Between art and outrage: How self-censorship is reshaping creative freedom

For the creative souls, Article 19(1)(a) of the Indian Constitution is more than just a legal provision — it is the very lifeblood of their craft.

Whether they are artists, comedians, filmmakers, musicians, writers, or digital creators, this constitutional right serves as both their canvas and their shield. It is from this freedom that they draw inspiration, often weaving their work around its promise of expression.

Yet, in the turbulent currents of today’s socio-political climate, this cherished liberty comes at a steep cost — online harassment, legal threats, and the ever-looming shadow of “cancel culture”.

In Assam, artists often tread a fragile tightrope. While the state has a rich tradition of political theatre, folk performance, and protest songs, modern creators now find themselves self-editing content to avoid stirring controversy.

"It’s been a year since I started creating videos experimenting with characters and dialects. The audience has been mostly supportive, but yes, backlash is inevitable. I realised that you cannot change how people think — you can only influence," says Nilakshi Sarma, a content creator, whose videos, despite their popularity, sometimes face harsh misinterpretation.

In a state, where cultural identity and regional politics are closely intertwined, the space for critical expression is even more complex. Satirical takes on issues like the NRC-CAA protests or ethnic conflicts are often met with both support and outrage — a polarising response that discourages open, artistic engagement.

The fear isn’t just legal — it’s emotional, psychological, and career-related. Many artists across the state shared that self-censorship becomes the default mode, not just to avoid controversy but also to preserve their audience and personal safety.

"I refrain from creating political-centric videos because I am not yet ready for the criticism and backlash that will inevitably come with it. People today post anything without thinking, and often forget the line between criticism and abuse," Nilakshi adds, reflecting the sentiment of many young creators who are learning to navigate an increasingly reactive digital audience.

The backlash is not limited to online trolling. Artist Marshall Baruah recounts a more direct form of intimidation he faced.

"After being released from jail, while working on another art project in Nalbari about medical issues, two unknown men came near me outside my hotel and blew cigarette smoke on my face, trying to provoke me. I had to retreat immediately and alert local people," he says.

The art and the artist! Marshall Baruah immersed in his artwork

The unseen cost of self-censorship

While some view self-censorship as a necessary survival strategy, others worry that it is eroding the spirit of art itself. When artists filter their work out of fear - society loses access to honest, transformative creativity.

"I once created a fun video playing the character of a nurse, noting some typical mannerisms. But it was taken out of context, and I received threats — even targeting my family. It hurt, especially because most of the backlash came from fake accounts and misinformation," says Nilakshi, highlighting how misinterpretation spreads rapidly, often outweighing the creator’s true intent. 

Nilakshi portraying herself in different characters

The ever-looming “cancel culture” dynamic has also created a fragile environment where a misunderstood sketch or slogan can invite widespread condemnation, legal trouble, or social ostracisation.

"My Gibbon-themed street art was erased by authorities in Jorhat. Before that, two of my works — including one in Ganeshguri — were also removed, being termed controversial. Yet, despite all of this, I have never stepped back from expressing my thoughts through art," says Marshall.

The way forward

Despite these challenges, artists across the state insist that the solution lies not in retreating into silence but in strategic, thoughtful engagement. Many suggest building public art forums, initiating conversations on the purpose of satire, and fostering educational initiatives that help people appreciate the role of creative freedom in a democracy.

Artists also advocate for supportive spaces — both online and offline — where they can collaborate, critique, and create freely without fear of institutional or social backlash. "We artists shouldn’t expect applause or approval. Our responsibility is to keep making better, more expressive art — to speak for the people even when they don’t always support us," says Marshall.

"At the end of the day, some videos are for fun and some are meant to spark thought. I always try to embed a secondary message or a question in my content — influencing minds subtly. But whether for fun or for change, art needs to be received with openness, not hate," Nilakshi chips in.

In a time where a tweet can be construed as sedition and a sketch can invite legal notice, the battle for artistic freedom in India — and particularly in the culturally sensitive Northeast — is no longer about what you can create, but what you dare to.

A grafitti in Guernica artist factory, Mirza, Guwahati.

And increasingly, the answer lies not in loud slogans or reckless provocation, but in quiet resistance, thoughtful dialogue, and the audacity to speak — even if in coded metaphors.

It’s no longer just about what one creates, but what one dares to create — and whether society has the maturity to accept art as an essential, if sometimes uncomfortable, mirror of itself.