Once geopolitics enters, it's almost impossible to get it out.
For seventy years, Eurovision has offered the world a stage where nations compete not with armies but with songs — a fragile, glittering wager that shared spectacle might soften old enmities. That wager is now being called in. As the 2026 contest opens in Vienna, five European broadcasters have withdrawn in protest of Israel's inclusion amid the ongoing Gaza conflict, marking the competition's gravest institutional crisis and forcing a question that pop music was never designed to answer: can a song contest remain innocent when the world it reflects is not?
- Five major broadcasters — Spain, Ireland, the Netherlands, Iceland, and Slovenia — have refused to send entries to Vienna, the largest coordinated withdrawal in Eurovision's history.
- The tension traces back to Basel, where Israeli contestant Yuval Raphael received an extraordinary surge in public votes after Israeli government accounts, including Netanyahu's, urged citizens to vote the maximum number of times — raising urgent questions about whether the result was genuine or orchestrated.
- The EBU has tightened voting rules and issued formal warnings, but days before the contest, Israeli broadcaster Kan was already cautioned for publishing new instructional voting videos, suggesting the reforms are struggling to contain the underlying pressure.
- A proposed rule barring nations engaged in active conflict from competing would resolve one tension only by creating another — it would also exclude Ukraine, whose celebrated 2022 victory is now cited by some as evidence that geopolitical sympathy, not musical merit, has long been steering the outcome.
- Artists across Europe are reportedly reluctant to participate at all, fearing reputational damage in a polarized climate — threatening not just this edition but the long-term ability of the competition to attract talent and maintain legitimacy.
When Austria edged out Israel in last year's Eurovision final, the audible relief from commentators suggested a crisis had been averted. It hadn't. It had only been postponed.
The 2025 contest in Basel was unlike any before it. Protesters gathered outside wearing Palestinian flags. During the grand final, two people rushed the stage while Israel's Yuval Raphael performed. And when the public votes were counted, Raphael had received a surge that far outpaced the jury scores — a result that immediately drew scrutiny. Israeli government accounts, including the Prime Minister's, had publicly urged citizens to vote the maximum number of times. Broadcasters questioned whether this constituted coordinated interference. The EBU declared the vote valid. The trust, however, was already fractured.
Now, as the 70th contest opens in Vienna, five broadcasters — Spain, Ireland, the Netherlands, Iceland, and Slovenia — have withdrawn entirely. Their reasons converge on one point: they cannot participate while Israel competes, citing both the Gaza offensive, which has killed more than 72,000 people, and concerns about voting integrity. Some have gone further, proposing that no country engaged in active conflict should be eligible at all.
That proposal carries an uncomfortable symmetry. It would also exclude Ukraine, whose 2022 victory was celebrated worldwide as an act of solidarity with an invaded nation — but which some now point to as evidence that geopolitics had already displaced musical judgment long before this crisis. Slovenia's public broadcaster president said it plainly: when a country is victimized, everyone votes for it. That is no longer a song contest.
The EBU has responded by halving the maximum votes per person and pledging to discourage government-backed campaigns. Yet days before Vienna's opening, Israeli broadcaster Kan received a formal warning for publishing new videos urging viewers to vote ten times. The content was removed. The pattern remained.
Eurovision was founded on a simple, hopeful premise: that any member broadcaster could participate, and that music might hold together what politics pulls apart. For seventy years, that premise survived regional boycotts, Cold War tensions, and proxy rivalries. What it now faces is something harder — a world fractured along lines that no choreography can paper over, and a competition that must choose between the neutrality it claims and the reality it can no longer ignore.
The moment Austria's entry overtook Israel in last year's Eurovision final, the British commentator Graham Norton exhaled audibly on air—relief that the contest would not be held in Tel Aviv, that organizers had dodged what many saw as an impossible situation. But they hadn't dodged it at all. They'd only delayed it.
The 2025 contest in Basel had been tense in ways Eurovision rarely is. Hundreds of protesters gathered outside the arena wearing Palestinian flags and fake blood. During the grand final, two people rushed the stage as Israel's Yuval Raphael performed, throwing paint that struck a crew member instead. Inside the venue, as results were announced, people prayed. Some wept. The crowd chanted for Austria with an intensity that suggested something deeper than musical preference was at stake.
Yet when the public votes came in, Raphael finished far higher than the judges had scored her—higher than any other contestant in the public vote. This sparked immediate scrutiny. Israeli government accounts, including Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's, had asked people to vote for their representative the maximum 20 times allowed. Broadcasters questioned whether the result reflected genuine public support or coordinated voting campaigns. The European Broadcasting Union, which runs the contest, insisted the vote had been independently verified and was valid. But the damage to trust was done.
Now, as the 70th Eurovision Song Contest begins this week in Vienna, five major European broadcasters have withdrawn entirely. Spain, Ireland, the Netherlands, Iceland, and Slovenia are not sending entries—the largest boycott in the competition's seven-decade history. Their stated reasons vary but converge on a single point: they cannot in good conscience participate while Israel competes. Some cite the Gaza offensive that has killed more than 72,000 people since October 2023. Others invoke concerns about voting integrity and government interference. A few have suggested something more radical: that no country engaged in active conflict should be allowed to compete at all.
This proposal cuts both ways. If adopted, it would exclude not only Israel but also Ukraine, whose all-male group Kalush Orchestra won the 2022 contest with the highest public vote total in Eurovision history. That victory, celebrated globally as a show of solidarity with an invaded nation, now troubles some broadcasters who see it as proof that geopolitics has corrupted the competition's core purpose. Natalija Gorščak, president of Slovenia's public broadcaster RTV, put it plainly: when a country is victimized, everyone votes for it. That's not a song contest anymore. That's a political statement.
The irony is that Eurovision has never been free from politics. Countries have used it to signal their return to the international community, to demonstrate their alignment with the West, to settle old scores. Greece boycotted in 1975 over Turkey's invasion of Cyprus. Lebanon withdrew in 2005 because its laws made it impossible to broadcast Israel's performance. Morocco entered only in 1980—the one year Israel didn't compete. But these conflicts were regional, temporary, contained. What's happening now feels different in scale and consequence.
The EBU has tried to respond. It reduced the maximum votes per person from 20 to 10. It said it would discourage "disproportionate promotion campaigns, particularly when undertaken or supported by governments." Yet just days before this week's contest, the Israeli broadcaster Kan received a formal warning for publishing videos instructing viewers to "vote 10 times for Israel." The content was removed, but the message was clear: even with new rules, the same patterns persist.
What Eurovision faces is not a temporary crisis but an existential one. The competition was founded as a symbol of unity in a divided world. For 70 years it has held to a simple rule: any member of the European Broadcasting Union can participate. But that rule now collides with a harder reality—that in a world of active conflicts, a song contest cannot be neutral. Either you exclude countries at war and risk accusations of bias, or you include them and watch the competition become a proxy for geopolitical struggle. Some broadcasters are privately saying they struggle to recruit artists willing to participate, fearing reputational damage in an increasingly polarized environment. The glitter and choreography that once defined Eurovision are now backdrop to a deeper question: what does it mean to hold a global entertainment competition when the world itself is fractured along lines that no song can bridge?
Citações Notáveis
The Eurovision Song Contest is a celebration of music, culture and brotherhood between nations, not a platform for scoring political points.— Miki Zohar, Israel's Minister of Culture and Sports
When there is political conflict we should really think how the representative from the aggressor's part and from the victim's part should be involved. This is the debate I think we need to have within Eurovision.— Natalija Gorščak, president of Slovenia's public broadcaster RTV
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does it matter so much that Israel won the public vote last year? Isn't that just how voting works?
Because the public vote is supposed to represent genuine audience preference—the one thing that can't be gamed by judges or politics. When government accounts ask people to vote 20 times, and the artist finishes far higher in public votes than in judged scores, it raises a question: did people vote for the song, or did they vote for the country?
But other countries have governments that encourage voting too, don't they?
They do. The difference people point to is scale and coordination. And honestly, it's also timing. This happened right after a devastating conflict, when emotions were already running high. It felt less like normal political voting and more like a referendum on the war itself.
So the real problem is that Eurovision can't stay above politics?
That's what some broadcasters are arguing now. They're saying if you let countries at war compete, you're guaranteeing that voting becomes political. So maybe the answer is to exclude them entirely—both Israel and Ukraine.
But that seems unfair to the artists. They didn't start the wars.
Exactly. And that's why this is so hard. You're punishing individuals for circumstances they didn't create. But others say that's the cost of trying to keep the competition fair. Once geopolitics enters, it's almost impossible to get it out.
What happens if Eurovision actually changes the rules?
Then it becomes a different kind of competition. You're no longer "united by music"—you're united by a political test. And that might solve one problem while creating several others. That's why the EBU is moving so carefully, and why this feels like it could reshape the whole thing.