Efficiency and who it serves
We have learnt to move quickly, haven’t we? Efficiency has become a value we have internalised. Rehearsals, manpower and timelines are compressed, and we learn to adapt and offer the best possible quality with the least possible resources.
How much of this have we accepted as normal?
There are moments I catch myself trying to take up less space, to adapt faster, to not ask for “too much”. Moments where I measure my own worth against how seamlessly I can keep up. Perhaps this is what internalised ableism looks like. If I can appear easy enough to work with, then maybe I will be allowed to stay, for longer? If we have built systems that reward speed, then it is worth asking: Who do they serve? And if the answer is, no one, not in any lasting way, then what kind of art and what kind of community are these systems producing?
I wonder if access can become another, or perhaps, an entirely new kind of currency in the arts? One that isn’t treated like a good-to-have or afterthought, but which has the ability to shape decisions, timelines, budgets and artistic processes.
The value of consultation and communication
I have been in productions with only eight to 12 hours of rehearsal before a show. Performances that included acting and singing 10 songs with a chamber ensemble. Some of these were specifically intended to raise awareness about the disabled community and promote inclusion. I don’t think it was easy for anyone in the team. We were under immense pressure, and knew the performance would have been 10 times stronger if we were given more time.
I don’t want to presume I was the only person who struggled. But perhaps we experienced the pressure of a tight schedule differently. Decisions moved quickly, often without my input. What was limited was time to adapt to changes in direction, understand the space, piece together bits of visual information that were given too quickly or too late, and build enough familiarity and chemistry as an ensemble in order to respond confidently. What should have been a collaborative process became an individual’s negotiation of trying to keep up.
Without prior consideration, consultation and communication, even the best of intentions become fragile. I have always believed theatre to be a space where we confront and question existing beliefs, and experiment and build better practices that others may one day model. So when access becomes negotiable, adjustments happen late and quality is compromised along with it, doesn’t the work undermine its own purpose?
The truth is, a disabled body on stage is rarely neutral. Undeveloped or unpolished work does not read as a lack of time. It reinforces harmful narratives that disabled artists are symbolic rather than capable of excellence or professionalism; victims to be pitied, heroes to be worshipped or artefacts to be examined. These narratives do not remain on stage. They influence social imagination, shaping how disabled people are valued, trusted and given authority beyond the arts.
So inclusion may still be named as an aspiration, but without the conditions for quality and with efficiency as the dominant value in the room, it becomes conditional, secondary and inevitably, a casualty.
When belonging is absent
Inclusion is understood as creating barrier-free environments where people are welcomed, respected, supported and able to participate fully. It appears in mission statements, grant applications, public messaging and cultural policy. In Singapore, it has also become a shared national aspiration, reflected in the Enabling Masterplan 2030: a vision of a more inclusive society. But what does it look like in practice?
The truth is, a shared space does not always mean a shared stake.
There was a show where I cried after. Not because anything in the show had gone wrong, but because something had felt deeply absent. During curtain call, with about 70 of us on stage, we had a complicated bowing sequence. It had not been rehearsed due to time constraints. I relied on the person beside me for cues and I fell out of sync. At some point, I was facing a different direction from everyone else.
In that moment, it did not matter how strong the performance had been or how much I had contributed. What surfaced instead was a familiar feeling that no matter how much I adapted, I didn’t quite belong.
Inclusion and belonging aren’t the same at all. You can be included in a room, accommodated and welcomed, and still have little influence over its pace, structure or assumptions. You can be given a seat at the table and still be expected to sit quietly in the place assigned to you. I believe belonging may ask for something more. Perhaps it begins when disabled people are not simply included, but recognised as part of the room from the start, with a legitimate and respected voice that can shift mindsets and shape process.
