When Laughter Defeated Fear. A True Story.

In December 2005, the warmth of the Sydney summer was blighted by a very different kind of heat. Sectarian violence had erupted in the beach suburbs of Cronulla and surrounding areas, and the atmosphere across the city felt brittle and volatile.

Violent clashes between so-called “Aussies” and what the press labelled “Men Of Middle Eastern Appearance” had spilled from the sand to the streets. Australian citizens from a wide range of cultural backgrounds were suddenly uneasy about their own safety. Paranoia travelled faster than the sea breeze.

Amid all this turbulence, I was scheduled to be the comedian at the Rockdale City Council Christmas Party, held on the foreshore at Brighton-Le-Sands. There were reports that racially motivated confrontations were still flaring up in the area.

I was about to walk into the eye of this particular storm and try to get laughs. Thanks a lot, comedy gods!

As I wound my way through police blockades and searched for a place to park, my stress levels accelerated. My apprehension wasn’t helped by the fact that most of the street lights seemed to have caught a case of stage fright and blacked out.

I emerged from the cocoon of my yellow Ford Laser into an atmosphere thick with humidity and unease. The night felt charged, as if something might short-circuit at any moment. Yet my passage towards the venue seemed destined to be uneventful.

I didn’t see a single human being.

Until two figures suddenly loomed out of the darkness as they rounded a corner and headed straight towards me. My heart launched into an adrenaline-fuelled drum solo, and my imagination got busy creating several grim scenarios concerning the continuation of my personal wellbeing.

But these two enormous Tongan blokes meant me no harm at all. They walked past, unaware that my fight-or-flight response had flooded me with a cortisol cocktail that left my autonomic nervous system both shaken and stirred.

At the venue, the Mayor greeted me and asked if I would mind going on a little earlier than planned, as the guests had already finished their mains.

I walked straight onto the stage, and the image that greeted me is still crystal clear in my memory two decades later.

Among the two hundred guests were Muslim clerics, Christian clergy, a Jewish rabbi, Chinese, Vietnamese, Greeks, Italians, Indigenous representatives, and an unmissable delegation from Zimbabwe dressed in vivid traditional clothing.

Given the events of the previous days, I had expected a sombre mood. Guarded. Restrained.

Instead, the laughter came thick and fast. Loud, generous, and warm. It felt like more than simply the appreciation of comedy. In that laughter was a rejection of the ugliness that had stained our shared culture in the days leading up to the event.

When I finished my act, the applause was overwhelming. I knew immediately that the clapping wasn’t just for me.

“Look at us!” I shouted. “We’re the United Nations of Laughter!”

The audience rose to their feet and kept applauding. Every performer loves a standing ovation, but something unusual was happening here.

They were now applauding each other.

People began cheering. Smiling. Hugging. In that collective gesture, they were publicly declaring connection over division. This carried on long after I had left the stage.

Something powerful took place in that room that night. More powerful than conflict. More powerful than fear. It was a luminous celebration of our common humanity.

As I walked back to my car through the darkened streets, I realised all the glow hadn’t stayed behind in the venue. Some was inside me.

I had a smile on my face that seemed to light my path.

And I was not afraid.

Wishing you much merriness, Anthony

Anthony Ackroyd

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