When the microphone goes silent

As a child, I was relentlessly curious. Every sound, sight, every sensation beckoned by immediate attention. So when I
arrived in the central district of Sydney, the gathering of people that formed instantly nabbed my attention. The air was
smothered with anticipation as their fervent chants rose above the city’s usual hum. Passionate voices rang, signs waved.
The energy was contagious.

It's a perplexing thing growing up in this 21st century world. A world built upon the grandiose pillars of free speech and
an individual voice. Yet, for many the reality of having their voices heard remains elusive. Stan Grant was an Indigenous
man who howled against the Australian Dream. As he stood before the crowd, his figure was tall and imposing, dwarfing
the microphone in his hand. As he spoke, it seemed as though his microphone was a magic wand, weaving a spell of pure
passion that commanded the audience's attention with every word. And yet, the microphone amplified his words, but
couldn't capture the voices of those before him or those who would come after.

It was a stark reminder that even the loudest voices could only do so much to express the true voices of our society, and
that true change could only come when all the voices were heard, all the voices were told. It is a paradoxical existence,
one that calls for us to recognise individual voices while also supporting the amplification of the collective voice.

And yet, can a voice truly be heard in a world where everyone is shouting? Is a voice still valuable if it goes unheard? In a
world of jumbled voices, perhaps we can only speak through a microphone to clear this murky sky.

Growing up in a calm district away from the city I had never seen a rally. I was awestruck. Stunned. Yet, I distinctly
remember the energy, the passion in the air, as speakers took turns addressing the crowd, sharing the stories and
experiences that drove them to this point. I was moved by their words, inspired by their courage, and saw the strength of
the microphone. However, as the rally drew to a close and the stage was slowly torn down, I couldn't help but feel a
sense of unease. How about all those people who didn't make it onstage let alone the rally. Were their voices still
unheard? The rally had provided a platform for those who were able to attend, but how about those who were not?

On that occasion, I was reminded of the scene from 'Of a Boy' by Sonya Hartnett where Horsegirl threatened to jump off
the roof and the children started chanting “Jump!” Hartnett reveals how the collective voice was able to amplify the
individual voice of each child in “And because they are so safe where they stand, the children have turned brave ''. Yet, in
“Solidarity is important, there’s only strength in a crowd”, Hartnett illustrates how the stage that formed was their
microphone. Yet, as their voices rang through the microphone they became an oppressive and abusing force, which is
revealed through description of sinister animals in “buzz like an excited swarm, like wolves that have spotted the
weakling” and “a mass of wasps turning on the wind”. And, amidst all the cacophony, individuals like Adrian are obligated
to join in “because he cannot be seen to do otherwise”. So, just as the microphone had been set up, it was smothered by
the cacophony of the collective conformity.

Yet, I clearly remember, as I sat on the veranda, I felt a breeze carrying the voices from the rally. The fervent chants, the
desperate cries, but also the voices which were not heard, the voices which could not speak up. As the echoes of the
rally faded into a distance, I felt clarity in this world of jumbled voices. As I breathed in the crisp air of the winter month, I
yelled out to the world hearing my voice echo into the horizon.