In a region where the arts are undergoing a powerful renaissance, few have shaped the theatre landscape with as much vision, empathy, and cultural depth as Padraig Downey. An award-winning Irish theatre director, founder of Danu Dubai, educator, and scholar, Downey has become a pioneering force in bringing powerful, resonant narratives to the stage across the UAE and wider Gulf.
Whether reimagining Shakespeare through Arab discourse or mentoring young performers from underserved communities, Downey’s work is defined by its authenticity, cultural relevance, and refusal to separate art from humanity. With over 50 productions to his name—split between Irish and Arab voices—his commitment to inclusion, representation, and cross-cultural dialogue has left a profound mark on the region’s creative landscape.
From staging anti-war plays to developing national youth theatre festivals and consulting on government cultural strategy, Padraig Downey’s impact is as educational as it is theatrical. His productions have moved audiences to tears, earned international media attention, and launched emerging artists into global careers. Yet for Downey, it is never about the spotlight—it’s about the story, the community, and the questions that linger after the curtain falls.
In this exclusive and deeply insightful interview with ArtGulf.ae, Downey opens up about his journey, the defining moments that shaped his craft, and his vision for a thriving, inclusive arts ecosystem in the Gulf—and beyond.
As an award-winning theatre director and founder of your own company, what core values drive your artistic vision and leadership in the arts and cultural sector?
At the heart of my artistic vision is a deep commitment to authenticity, cultural dialogue, and accessibility. I believe theatre should provoke thought, elevate unheard voices, and reflect the complexity of the societies we live in—especially in the Gulf. While I respond to the zeitgeist that is timings and what is happening in the world, it’s the people I work with—their stories and resilience—that truly inspire me. I’ve never been drawn to theatre as spectacle. What moves me is its ability to evoke empathy and catharsis. As Bertolt Brecht said, “Art is not a mirror held up to reality, but a hammer with which to shape it.”
In the UAE and the Gulf, there is a profound yearning—not just for performance, but for meaning. You can’t impose theatre onto a community; you must connect with their language and context. That’s why I reimagine classics regionally and direct Arab content. When I arrived in Dubai nearly 15 years ago, I was surprised more of this wasn’t being done. I directed The Al-Hamlet Summit by Kuwaiti playwright Sulayman Al-Bassam, reframing Hamlet through Arab discourse. It was reviewed in international Shakespeare journals and praised for its relevance. In 2017, I adapted Ibsen’s A Doll’s House with Emirati and Arab actors. The Irish Times, BBC World, Aarhus Press, and Korean media took notice. Audiences saw themselves onstage. The themes of awakening and constraint landed with the same urgency they did in the 19th century. That is when theatre works—when it resonates deeply and the timing is right.
I believe theatre should be democratised. I often work with performers with no formal training. It’s not about pedigree, but presence. In my 2014 production of The Beauty Queen of Leenane by Martin McDonagh, which won the Time Out Award for Best Production, the lead had never acted before. Her raw, elemental performance matched the wildness of the Irish west. You don’t teach that. You honour it. My work is evenly split between Irish and Arab theatre, and I see both as connected. I speak the Irish language, taught the language at the Irish Cultural Centre in Paris, and once worked at Kilmainham Gaol, where the 1916 leaders were executed.
The Abbey Theatre, founded by W.B. Yeats is my theatrical, spiritual home. In Ireland, every village has a church, a school, a GAA pitch, a few pubs—and a theatre. It’s in our blood.
In 2016, commissioned by the Irish Government, I marked the centenary of Irish independence by directing anti-war play The Shadow of a Gunman by Seán O’Casey, paired with a devised piece based on the final letters of the 1916 leaders. Some in the Irish business community in Dubai were uneasy about revisiting that history, fearing it might tarnish Ireland’s image.
But history isn’t something we conceal or curate for comfort—it’s something we confront. To be Irish is to examine the past with honesty, to foster dialogue, to acknowledge all identities on the island, and to build a future grounded in understanding. The centenary was a moment for reflection, not myth-making. I’ve also staged powerful Arab works, including I Am Yusuf and This Is My Brother by Amir Nizar Zuabi, a powerful and poignant Palestinian play. Representation matters. I cast Palestinian actors—many new to theatre. One lead, a young woman from Gaza, has since become a celebrated filmmaker. The demand was immense—over 3,000 people saw it. My Name Is Rachel Corrie, based on the journals of the American peace activist, also drew great interest. I auditioned actors for five hours during a storm. Proceeds went to the Red Crescent, the Rachel Corrie Foundation, and PCRF. A thank-you letter from Rachel’s mother is cherished.
I have staged and continue to champion Arab playwrights: Issam Mahfouz (Lebanon), Sa’dallah Wannous (Syria), Tawfiq al-Hakim (Egypt), Jawad Al Assadi (Iraq), Amir Nizar Zuabi, Ahmed Masoud and Hannah Khalil (Palestine). Arab theatre is among the most courageous and culturally vital in the world. I hold six degrees including theatre, education, business, and politics. “The personal is political.” Every decision—what to stage, who to cast—is shaped by the world around us. When I directed Macbeth during the Scottish independence referendum, it was no mistake. Macbeth’s defeat marked Scotland’s integration under English rule. That production became a meditation on national identity.
The parallels between Irish and Arab experiences—displacement, occupation, resistance—run deep. Ireland reclaimed and shaped its voice and culture through education and the arts. I believe the Arab world is in a similar cultural renaissance.
Awards and media recognition are appreciated, but that’s not what drives me. I’m more focused on rehearsal than red carpets.
I direct, teach, produce, and pursue doctoral research. I keep a low profile. I like silence. I suppose I’m a bit of a hermit. My time is finite, and the real reward is in the work itself—in the emotional exchange with an audience, and in the questions that remain after the curtain falls. As Maya Angelou said, “I come as one, but I stand as 10,000.” That quote has always stayed with me. I carry the voices of those who came before—my parents, the characters I grew up with, and generations who were silenced or unseen. Theatre is how I honour them. It’s how I move the story forward.
Can you share a defining moment in your career that significantly shaped your approach to theatre and education?
One of the driving forces behind my theatre work has always been the commitment to give back. From the beginning, I decided that any surplus from productions would go to causes I care about—supporting refugees, Arab youth, and vulnerable communities. Among them is Ashtar Theatre in Ramallah, which offers transformative training to young performers in the West Bank, and the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund (PCRF), which brings children to the UAE for life-changing treatment. It was through PCRF that I met Mahmoud, a teenager from Gaza recovering from a devastating facial injury. We welcomed him into our theatre and into a Dubai school. A few days later, I saw him sitting across the road.
When I asked why, he said, “I just wanted to watch happy students coming and going—smiling. I never knew such a life existed.” That moment stayed with me. It was a quiet, powerful reminder of the things we so often take for granted. Education is a human right. Theatre is for everyone. It should not be imported or imposed from a distant stage, separated by a gap. True theatre begins within—it rises from the grassroots, shaped by our voices and stories, and moves outward. Somewhere along the way, that order reversed. But from the time of the Greeks, theatre was never meant to be distant—it was communal, vital, and rooted in the lives of the people. “We are all theatre. Even the invisible ones. Even the oppressed. Especially the oppressed.” — Augusto Boal
Another moment that deeply shaped me was when an Indian gentleman auditioned for one of my productions. He arrived late, I was exhausted, but something about his quiet resolve made me stay. He had travelled two hours, memorised the piece in English—a language he barely spoke—and promised to attend every rehearsal. And he did. He told me, simply, that he needed theatre in his life. It gave him dignity. I admired his strength, his resilience, his devotion. I find such people the most noble—and I take the most from them. Their quiet integrity, humility, and hunger for expression teach me more than any formal training ever could. Encounters like his remind me why I do this work. That’s what theatre does: it connects. In a world increasingly defined by division, theatre builds empathy and bridges.
One unforgettable moment came during Big Maggie by John B. Keane, my second Dubai production. The play follows a woman in 1960s Ireland reclaiming her life after her husband’s death. After one show, a woman in traditional dress approached me in tears. “That’s me,” she said. A character from rural Ireland had spoken directly to her experience. That moment confirmed what I’ve always believed: storytelling transcends context. Through difference, we find recognition.
Some of the most meaningful work I’ve done has been in the classroom. My drama department when I taught in Dubai, was recognized as ‘Best in Dubai’ by Edexcel with it also receiving recognition from the Ministry of Education. Over the years, I’ve taught thousands of students across the Gulf—many of them Saudi, Emirati, or Arab youth who had never imagined themselves on a stage. Some entered drama by accident—“It was just on my schedule.” Yet weeks later, they were writing scenes, expressing themselves, laughing more freely, and seeing the world differently. Some went on to Juilliard, RADA, and NYU Tisch.
Others now work in theatre, film, or television—including on Netflix. Many pursued fields like law, medicine, or architecture, but they carried with them what theatre gave them: confidence, creativity, and empathy. These aren’t just transferable skills—they’re essential ones. Even in high-performing UAE schools, the arts are often treated as secondary—eclipsed by AI, coding, and robotics. We talk about preparing students for the future, yet undervalue the ability to imagine, adapt, and lead with empathy.
I built partnerships to challenge that—with the UN, the Ministry of Education, theatres, and international bodies. These collaborations shaped how students saw themselves and their place in the world.
Yes, they achieved strong IB scores—but more importantly, they developed as young people who understood human connection. In a world short on empathy, that is critical.
Over the past 14 years, I’ve directed more than 50 productions—30 through my company, Danu Dubai, and over 20 with partners like the Emirates Airline Festival of Literature. I worked closely with the Ministry of Education to launch the Gifted and Talented Program, giving young artists specialised training and a platform to grow. One of my most ambitious projects was The Voice of Tolerance in 2019, staged at La Perle under the patronage of His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum. It brought together 400 students from across the UAE, representing a mosaic of nationalities and cultures. It was part of the UAE’s Year of Tolerance—a powerful reminder of what theatre can stand for.
I’ve also contributed to Expo’s cultural programming and led initiatives for the Irish Embassy, including tributes to WB Yeats and Samuel Beckett, the 70th anniversary of Waiting for Godot at The Sorbonne Abu Dhabi, and annual Bloomsday celebrations. My work has featured in Ministry of Tolerance festivals and cross-government cultural projects.
When I first arrived in Dubai, high-quality theatre was rare. People would ask, “What’s the point in starting something?” But that’s precisely why you do it. You lead by example. From even a single drop, a ripple begins. You dream big. You aim high. I work best with little. That’s the nature of theatre—it’s rarely flush with resources. You make something from nothing. And in that, you discover its real beauty: that from nothing, anything is possible.
How do you balance your roles as an educator, artistic director, and doctoral candidate, and how do these different perspectives influence your creative process?
Balance is elusive. I often question whether it truly exists. Something always has to give. I work with the time I have, which sometimes means letting go of perfectionism—never easy. There’s rarely an ideal moment. You take the opportunity and push through. Most of my days begin at 4 or 5 a.m., walking my dog by the sea. The salt air connects me to the Atlantic in Ireland. The tide always comes and goes—reminding me to keep perspective.
As an educator, I’m grounded by my students, who bring courage and insight into every class. As a director, I bring that same openness into the rehearsal space. As a doctoral candidate, I get to zoom out and study the broader landscape. My current research focuses on what enables or hinders Arab youth from pursuing arts careers. I’ve also been exploring the relevance of Samuel Beckett’s work in the Middle East. His themes—futility, repetition, waiting—resonate profoundly in postcolonial and occupied contexts. When I staged Beckett in the region, some doubted it would connect.
In fact, the reaction was immediate and heartfelt. In places shaped by displacement and unresolved histories, his silence isn’t abstract—it mirrors lived experience. In these contexts, waiting isn’t passive; it becomes quiet resistance and enduring hope. I’m equally drawn to the surreal and poetic voices of Irish theatre: Marina Carr, Enda Walsh, Martin McDonagh, and the late Brian Friel. Their work speaks the language of grief, trauma, and memory. I believe postcolonial PTSD lives not just in history but in the way people speak and create—it’s embedded in the cultural genome.
My education didn’t start in a lecture hall. It began in a garden shed I bought as a teenager. I turned it into a reading room where I devoured Aristotle, Nietzsche, and Freud. My dog would sit beside me. That was the space where I learned to imagine. All I ever wanted was a room of my own. My parents were born in the 1940s in a newly independent, economically struggling Ireland. I was one of eight children. Education became my passport—to freedom and possibility. At twelve, I worked on farms to pay for drama lessons. As a teen, I worked in a butcher’s shop to fund tuition at the Gaiety School of Acting. I cycled or hitchhiked to auditions (wouldn’t do that now!). Those early years taught me resilience. I still cycle to work. I’ve lived in Ireland, New York, California, Paris, Rome, Dubai, and now Saudi Arabia. I’ve studied at six universities—in Dublin, London, California, New York, and Germany. I earned a scholarship to the U.S. for my first Master’s and hold another for my doctorate. You don’t wait for the right time.
Whether you have time or not—you make time. I’m even eyeing a Human Rights course at SOAS. I’ll never stop learning. Education is a privilege. Once you have it, no one can take it from you. My parents never went to university. That’s how legacy works—we carry the unfulfilled dreams of those who came before. Since the 1990s, Ireland has changed dramatically—culturally, politically, economically. I’m proud to be part of that story.But I also know how much in life depends on where you’re born, what passport you hold, and which systems open or close doors.
Privilege is real. That’s why empathy and understanding matter so deeply. In a world where dehumanisation is so often amplified—especially by the media—our shared humanity must remain at the centre.
We all face a choice: to uphold inequality—or to interrupt it. We are not isolated. We’re connected—to each other, to our land, and to the stories we inherit and pass on. What the world needs most today isn’t more innovation or knowledge —it’s empathy. The ability to feel what someone else feels, to imagine a life beyond your own. Theatre is one of the last places where we’re invited to step into another life, even briefly. To see through other eyes. To feel what others feel.
In your experience, what are the unique opportunities and challenges of developing theatre and cultural projects in the UAE and the wider region?
The UAE and the Gulf are cultural crossroads—regions of promise, ambition, and growing artistic visibility. Over the past decade, Dubai has made real strides in positioning itself as a global cultural hub, with institutions like Alserkal Avenue and Dubai Opera anchoring a vibrant creative ecosystem. But with growth come challenges. Like many places where the arts are still finding a foothold, funding and access to space remain significant issues.
Venue rentals are expensive, and arts patronage is still developing. As an independent artist, I’ve worn every hat—director, producer, marketer, fundraiser—and I’ve self-funded all my productions. Artists don’t sell high-margin products; we offer ideas, emotion, and shared humanity. Yet too often, our work is undervalued. I’ve frequently been asked to work for free—“for the exposure.” Educators face similar expectations: working long after hours, skipping lunch breaks, and giving up weekends, often without recognition or compensation. And really—what other profession is expected to give so much, so constantly, for so little in return? If we’re honest, this has become the norm, not the exception. Despite that, change is happening.
I hope Dubai continues to support not just large-scale imports but grassroots and emerging home-grown voices. That said, the financial model remains unsustainable. It is not yet viable to make a living solely from theatre in the UAE. Production costs—venue hire, insurance, licensing, DTCM approvals—quickly escalate. In Europe, as much as 70% of theatre is publicly funded. Here, independent theatre receives little to no institutional or corporate support.
The pressure isn’t just creative—it’s financial. Directing is the easy part. That’s why I pursued further study in arts and cultural management: to understand better models and advocate for arts policy that places our work on equal footing with other sectors.
As an Irish artist abroad, I carry a sense of responsibility. Every Irish person working internationally is, in effect, an ambassador—sharing our values and culture. The Irish have long punched above their weight in the arts, science, sport, and literature. While official ambassadors promote Irish culture, it’s not always a priority—even though cultural diplomacy is one of a nation’s greatest assets. My theatre company has staged some of Ireland’s boldest contemporary voices. A personal highlight was receiving a message from Brian Friel (when he was alive)—through his agent—saying how “tickled” he was that his work was being staged in the Middle East. That kind of affirmation reinforced what I’ve always believed: theatre belongs everywhere, and it resonates wherever it’s given the space to speak.
Another key issue is quality assurance. Professions like teaching or real estate have systems to verify credentials and uphold standards. I believe the same should apply in arts education. Practitioners need to be properly qualified, not only artistically but in safeguarding and ethics. Production standards also matter. Currently, there’s no formal platform for review or critique. Most feedback is word of mouth. That’s why platforms like ArtGulf are so valuable.
We need informed, constructive criticism that pushes the craft forward. Without a framework, everything risks being equally praised, regardless of quality. The result? Audiences may attend a poor production and never return, while strong work gets lost in the noise. A professional standard of critique isn’t about gatekeeping—it’s about elevating the entire ecosystem and protecting the integrity of the work we do.
Looking ahead, what new directions or projects are you most excited to explore in your artistic journey, and how do you hope they will impact the regional arts landscape?
One of my long-standing goals is to establish a cultural centre—part theatre, part training institute, part creative hub. Theatre doesn’t grow in isolation. It thrives through mentorship, collaboration, and community. For the arts to flourish, we need infrastructure that nurtures talent and provides sustainable pathways. This centre would go beyond performance—offering access for writers, designers, technicians, and anyone seeking creative expression and belonging.
This need became especially clear during my time producing shows at DUCTAC (Dubai Community Theatre and Arts Centre). Though designed for community arts, it became financially inaccessible. I was paying up to 10,000 AED per day – 25,000 Dhs a day (The old Madinat was the same). A five-day run could cost 50,000 to 125,000 AED before factoring in insurance, tax, DTCM approvals, or rehearsal space. When I asked about the pricing, I was told: “Chanel is on the same floor—they pay the same per square foot.” That moment summed up the disconnect between commercial logic and cultural purpose.
Chanel can sell a handbag to cover rent. A theatre company sells meaning. That’s why subsidised and sponsored spaces are essential. Patronage matters—but so does a business mindset for sustainability. Dubai has been good to me. I was honoured to be one of the first artists in the UAE to receive a Golden Visa—and the first with “Theatre Director” officially listed (awarded in January 2020). I’m grateful to His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum and the UAE Cabinet for their recognition. I’ve also been invited in working groups to advise on government cultural strategy. What stands out is the growth mindset and openness to feedback. Dubai doesn’t just plan for now—it plans forward. With one of the most diverse populations globally, its cultural potential is immense.
That same spirit is emerging in Saudi Arabia, where I currently work across universities, cultural institutions, and schools. My work includes developing arts-integrated curricula, training actors, and leading devising and scriptwriting workshops. One of my most impactful efforts has been launching youth theatre festivals—student-led, devised from scratch—something I first piloted in Dubai. I also consult with companies seeking to honour and integrate local culture into their brand identity and mega-projects: a reflection of evolving cultural awareness and the need to protect local culture.
Saudi Arabia is incredibly exciting. The people are expressive, warm, and engaged. With over 60% of the population under 30, the future of culture lies with its youth.
The country has made major investments in cultural infrastructure: the Saudi Music Hub in Riyadh, the first national opera, and major venues across the Kingdom. Perhaps most emblematic is the Red Sea International Film Festival. Just years ago, cinemas didn’t exist. Today, the Kingdom hosts one of the most dynamic festivals in the region. It’s proof that vision, coupled with support, can accelerate transformation. Under Vision 2030, Saudi Arabia is intentionally building its theatre and film sectors. Places like Diriyah show how heritage and innovation are being woven together—preserving tradition while preparing for the future. It’s a pivotal moment in the region’s cultural evolution, and I feel honoured to be part of it.
Whether through theatre, education, or cultural policy, my aim is to help build spaces—literal and metaphorical—where people feel seen, heard, and inspired. When a nation invests in culture, it doesn’t just create art; it builds identity, fosters dialogue, and lays the groundwork for long-term vision. In times of rapid change, culture isn’t a luxury or an afterthought—it’s the connective tissue. A nation may rise through its economy, but it is remembered for its culture.
(C) Artgulf.ae
