Ubud’s Quiet Voices, Loud Truths
By Kerol Izwan
Each year, the Ubud Writers & Readers Festival gathers an eclectic mix of voices, ideas, and cultural expressions against the backdrop of Bali’s lush landscape. It’s a place where conversations about literature, identity, and global issues intersect with local traditions and contemporary art. This year’s programme felt particularly resonant — not simply for its scale, but for the depth and honesty shared across its stages, workshops, and late-night performances. What follows is a look at a few moments that defined the festival’s compelling rhythm.
At this year’s Ubud Writers & Readers Festival, countless words floated through the humid air of the lush festival grounds, but none held me quite as firmly as those spoken by Omar El Akkad. Every sentence carried a weight — a measured breath, a pause steeped in longing for healing, and memories that refuse to fade. I attended both of his sessions, transfixed. Omar is a man of words, yes — but more than that, he is a man steadily becoming the very thing he writes towards.
Born in Egypt, raised in Qatar, having spent formative years in Canada and now living in the United States, his journey is layered and vast. You can hear all of it in the way he speaks: the heaviness between breaths, the almost-stillness of someone who carries stories like small, fragile truths waiting to be released. His gaze alone quiets a room. At the Alang-Alang Stage, during a session titled Writing Through Chaos, his presence commanded a gentleness that made the entire audience lean in ever so slightly.
His latest book, One Day Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This, threads together the lives of people pushed to the edges of society. On stage, seated alongside Shiori Itō and Petra Molnar, Omar listened with a subtle, knowing nod — as if each word spoken was a familiar echo. Audience questions came in waves: some curious, some searching, and others simply yearning for answers that might never be enough. It felt as though everyone in the room was reaching for something — clarity, solace, or perhaps assurance that chaos could still lead to meaning.
A short journey away, at The Westin Resort & Spa Ubud, an entirely different pulse beat through the festival. In a venue that felt remarkably plush compared to the rustic charm of Alang-Alang, Indonesian artist and printmaker Gilang Propagila led a masterclass titled Print, Protest, Punk. Known for his bold, progressive work, Gilang has created a movement that continues to grow year after year — a visual rebellion that mirrors his philosophy of empowerment. And yet, in person, he is disarmingly gentle. Quite possibly the most polite punk artist one could meet, he delivered the session with sincerity, clarity, and a genuine belief in the art he creates. It was unexpectedly inspiring to witness.
Cultural workshops added yet another layer to UWRF. One such experience was the Hands-On Tempe Culinary Workshop, held slightly beyond the bustle of the main venues. Led by Benny Huang — affectionately known as Tempe Man — the workshop unfolded like a small revelation. We learned the fundamentals of tempe-making, the tradition, the science, and the inventive ways Benny continues to evolve its potential. Tastings were woven throughout the session, leaving no one hungry and everyone with a renewed appreciation for the quiet brilliance of Indonesia’s humble staple.
And then came the festival’s nocturnal counterpart — After Dark. Despite the rain that evening, or perhaps because of it, the performance Empire: Rooting for the Antihero felt even more compelling. The Honeymoon Garden transformed into a cool, shadowed amphitheatre, the spotlight carving out a single luminous space on stage where Anna Anderluh, Franz von Strolchen, Marten Schmidt, and Xin Wei Thow unfolded their haunting reimagining of the 1934 Austrian football team’s journey through the Dutch East Indies. What followed was a multilingual tapestry — German sliding into Dutch, Dutch into Indonesian — all projected with startling clarity by Martin, whose voice carried the weight of someone excavating memory itself. His delivery dominated the performance in the most arresting way. The most chilling moments were those taken directly from his great-grandfather’s journal, spoken with an intimacy that made the night air feel colder. It was eerie, intriguing, and quietly mesmerising — one of those rare performances that lives in the space between history and ghost story.
