The Eurovision Song Contest has always liked to imagine itself as a glitter-soaked island floating above the choppy waters of European politics, a place where key changes matter more than geopolitical ones, and where sequins are wielded like diplomatic olive branches. But this year, the illusion has cracked. With public broadcasters from Ireland, the Netherlands, Spain, and Slovenia withdrawing from next year’s contest over the European Broadcasting Union’s decision to allow Israel to participate, Eurovision suddenly looks less like a cheerful celebration of unity and more like a battlefield dressed in rhinestones.
The walkouts mark a rare moment in which Eurovision’s famously big-tent ethos, anyone can sing, anyone can win, everyone must endure an unreasonably long voting sequence, collides with the harsh reality of a continent struggling with its own conscience. The EBU’s staunch insistence that Eurovision must remain “non-political” has long been a central pillar of its identity. But the idea that a cultural megashow watched by hundreds of millions can remain a politics-free zone has always been a polite fiction. The contest has weathered political storms before, from Russia’s exclusion after its invasion of Ukraine to decades of diplomatic side-eye exchanged through song. But this year, the tension feels different: more exposed, more urgent, harder to dance around.
At the heart of the dispute is Israel’s participation despite growing international criticism of its actions in Gaza during the war with Hamas. Broadcasters in several countries have argued that allowing Israel to perform sends the wrong message or rather, sends no meaningful message at all, at a time when silence can feel like complicity. For them, participating in the contest is not simply a matter of submitting a song and booking hotel rooms. It is an endorsement of the show’s rules, its boundaries, and its moral posture. Their withdrawal is a statement: if Eurovision insists on being apolitical, then they will not help it pretend.
The EBU, for its part, appears determined to stick to its usual script. Eurovision, they say, is about music, not politics. But this line is increasingly hard to maintain with a straight face. Eurovision is a cultural phenomenon precisely because it sits at the intersection of art and national identity. Countries send songs not just to entertain but to represent themselves. Political realities are baked into the very format of the contest: a parade of nations, each announcing their votes in a ritual that could easily pass for an EU summit with better outfits.
To insist that the contest is “not political” is to misunderstand its own power. Music may transcend borders, but Eurovision, as an institution, does not. And pretending otherwise doesn’t protect the contest’s integrity; it puts it at risk.
The withdrawing broadcasters are doing something Eurovision itself has been reluctant to do: acknowledge that global conflicts don’t stop at the arena door. Their stance is not about banning Israeli artists, nor about denying the complexity of the war. It is about recognizing the symbolic weight of participation, and the impossibility of separating art from the conditions in which it is made and received.
Critics of the boycotts argue that politicizing Eurovision undermines its purpose. But perhaps the more honest question is: what purpose does Eurovision serve in a world where Europe culturally, politically, ethically, is more fragmented than ever? Is the contest a space where unity is performed despite differences? Or should it reflect the world as it is, fractures and all?
The walkouts expose an uncomfortable truth: neutrality is also a position. When the EBU chooses to allow Israel’s participation without addressing the moral debate surrounding it, it is not avoiding politics but choosing a particular interpretation of them, one that privileges continuity and spectacle over controversy and reflection.
For years, fans have celebrated Eurovision as a joyous escape from reality. And perhaps that escapism is needed now more than ever. But escapism is not the same as avoidance. If Eurovision wants to survive as a cultural institution that claims to bring people together, it must grapple with the reality that people will not always want to sit together, especially not when the world outside the arena is burning.
Europe is changing. Its politics are louder, its divisions sharper, its moral compass under constant strain. And Eurovision, for all its glitter, cannot hide from this shift. The withdrawal of four major broadcasters is not just a protest; it is a warning: a contest that refuses to evolve with the political conscience of its participants risks becoming irrelevant.
Next year’s Eurovision will go on, no doubt. Songs will be sung, points will be awarded, and dramatic key changes will be delivered with the usual gusto. But the music may echo differently. Unity cannot be choreographed, and harmony cannot be demanded. If Eurovision wants to remain Europe’s favorite celebration of togetherness, it must first admit the truth: the stage is political, whether it likes it or not.
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