Protect Mardi Gras: Why we started Protect Mardi Gras: Many Voices, One Parade
Michael Barnett OAM
Why we started Protect Mardi Gras: Many Voices, One Parade
Peter Stahel
TL;DR – Why we started Protect Mardi Gras
We didn’t plan to start a campaign. But over time, it became clear that a group was using a political strategy known as entryism – seeking to change the nature of Mardi Gras from within by organising tickets and votes, pushing divisive motions, and electing aligned board members. The group wasn’t just debating ideas; they were trying to change what Mardi Gras is – by pushing to exclude police, military, sponsors and certain politicians.
Most of us first responded quietly by assigning proxy votes to people who would vote for inclusion. But when significant compromise started to look likely, and the risk of Mardi Gras becoming smaller, more divided, and less powerful became real, we went public.
This blog post tells that origin story. It argues that Mardi Gras has always been a beacon because of its size, inclusivity, and visibility – not despite them. If we want Mardi Gras to keep saving lives, inspiring allies, and uniting a global movement, we must protect it.
I didn’t set out to start a campaign
Like many people, I first heard about Pride in Protest getting active at Mardi Gras Annual General Meetings and thought – “Okay, some radical queers pushing the envelope. That’s not new. They are welcome. Just like every other queer.”
I’d been around long enough to remember what I assumed to be their predecessor, Community Action Against Homophobia – a socialist group that had organised countless rallies and protests in the early 2000s. I had a lot of respect for them. We didn’t always agree, but they showed up, organised, and played an important role in the broader equality movement.
So when Pride in Protest emerged, I figured they were cut from the same cloth. Passionate, fiery, a little shouty – but ultimately just part of the messy, beautiful ecosystem of queer politics.
I didn’t think much more of it. I certainly didn’t imagine I’d one day be helping to organise a campaign in response.
The first signs that something was wrong
For me, the first signs that something was different came from other members who had attended the AGMs. They weren’t reporting passionate debate, they were describing something far more aggressive – and honestly, more upsetting. The reports were that people were being shouted down. Accusations were flying. Debates were becoming repetitive and very unpleasant.
So I started paying closer attention to the motions being put forward. It wasn’t just one or two provocations – it was a pattern. Motions to ban corporate sponsors, ban certain politicians, ban police, ban military.
To me, these weren’t just symbolic protest gestures. If successful, they would reshape Mardi Gras entirely – its reach, its impact, its survival.
And more than that, people were walking away. Talented volunteers, long-time members – people who’d given years of energy to Mardi Gras – were quietly leaving. Burnt out. Worn down.
That was when I realised, that this wasn’t just about some motions to ban people. This was a long game. An attempt to change Mardi Gras from the inside out called entryism.
What on earth is entryism?
Entryism is a political strategy. It’s when a group joins and organises within an existing organisation to change it. The aim isn’t just to pass a single motion or ban police – it’s to gain more control, reshape the leadership, membership and culture. Ultimately, it’s to redefine what the organisation is about.
It can be a very effective strategy. It generally works by recruiting new members and wearing down existing ones who eventually leave. For example, by flooding meetings with repetitive motions, by creating division, or by making it so exhausting that people give up.
The turning point for me
For a while, my response was pretty simple: I made sure to give my proxy vote to someone I trusted to vote for inclusion. I figured that was enough to help keep things balanced.
But in 2024, something shifted. I found out that people who had previously stood strong on the inclusion of police were thinking of compromising, potentially supporting a motion that would give significant ground. And I understood why: it had been a very rough year. There were serious controversies involving the police:
- The tragic murders of Luke Davies and Jesse Baird by a serving police officer
- Grim revelations from the gay hate crimes inquiry
- Ongoing scandals and misconduct eroding public trust
Emotions were raw. People were angry, grieving, scared. Pride in Protest’s message was landing. And compromise seemed, to many, like the sensible path.
But I’d studied entryism. I knew that the only way to prevent it is to stand your ground, protect the culture and encourage the membership to push back.
I decided to write an opinion piece for The Sydney Morning Herald – not to rehash the debate about police, but to name the strategy at play. To draw a clear distinction between the issues being used to rally support and the deeper agenda underneath.
The first step in confronting an entryism campaign is to expose it. And in this case, the cost of doing nothing was becoming too high.
From concern to campaign
Not long after my opinion piece went live, I got a message from Peter Murphy, one of the original 78ers. A lifelong activist, he is someone who helped create Mardi Gras as we know it.
My first thought was: “Uh oh. Is he reaching out to criticise me?” But no – Peter was concerned too. Deeply. He understood the risks. And he wanted to talk about what it might take to push back.
That conversation marked a turning point. Peter and I started thinking seriously about whether a public campaign was possible – whether it was time to stop relying on backroom conversations and quiet resistance, and instead ask the community to step forward.
I reached out to as many people as I could. Long-time members. Queer activists. Friends and allies across Sydney’s LGBTQIA+ community.
Most were supportive but exhausted. Others felt nervous about nasty internal politics. Some had already walked away from Mardi Gras entirely. They didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire.
I understood. Truly. The toll this kind of internal conflict takes is real.
But I also realised something sobering: it’s possible no one else would get organised. No one else would sound the alarm. No one else would do the work.
And if that was true, then maybe Peter and I would just have to lead from the front – take the first steps, speak up, and hope that others would join us.
Because Mardi Gras matters too much to let it slide into something smaller, more divided, and less powerful.
What’s at stake
Mardi Gras is more than a parade. More than a party. More than a political protest. It’s a lifeline.
It’s that moment when a kid in regional Australia sees something on TV and thinks, “Maybe I’m not alone.” It’s the feeling of standing in a crowd and being fully, unapologetically yourself – sometimes for the first time. It’s the hug from a stranger. The power of being seen.
It’s also a platform. A symbol. A global beacon of queer joy, visibility, and resistance. And it works because it’s big, bold, and united.
That doesn’t mean everyone in Mardi Gras agrees. We don’t. We’ve never agreed on everything. But we’ve always found ways to march and party side by side – artists and activists, politicians and punks, allies and agitators. Many voices. One parade.
And that’s the magic. That’s the strength. That’s what’s worth protecting.
The threat we face isn’t just about police, or sponsors, or motions. It’s about a deeper shift – away from the inclusive, bridge-building ethos that made Mardi Gras powerful, toward something narrower, more divisive, and less effective.
In a world where LGBTQIA+ people are under attack – from Putin to Trump, from street-level hate to state-level rollback – we need Mardi Gras to be as strong, visible, and welcoming as possible.
We need our allies. We need our diversity. We need to stand together.
Because when we do, we change lives.
A call to protect what we’ve built
Mardi Gras was never only a protest. From the very beginning, it was also a street party – a strategic, joyful act designed to draw people in. That’s why it was called a Mardi Gras in the first place.
It was meant to be seen. It was meant to bring visibility to our community in a way that was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t about purity – it was about power.
And that power has only grown.
Today, Mardi Gras is one of the biggest, boldest, most visible celebrations of queer life anywhere in the world. It’s broadcast live. It attracts global media. It reaches millions of people – including countless young people who may be seeing their community represented for the very first time.
That reach is what makes it a beacon – not just for us, but for queer people everywhere.
And it’s only possible because Mardi Gras is big, inclusive, and open to the many – not the few.
If we start shutting people out – if we allow the movement to shrink, to fracture, to become hostile to disagreement – we risk losing the very thing that has made it so powerful.
We started Protect Mardi Gras because we believe this celebration is worth defending.
We believe in unity. In visibility. In inviting people in – not pushing them away.
If you believe that too, we need you.
Join us. Rejoin Mardi Gras. Use your vote. Talk to your friends. Help protect one of the greatest tools for queer visibility and solidarity that we’ve ever had.
Because Mardi Gras has many voices.
And we need all of them – in one parade.