondering: how could he — the figurehead of a government that weaponises the term ‘woke’ to discredit social justice — be the one to introduce a work rooted in queer resistance? How could someone who champions self-reliance over collective responsibility speak on behalf of a piece about shared struggle? By writing that introduction, he publicly aligned himself with the message of The Queer Passion.

Nothing, I would argue, could be further from the truth. This is the leader of a party whose policies isolate those living in poverty, sidelines job-seekers and newcomers, accelerate gentrification and protect the wealthy at the expense of those with less. Closely aligned with powerful business lobbies like VOKA, his party actively shapes a socio-economic agenda that prioritises corporate interests, deregulation, and wage restraint over social justice and equality. A party that continues to support the so-called democracy of Israël that, for years, has systematically displaced and killed Palestinian civilians.

And yes, as we could read in the booklet, our Prime Minister once stood in solidarity with the victims of the Orlando nightclub shooting. But what does such solidarity mean when it is so selective — extended to queer people in symbolic moments, yet withheld from migrants, from trans people facing hatred in our own streets, and from Palestinians living under occupation and bombardment? This is not allyship. This is window dressing. This is not solidarity. This is pinkwashing.

In response to this imbalance, I wrote a text for you, dear audience, five days before the show. My intention was to read it aloud before the performance. The text had the backing of nearly the entire choir, but some of the institutional partners refused to support it. Their reasons ranged from logistical (‘It’s too late to arrange a mic’) to procedural (‘It’s too last-minute to get consent from everyone involved’). Eventually, they offered us their version of our message — stripped of all specific political references. We were only allowed to read that version. One could call this dialogue. One could call this censorship. Whatever it was, it felt as if we lost the connection between the show and our community’s principles.

For a moment, I considered walking away — boycotting the performance and proposing to the group to use our collective voice to demand that our message be heard. But when I sensed that even within our group of forty singers, a unified vision on how to respond seemed unattainable, I let it go. I didn’t want to speak on behalf of others or take risks that not everyone was ready for. After a long, emotional conversation we decided collectively as a choir not to read the adjusted version of the text.

Many of us stood on that stage proud, angry, and heartbroken. We were joyous to sing this piece — and at the same time, many of us felt used. Like queer puppets in a performance dressed in radical aesthetics, but empty of real political commitment.

Let me be clear: I believe deeply in the message of The Queer Passion. But I also believe that anyone who steps on stage — especially in a work like this — carries a responsibility to speak up for those who are not granted a podium. To speak up, first through the artwork itself, like The Queer Passion does, but also through the framework surrounding it, like for example an introduction text.

I believe deeply in the message of The Queer Passion. But I also believe that anyone who steps on stage — especially in a work like this — carries a responsibility to speak up for those who are not granted a podium.

Because no matter how powerful the music, messages that live solely within the artwork itself are easy to applaud and just as easy to set aside. But the messages become more difficult to neglect by an audience and by the artists themselves, if the makers and performers anchor them in a committed practice, beyond the show itself. Such commitment to bring art’s message into practice, demands that we reckon with contradictions and reject the comfort of complacency. It demands accountability. It doesn’t shy away from confrontation. I would argue that a committed practice, beyond the show itself, is necessary if we want to present an artwork that truly embodies integrity.

Back then, I was silenced by a mix of factors — including my own overwhelm from days of struggling to find common ground, while rehearsing this challenging piece. Now, however, I do find room to speak.

Dear audience,

Tonight, part of this stage is filled with the Antwerp Queer Choir, a group I’m lucky to call myself part of. Tonight we sing for you the chorals of the Queer Passion, a new interpretation of Johann Sebastian Bach's Johannespassie, focusing on the stories of queer people. We sing together with this amazing group of musicians and singers, about queer suffering and resilience, in past and present. But what does it mean to be queer? Of course it is partly about sexual orientations, gender-identities & gender-expressions, that differ from the straight and cis norms.
But being queer is more than that. If you feel different from the norm, you learn more easily to accept differences in others. When you are excluded from a system, you start to see other people who are & were excluded. So to be queer also means to stand with the excluded and the oppressed. Oppressed in all different ways, based on gender, skin colour, ethnicity, origin, sexual orientation, age, religion, ability, physical appearance, socio-economic status, language, accent & all possible intersections between them.

Being queer is also about freedom. It’s about fighting for freedom & caring for each other while getting free. Because none of us are free, until all of us are. So tonight we sing for the people who fought and continue to fight for freedom.

We sing for the trans community in the United States & the United Kingdom, who are seeing their rights and safety disappear.
We sing for the people of Palestine, who are living under occupation and the constant threat of bombs.
We sing for the people of the Democratic Republic of Congo who suffer the consequences of Belgian colonial rule & the ongoing exploitation of resources.
We sing for all the people fleeing their homes, searching for a dignified life.
We sing for the people who stay silent during the mass killing of a people, in the hope their hearts will break open with tears.
We sing for the people who polarise, in the hope that they become whole again and don’t feel the need to isolate & separate.

And then one more thing about our beautiful city of Antwerp. Many of us do feel safe here most of the time, but then during Pride, a group of people received permission from the city of Antwerp to stand along the parade, holding up a transphobic banner. The banner was protected by the police at all costs. Some of the protesters covering the hateful message with their trans flags & their bodies, were arrested. I was there together with some other members of this choir, protesting this discriminatory presence, while the entire parade passed by. I want to express my deep respect for the courage of the many trans people putting their own bodies on the line in an attempt to make the pride safe again.

So yes, we, The Antwerp Queer Choir, can come and sing here in the opera of Antwerp and the city can be advertised as a very welcoming place for queers. But what does it mean when that same city gives permission to a provocative and transphobic presence at its own pride parade?

So tonight we sing for you,
the oppressed,
the oppressors,
for freedom,
with care,
to break open your hearts.

Thank you for coming to The Queer Passion.
It was beautiful — and bitter — to sing for you.

Anne