Among flares, chants, and Palestinian flags, Glastonbury’s Jews gathered in quiet defiance

Earlier this month, I was in Israel, reporting as Iranian missiles rained down across the country. Despite reporting under the threat of real ballistic missiles, friends texted me with more concern this weekend, reporting from Glastonbury. And at points, that felt justified.

Every year Glastonbury attracts more than 200,000 people and this year, as you will know by now, saw a more politically charged festival than ever. Let’s just say it wasn’t the most straightforward place to be a journalist from a publication called The Jewish Chronicle.

On Saturday afternoon, a little-known punk duo called Bob Vylan took the stage and led the crowd in a now-notorious chant of “Death to the IDF.” Some people looked uncomfortable. Thousands more didn’t. I overheard a group of girls the next morning trying to work out what the IDF was – but many in the crowd knew exactly what the chant meant and shouted it with gusto.

One half of the duo launched into a tirade against his former boss – “a bald-headed c**t” – whose crime, apparently, was being an out and proud Zionist. Later, to drive the point home, the rapper posted a photo of himself eating vegan ice cream with the caption: “While Zionists are crying on socials, I’ve just had a late night (vegan) ice cream.”

And that was just the warm-up. Saturday’s headline act on the West Holts Stage was Kneecap, whose member is currently facing terror charges for allegedly waving a Hezbollah flag at a London gig.

Normally, at Glastonbury, police are almost invisible – part of what gives the place its idyllic feel: a hedonistic sprawl where the rules melt away and everyone looks after each other. But for Kneecap, officers were very visible.

The set was deemed so potentially radioactive that the BBC decided not to stream it live. That seemed to be why Bob Vylan was so emboldened.

DJ Provaí of Kneecap (Getty)Getty Images

The crowd – mostly young, mostly white, mostly dressed like Vinted revolutionaries – wore tricolour bandana face coverings styled after the band’s DJ. As the crowd swelled, I stood among shirtless men in keffiyehs shouting “f*** Keir Starmer” and “free Palestine,” women in hot pants perched on their boyfriends’ shoulders with lit flares, and flags of Palestine, Lebanon, and the Islamic Republic of Iran swayed in the scorching sun. Some looked like they’d been splattered with blood; I later learned that Bob Vylan’s fans had released canisters of red paint.

Despite the chant against the Prime Minister, the biggest boo in Kneecap’s opening montage wasn’t for a politician, but for Sharon Osbourne. Because nothing says sticking it to the man like hissing at a 72-year-old Jewish reality TV star.

At one point, Kneecap began railing against the British media. I hoped no one clocked my press pass as I furiously took notes. They were too busy chanting.

As I left the crowd to write up the story, the backlash against Vylan had begun: the PM, the BBC, and the festival all condemned his “death to the IDF” chant. Avon and Somerset Police announced an investigation. The BBC pulled the live-streamed footage from iPlayer. 

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The next day, at Glastonbury’s political panels, activists accused organisers of caving to pressure and slammed the festival’s statement. Apparently, even mild discomfort with public chants of “death” is a form of imperial complicity.

Kneecap and Bob Vylan were the highest profile among a slew of artists to come out against Israel. Popstar CMAT led a “Free Palestine” chant on the Pyramid Stage. Former Little Mix singer Jade Thirlwall urged the crowd to scream “f*** you” to arms sales and “justifying genocide.” Wolf Alice, Nadine Shah, and Black Country, New Road joined in. Shah ended her set with voice notes from Palestinian children and a statement backing Palestine Action. She cried. The crowd cheered.

In this climate, Glastonbury couldn’t cancel Kneecap’s set – that might have triggered mass artist walkouts. And do we want to start censoring artists – or banning them on the basis of allegations? And do we want Jews to be blamed for that? But the festival could have had a plan for what to do when a performer calls for mass deaths, live on air, and so could the BBC.

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Many artists expressed solidarity with Gaza and anger at Israel’s actions in the territory without calling for further violence. Jewish festival-goers I spoke to had no issue with that – they just didn’t want performers chanting for more bloodshed.

Many of these music lovers were, like me, constantly thinking about the Nova festival – and the lives lost on October 7, when young people dancing in a field, just as we were, were massacred. At Glastonbury, there was no mention of the nearly 400 people killed at Nova – at least not in the sets I saw. Any recognition of those souls was left to the tiny number of Jewish punters in the audience.

While Kneecap performed, a small group of Jews gathered under a tree near the Pyramid Stage with hostage symbols. Elsewhere on the farm, a hostage flag and another commemorating the victims of Nova were flown above the crowds. Other members of the community scurried across the site, posting anti-Hamas stickers and messages calling for the hostages’ release. These were defiant gestures of pride amid the fervour of the masses.

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The hostage flag-bearers told me how many people had approached them just to say thank you, because in a sea of Palestinian flags and “f*** Israel” stickers, their flag made Jews feel less alone.

And yet none of this was surprising. Glastonbury is a £400-a-ticket affirmation ritual, where slogans are chanted between rounds of expensive cider in biodegradable cups, and dissent – real dissent – is exiled. 

Palestine has become the festival’s catch-all cause: anti-capitalist, anti-imperialist, anti-borders. Nationalism is bad, borders are evil – yet Palestinian flags flew proudly behind some of the most tightly policed fences in the UK. One sign read: “I don’t see any borders, do you?” It was stuck up on a massive wall.

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For all its utopian promise, Glastonbury made one thing brutally clear: sometimes, all it takes is a crowd certain it’s on the right side of history – and unwilling to hear from anyone else – to alienate its audience.