Open letter against censorship

Last Saturday, May 24th, I was censored for the first time. Directly by the festival. Indirectly by Mayor Philippe Close. I’m still reeling from the experience, not only because of what happened to me and my band, but because of what it reveals about the state of our cultural sector and our democracies.

Let me walk you through what happened.

My band bodies was scheduled to play at 18:30 on the Place de la Bourse stage as part of the Lotto Brussels Jazz Weekend. Every day for the past month, people have gathered at Place de la Bourse at 19:00 to protest the ongoing genocide in Palestine, part of a daily movement that’s been happening citywide for over a year and eight months, now centered at Bourse.

On the evening before our concert, the activists were invited on stage during another band’s set,  with full consent from the musicians, to speak for about ten minutes. According to what I was told by colleagues and the activists themselves, it was peaceful. The only visible stress came from the festival staff backstage.

Aware of this context, and of the police violence those same activists had faced during Pride just a week earlier, I decided to invite two of them to participate in our set as guests. We wanted to share the space, which had been temporarily claimed by the festival, in a peaceful, respectful, and transparent way. They reached out to us as well. We shared music they could speak over. The idea was simple: a moment of empathy and humanity. It was important for me to frame their presence as part of my artistic proposition, grant them access to the backstage, to avoid having them labeled as criminal trespassers, as they had been portrayed the evening before. 

But I was naïve. Naïve to think that City Hall and the police wouldn’t once again frame peaceful presence as a threat to public safety.

When I arrived backstage, I requested three extra wristbands: one for a photographer, which was granted, and two for the activists. I said clearly: “I’d like to invite two Palestinian activists to say a few words during our set, as part of my artistic performance.” Within minutes, the festival director arrived, visibly panicked, flanked by two other  members of the direction team. Suddenly, me and my band were surrounded by six or seven people, direction, stage managers, and security;  in a small backstage area. The message was clear: if I went through with this, our concert would be canceled.

They spoke of “avoiding disruption,” “losing control,” and preventing a “protest.” I was told, I quote: “if you give them a finger, they take your arm.” “Doing this could ruin your career.” “Yesterday’s artist had a terrible time, the activists took over the stage.” I later learned from that artist that this was false. The festival twisted his words to pressure and intimidate me.

Then came more  remarks:
“I just spoke with the Bourgmestre. He said if anything political happens on stage, the city will pull all funding and permits,  immediately and permanently.”  “There were Hamas spies in the audience yesterday.”

This was the type of discourse.

I was told I must not say “Free Palestine”, “Stop genocide”, “Boycott Israel”, or any sign of support towards the activists. All under the excuse that it would “provoke” the protestors, who would then supposedly “disrupt” the concert. They even asked one of my bandmates to remove his keffiyeh, which he wears at every show and is part of his daily attire.

I spoke with the activists before our set and explained the situation. I hadn’t been able to grant them access, and I warned them about the heavy police and plainclothes military presence. During soundcheck, I saw men changing into civilian clothes behind the stage. They were army officers.

I did not remain silent out of agreement, I was scared. Scared that anything I said might be used as an excuse to violently target the activists. And yet, after our set, even though we complied, protestors were met with unprovoked police aggression. Tear gas. Chases through the city center. 

From the stage, I saw an image that stayed with me: peaceful protest met with police forces response. A European echo of what’s happening in Palestine. What I witnessed sends a terrifying message:
“You do not deserve to exist. You must disappear. We do not want to see you, hear you, know you. There is no space for you.”

I watch the news. I see the images,  the mass killings, the death and starvation of innocent people, the razing of homes, schools and hospitals. We are numb, desensitized. Watching peaceful people being pushed out of a square, just for holding flags and shouting for solidarity, made the reality hit harder. The dehumanization runs deep. Europe, Israel, and the United States are  complicit in erasure, every day through this kind of action. 

I must name what happened to me as an artist on that stage: censorship.
I was threatened. I was intimidated. I was censored. Me and my band, but it was only me who was addressed, once again, as a tool for intimidation and isolation. 

I was confronted alone by several people backstage. I was warned that if I "provoked" anything, it would be my fault  if the police intervened. That is intimidation. That is censorship.

And after we managed to transform our fear and rage into a powerful, peaceful concert,  what did I receive? One direction member shouted to me a condescendent “¡Gracias guapa!”, while police sprayed protestors just meters away. From another: “You were very professional”

Professional? For what? For staying silent? For making your festival look “neutral”? No. I am a professional because I got on stage with my band and gave a great concert despite everything. But my silence? That came from fear. Not consent.

You didn’t trust me. You didn’t trust us. You don’t listen to people. You don’t listen to artists. And you missed the opportunity to allow a genuine, moving artistic collaboration,  rooted in empathy, and dignity. It could have been something beautiful. Something human. Instead, you chose the path of fear. And censorship.

In the most absurd moment backstage, someone told me: “This is a music festival. It’s not a space for politics.”

But art is political. Especially jazz. Especially improvised music. Art does what politics rarely can: it makes us feel. It connects us. It gives space to empathy. It gives voice to humanity. Calling through music for a ceasefire, for dignity, for life: that’s simply being human.

I feel so sad, even though it often shows up as anger. Sadness that in this cultural sector I’m just getting to enter, people don’t take a stand. They ask and fear instead:
“Who will fund us?”
“Will we lose City Hall’s approval?”
“Will our sponsors abandon us?”

To both of you,  the festival directors and the Bourgmestre: you are scared for no reason. You should be more afraid of being remembered as those who remained silent. Those who protected their institutions, their budgets, their comfort while witnessing others being erased. Saturday showed us: when people are respected and feel seen, when space is shared, when communication is good, a peaceful encounter is possible. Your fear blinded you to that truth.

As for my career,  which you were so eager to warn me about, if it suffers because I stood for something, so be it. Those would have been the wrong doors anyway. I will keep making music that speaks my truth. Music that connects, that resists, that has a meaning.

I’m heartbroken over the lost moment we could have created. I’m furious to have embodied censorship. And I’m sickened by the ongoing denial of a genocide.

I am angry.

Palestinians just want to live. To organize festivals. To become mayors. To have a future,  like you. Like me.

 Maybe we should just listen to what they have to say. To what they want.