By Sid Akbar
Following on from my last blog post, I didn’t expect to be writing again so soon. But here I am — because I’ve just received the news that our Arts Council application for The Wrath of Khandan wasn’t successful.
Not because there was anything wrong with it. In fact, they said it was strong. They said it was fundable. They said they wanted to fund it — but didn’t have enough money. And honestly, that feels worse than a rejection based on weaknesses. Because we did everything right.
The Wrath of Khandan is the second instalment of my trilogy exploring the meaning of family through a queer, brown, neurodivergent lens. It’s a deeply personal work, born from lived experience, care, complexity, and resistance. I already have a scratch version running at about 15–20 minutes, but I need resources to continue developing it — to expand the writing, explore the physical language, and build the world fully. This funding was about building the next stage of something that matters to me and to my community.
And I didn’t do it alone. My associate artist Jenn Wilson worked alongside me with her incredible knowledge and generosity — hours of emails, late-night drafts, painstaking detail. We poured ourselves into this application. We believed in it. And we got everything right… only to be told: there just isn’t enough to go around.
So now I’m back at the drawing board. Again. Maybe I’ll get a yes on the second try, or the third, or the fourth. But each time takes weeks of work — work that eats into the very time I should be spending creating, imagining, rehearsing. Work that drains energy and adds doubt. It’s hard not to feel like I’m running out of time. I’ve said before that I want this trilogy completed before I turn 40 — that’s just over two years. And the clock is ticking.
This is the second major setback this year. Besharam, the first part of the trilogy, was funded in 2023 thanks to Bradford Producing Hub and Arts Council England. But since then, I’ve struggled to secure the resources needed to refine and scale it for touring. And now The Wrath of Khandan is facing the same obstacles.
I’ve cried. I’ve shouted. I’ve punched my bedroom door. It sounds dramatic, but it’s the reality of being an artist in this country — especially a queer, neurodivergent, Pakistani artist trying to tell stories that don’t fit neat boxes. This isn’t about ego. This is about wanting to honour the work, the vision, and the people it’s meant for.
People see the end product — the stage, the lights, the applause. But they don’t see the months of unpaid labour, the endless form-filling, the chasing of ever-smaller pots of funding. They don’t see the late-night panic, the executive dysfunction, the toll it takes mentally, emotionally, and financially just to apply.
And yet, despite all this, I’m still here. I’m still acting — my career there is thriving. I toured a one-man show in December of 2024, worked this year with Oldham Coliseum in January, filmed a corporate piece, and now I’m on a feature film before going on tour again in June. I’ll be sharing new work in July. The work is there. The fire is still burning.
But I want to make my work. The work that comes from my voice, my background, my community. The work that pushes theatre forward and makes space for those of us who’ve been left out for far too long. And to do that, I need support. Not just words of encouragement — but resources, infrastructure, time.
So I’ll try again. Because I have to. Because I made a promise to myself. Because even though I’m sad and angry and exhausted, there’s still that tiny glimmer of light coming through the crack in the wall. And I’m holding on to it — fiercely.
The work matters. I matter. And I won’t let myself go quiet.
Dhamaka Arts 