“Defiance is Contagious”: The Long, Hot Summer of Cultural Resistance to Genocide
In the face of the most visible genocide since the Holocaust, artists are rising up over Gaza in defence of humanity.
"Do you hear the sound of warplanes? There was just a bombing nearby."
Lying in my tent I held my phone to my ear. Sure enough I heard the low rumble of fighter jets, the high-pitched buzz of drones and heavy-drawn out breathing – the familiar soundscape accompanying most messages I've received from Gaza over the last 630 days.
This was from one of our young contributors still in Gaza, Huda Skaik. She had messaged on Wednesday night, my first night at Glastonbury.
Opening it, I couldn't help but draw mental comparisons: the tented cities, the explosions synchronised with light and sound on the horizon, the basslines rumbling across the earth, the heat, the rain, the drones in the sky.
Of course, it's absurd to compare them.
At Glastonbury, 200,000 people revel in collective joy. In Gaza, two million people remain under siege, starved, and bombed for nearly two years.
Far removed from the festivity of Glastonbury, Gaza could exist on another planet entirely. How can a place so meticulously engineered for collective suffering, misery, and despair coexist with one designed for joy and celebration — on the same small spinning rock in infinite time and space?
Solidarity was front and centre
I'd come to Glastonbury with apprehension. Last year, I attended with my colleague, Palestinian journalist Ahmed Alnaouq, who spoke on the Left Field Stage. This year, he was not invited back. A sign, perhaps, that solidarity might have expired?
I held my breath and questioned whether I had the right to be here at all.
After all, how can we celebrate life while our friends and colleagues are systematically annihilated in a genocide our own government continues to provide arms, intelligence and cover towards?
But so far this year, solidarity with Gaza at UK festivals is no longer a quiet undertone – it is shouted, chanted, and sung from stages and crowds alike.
At Glastonbury, Nadine Shah read out Artists for Palestine's statement condemning the proscription of Palestine Action and played audio from journalist Bisan Owda. Turnstile, The Libertines, CMAT, Amyl and the Sniffers all shouted "Free Palestine!" to roaring crowds. Joy Crookes, Paloma Faith, TV On The Radio all held flags or keffiyehs on stage. At 2am electronic artist Marc Rebillet paused his Shangri-La set to scream "Fuck Netanyahu! Fuck the IDF!" — met with ecstatic approval.
Glastonbury didn't organise any main-stage speeches about Palestine — unlike in 2022, when President Zelensky addressed the crowd via video link concerning the war in Ukraine. But artists filled that silence themselves.
The anticipated focal point for Palestine solidarity was Kneecap's Saturday afternoon performance, and it didn't disappoint. Tens of thousands of fans showed up, armed with flags and keffiyehs, causing the West Holts Stage to temporarily block off its entrances.
They delivered a "special thank you” to the Eavis family who refused to bow to the prime minister's urges to cancel their set, before initiating a "fuck Keir Starmer” chant which resurged several times throughout the show.
But the strength of the messaging from Kneecap's Glastonbury performance wasn't a one off either, this weekend they supported Fontaines D.C. — alongside Amyl and the Sniffers and other artists — for their sold-out 45,000-capacity Finsbury Park show. Throughout the day, spontaneous chants for Palestine erupted in the crowd. On screen, Fontaines D.C. displayed the words, "Free Palestine” and "Israel is committing genocide. Use your voice.”
Such vocal solidarity from artists reminds us: music is not just entertainment. It can be defiant. As Fontaines D.C. frontman Grian Chatten told NME: "Time is ticking and people are getting beheaded and massacred, it really is a responsibility of the masses and of artists and of anybody with a voice to do something… which side are you on?”
But it was Bob Vylan's Glastonbury performance that has dominated national headlines so far. His chant — "Death, death to the IDF!” — live-streamed by the BBC, prompting outrage. Glastonbury immediately condemned "antisemitism, hate speech or incitement to violence” the following day – absurdly conflating opposition to the Israeli military with attacks on the Jewish faith.
The BBC jumped in too, declaring his words "offensive and deplorable” and that it would no longer stream "high-risk" performances.
Bob Vylan clarified his words in a statement: he opposes the death of "Jews, Arabs, or any other group." His words, he said, called not for violence but for the dismantling of a violent military machine.”
Yet in a world where bombs and extermination carry less outrage than musicians' words, for many it is no longer surprising that more resources went into condemning Vylan than in investigating the perpetrators he named, even when the Israeli army killed at least 300 Palestinians as Glastonbury took place
A colonial enterprise
Clearly the "Israeli Defence Forces" (IDF) is a misnomer. Far from being a defensive body, after 600 days of live-streamed genocide, the world now sees it for what it really is: a genocidal-colonial enterprise upholding illegal occupation and apartheid.
Forged from Zionist terror groups like the Irgun and the Haganah – groups responsible for atrocities such as the Deir Yassin massacre and the bombing of the King David Hotel – and merging them into Israeli state apparatus in 1948. Its history is as dark as its present.
Since 1948, the Israeli army has enforced decades of Zionist expansionism, upheld the world's longest military occupation and maintained the 18-year siege on Gaza.
Since October 7, it has inflicted world-record breaking levels of barbarism. The so-called defensive force has killed over 1,500 healthcare workers according to Amnesty International, killed the highest proportion of women and children in any conflict and murdered the most journalists, doctors, aid workers and UN staff since war records began. It has presided over the most accelerated famine on record and has openly admitted to targeting civilians seeking aid.
And its soldiers have proudly exhibited their crimes to the world on social media — looting homes, wearing Palestinian women's underwear and smashing kids' toys.
This is not a rogue militia – so far in 2025 alone, it has bombed five countries: Palestine, Iran, Syria, Yemen, and Lebanon.
When politicians fail us
In a just world, we wouldn't leave it to artists to oppose this — our politicians would be leading the way.
In a country which prides itself on confronting fascism during World War II, the absence of serious discussion about military intervention in Gaza to protect Palestinians — in the face of fascistic, racialised extermination — is telling. It reveals not only the moral failure of the UK political establishment and an absence of representation and leadership, but also points to our nation's complicity.
The number of Palestinians killed in this genocide may already exceed the entire population of Glastonbury Festival which begs the question, what kind of music is possible — or appropriate — in the face of that?
What is the role of the artist when a government refuses to act in the face of live-streamed state-led mass murder?
And how is it that a British citizen can join the Israeli army, fight in Gaza, and not even be subject to a police interview? But calling for the dismantling of a genocidal army is "hate speech," and warrants a criminal investigation?
What space remains for truth, for resistance, for art today?
Glastonbury is far from perfect. Tickets are increasingly unaffordable making it largely inaccessible for many working class people. Its demographics remain overwhelmingly white. Its insurer—Allianz—invests in Elbit Systems, Israel's largest weapons manufacturer. The contradictions are real.
But for all its shortcomings Glastonbury, like many other music festivals, attempt to build fragile, temporary utopias. Places where art, community and joy are prioritised against the rising tide of authoritarianism, ecological collapse, and war.
Vital expressions of love in an increasingly loveless world.
Solidarity is love in action. Not symbolic, but material — sometimes dangerous. That's why vague calls to "Free Palestine” are acceptable, but condemning Israel's military is taboo and direct action unacceptable. It's why Kneecap were investigated following their "Fuck Israel” backdrop at Coachella, and why Bob Vylan was vilified.
History shows us that vague calls for "freedom" are never enough. Oppression must be named, isolated, and dismantled — and that requires identifying the perpetrator. In South Africa, the demand was to end apartheid. The system was named, which made complicity impossible to ignore. The same must be true for Palestine.
Artists like Bob Vylan and Kneecap are leading the way in this.
Bringing home oppression
Gaza, a place where AI-powered killing, digital surveillance, and automated warfare are already the norm, is not only a site of horror. As Pink Floyd's Roger Waters has declared, it is "an existential battle for the human soul."
Gaza is not separate—it is a preview of our collective future.
The aftershocks are here: increased surveillance, protest bans and proscription. The same mechanisms that crush Gaza are being imported to Britain under the guise of "security" – the Met Police just purchased 18 SandCats, Israeli-manufactured armoured vehicles used recently in Gaza to soon patrol London.
And the climate toll? The carbon emissions of Israel's assault on Gaza have already outstripped those of a hundred nations.
Gaza is this generation's anti-apartheid struggle. Our civil rights moment. The most visible genocide since the Holocaust. What we do now defines us.
In a world ruled by tech-barons and technocrats, by the cold sanitised logic of data and empirical abstraction, we need artists to revolt and to remind us we can imagine a better world.
After all, Israel's genocide can indeed be stopped through collective action. 1,000 aid ships could sail to Gaza tomorrow and break the siege.
Right now artists stand at a precipice, do they choose to perform in defiance of the machinery of genocide, or dance to its tune?
Some have made that choice, like indie-rockers Deerhoof, who announced recently they will remove all their music from Spotify now that the platform's CEO Daniel Ek has just become chairman of AI battle tech company Helsing, following hefty backing from his investment fund.
And it is not a coincidence that Bob Vylan is now number one in the UK hiphop album charts; defiance is contagious and the thirst for brave resistance has never been greater.
Let's not pretend that all artists are now being vocal on Palestine, and some festivals such as Manchester's Radar Festival have clearly buckled under pressure (they quickly dropped Bob Vylan from its lineup after Glastonbury).
However, those who have spoken out have raised the stakes. Soon, the question may no longer be Will you speak up for Palestine, but rather How.
We live in an age where politics truly is downstream from culture. Art doesn't just reflect the world — it reshapes it. And right now, there is no middle ground on Palestine. You either stand with genocide, or against it.
The festival season is far from over and the appetite for bolder, unapologetic solidarity with Palestine has never been greater.
Let this be the start of a renaissance in brave, defiant art against an increasingly pacified, commercialised culture, as we reject numbness and reassert our right to empathy and to live meaningful lives.
Originally published at The New Arab.
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