by Chris Peterson
In a courtroom in Hobart, Tasmania, a story is unfolding that feels both tragically familiar and deeply personal to anyone who has ever found a home in a high school theatre.
Keith Bates Willie, once a celebrated drama teacher in Tasmania, is standing trial on 14 charges of sexual abuse. The allegations span nearly 30 years and involve nine male former students. He has pleaded not guilty. The stories being told in court are harrowing. Some say the abuse happened in classrooms, darkrooms, studio spaces, even his own home. Others describe how rehearsals would go late, how he would offer them rides, how they would be invited over for dinner or a sleepover. And how, behind the aura of creative mentorship, something else was happening.
The prosecution paints a picture of grooming. A trusted adult uses his influence in the name of theatre to get close to young boys. Charm, charisma, and power wrapped in the language of artistic connection. And a pattern that went unchallenged for far too long.
It is the silence that is hardest to sit with. One student says he recorded a conversation with Bates Willie and brought it to a school principal. Nothing happened. Another says everyone knew—teachers, students—but nobody spoke up. It had become a joke, he said. Everyone knew he was a dead set perv.
The defense argues there is more to the story. That Bates Willie was open about his sexuality at a time when doing so was risky. That his eccentricity, his theatricality, made him an easy target. Those motivations should be questioned. And yes, context matters. But this trial is not about queerness. It is about power. About what happens when institutions protect adults and abandon kids.
Because that is what happened here. If even one allegation is true, someone knew and chose not to act. And that, more than any one man’s guilt or innocence, is the story that demands our attention.
This case is about theatre, but it is not just about Tasmania. Programs like these exist in nearly every school in the world. They are safe havens for creative kids, for queer kids, for kids who do not quite fit anywhere else. That space is sacred. And when it is violated, when the very thing that is supposed to make you feel seen is used to harm you instead, it cuts deep.
And let us be honest. Theatre kids are often easy targets. They are emotionally open. They crave validation. They idolize their directors. They learn to blur the line between character and self, between instruction and intimacy. In the best hands, those dynamics build confidence and connection. In the wrong ones, they are dangerous.
That is not theatre’s fault. That is on the adults who abuse that power and the systems that look the other way.
Every field has its reckoning eventually. Sports. Churches. Boarding schools. The arts are no exception. And stories like this remind us that passion and talent do not excuse harm. That he was brilliant cannot be the whole story. That sometimes the most beloved figures in a community are the ones hiding in plain sight.
This trial also calls attention to the limits of hindsight. Some of these stories go back to the 1970s. What we tolerate or fail to challenge in one era becomes a scandal in the next. And while progress matters, so does accountability. It is not enough to say, Well, that was the time. The better question is: who did something about it? And who did not?
As of now, the trial is still underway. The court will reach its conclusion, and justice—however it is defined—will be decided there. But our work does not end with a verdict.
We have to keep asking: how do we protect the most vulnerable while still celebrating the transformative power of the arts? How do we train teachers, staff, and administrators to recognize the warning signs? And how do we create spaces where young people know they will be believed?
