
I have watched Eurovision every year for nearly 20 years. This year was supposed to be my 15th anniversary of hosting a party.
I genuinely, unironically loved it. I loved it for the songs and the voices, but I also deeply subscribed to its founding values: the idea that a continent still scarred by two world wars could come together through a shared appreciation for music.
This year, instead of hosting my party, I have been unable to ignore the story that now dominates the contest.
Eurovision was born in 1956 from a specific wound: Europe had just finished destroying itself. The European Broadcasting Union (EBU) created the contest as an act of almost naive faith: the belief that culture could do what politics had failed to do, by building something that felt genuinely continental and shared.
For nearly seven decades, that faith held. It survived the Cold War, the Balkan crisis and Brexit. The contest bent, but it never broke.
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