Solidarity, Unity and Cooperation: Festivals fighting for survival

By Roxana Morar

Music is one of the purest forms of self-expression. With or without words, it can stir emotions, build identities, and give voice to entire communities. But what happens when that voice is monitored, redirected, or silenced? What happens when the message is no longer free, but filtered through political pressure?

Across Eastern Europe and the Caucasus, that question isn’t hypothetical: it’s lived. Festivals built on the idea of freedom of expression, identity, and community often end up navigating political pressure, censorship, and even direct intimidation. While audiences dance, sing, and come together, organisers negotiate with authorities, defend artistic choices, and protect the space where voices remain uncensored.

In countries where democracy is eroded by right wing propaganda, the cultural sector is usually the first to suffer. Festivals, artists, and institutions find themselves monitored, restricted, or forced to adjust their message. Tbilisi Open Air, EXIT Festival and Pohoda Festival are three essential examples. Different in history and scale, they share the same core principle: refusing to allow their message to be dictated.

For them, a festival is more than entertainment: it becomes cultural resistance, an act of solidarity, and a platform for those who might not otherwise be heard. From Tbilisi, where music has become a symbol of a generation that refuses to turn away from Europe, to EXIT, born out of student protest against the Milošević regime. And finally, Pohoda, which transformed a former military airport into a vibrant space of culture and music. Each of these festivals shows the same truth: when society fractures, music can rebuild a sense of belonging.

To better understand how festivals navigate government pressure and social unrest, I spoke with three key figures shaping cultural resilience in the region: Dušan Kovačević, co-founder and CEO of EXIT Festival, Michal Kaščák, founder of Pohoda Festival, and Koka Gogokhia, board member at Altervision, the company behind Tbilisi Open Air. Their stories reveal how fragile cultural freedom can be and how courage often begins with small acts of solidarity.

In Serbia, this became evident on November 1st 2024. Sixteen lives were lost after the tragic collapse of the roof canopy at the Novi Sad Railway Station. This incident sparked nationwide student protests demanding transparency, accountability, and safety reforms. Instead of distancing itself, EXIT publicly supported the protesters, offering its stage, visibility, and international voice to a movement led by young people. In a country where institutions often avoid confronting the government, the festival chose to stand with the community. That decision was not without risk, but it reaffirmed the principle on which EXIT was founded: that music cannot stay silent when society demands change. And the consequences never cease to appear.

“The government’s response was fierce,” says Kovačević. “They basically blacklisted all the artists and cultural and creative organisations that supported the students, and that's almost all of them. All the funding is stopped, all the projects are stopped, actors were sacked from their projects, and musicians are no longer able to perform almost anywhere in the country, having in mind that most of the venues are state-owned.”

This has brought the entire cultural and creative scene in Serbia to the brink of extinction. “For EXIT, they stopped all of our funding, threatened our suppliers for working with us and forced our main sponsor of 22 years, a state-owned telecommunications company, to end its partnership. I was personally threatened by members of Serbia’s special police force who warned that if we continued to support the students, they would turn the entire agency against me. But we continued to stand with them.”

When cooperation with the state is no longer possible, festivals are forced to look for alternatives, often beyond their own borders. EXIT is one of them. In 2026, the festival will take its mission on a world tour, starting in Croatia in May, followed by stops in North Macedonia in June, Malta in August, Egypt in October, and India in November. And while EXIT pauses until freedom returns to Serbia, the team is preparing something truly special for its loyal audience at home, a small symbolic event later that month. What began as a local movement for freedom has now evolved into a global message of cultural resilience, proof that even when silenced at home, art will always find a way to be heard.

A similar story is unfolding in Georgia. The country has been shaken by a controversial “foreign agents” law, widely described as a tool copied from the Kremlin, requiring NGOs, independent media and cultural institutions receiving foreign funding to register as agents of external influence. Critics call it a direct attempt to silence civil society and push Georgia away from Europe. The law triggered some of the largest protests since independence, many of them led by young people who see Georgia’s future in the European Union and NATO, not under Russian influence.

In this climate, Tbilisi Open Air, one of the country’s largest cultural events, took on even greater significance. The 2025 edition took place on Georgia’s Independence Day, transforming the festival into a powerful act of civic expression. The organisers deliberately chose a lineup composed entirely of Georgian artists, highlighting local talent and culture while refusing to compromise under political pressure. By doing so, the festival sent a clear message: supporting homegrown creativity, defending freedom of expression and celebrating a European-oriented national identity are inseparable. Artists used the stage to stand in solidarity with protesters, the audience responded with overwhelming support. Tbilisi Open Air became a focal point for a generation determined to keep culture free and independent.

The festival’s commitment to freedom of expression was not without risk. One of the most powerful moments came when artist Erekle Getsadze burned a Russian flag on stage, a bold gesture that instantly reverberated far beyond the festival grounds. The act sparked intense reactions across social media and in Russian state media, even prompting a response from a spokesperson close to Vladimir Putin. What began as a spontaneous statement of protest quickly turned into an international incident. Fearing retaliation, and aware that his safety might be compromised if he remained in Georgia or travelled to any Russian-aligned country, Getsadze eventually felt compelled to leave the country.

Slovakia, too, is undergoing intense political shifts. Recent constitutional amendments have narrowed the definitions of family, gender, and educational freedoms, reshaping the country’s social and cultural landscape. In this changing environment, Pohoda Festival has remained one of the few cultural spaces that continue to advocate for openness, diversity, and dialogue.

As festival founder Michal Kaščák explains, the situation in Slovakia’s cultural sector has become alarming: “What we can see now in Slovakia is definitely frightening. In the first two years of this government, the state has ruined cultural institutions. It’s very sad when you see that the leaders of the country are destroying the best cultural institutions we have. The new heads of these institutions are not experts; they’re friends of someone’s friends.”

Kaščák names the Slovak National Gallery, the Slovak National Theatre, the Slovak National Museum, and the Institute for the Protection of Cultural Heritage. “All of these institutions are now, at least partly or totally, destroyed because they’ve replaced more than 75% of the staff with people who have no experience, just political connections.” Basically, you have two options: obey and they’ll keep supporting you, but control the message you deliver, or speak the truth, and they’ll try to silence you.

So why is it important to stand your ground even if fear is used as a weapon? “When you are describing yourself as a celebration of freedom, like we do with Pohoda Festival, you must count on the consequences,” says Kaščák. “And we have some, there are many people who don't like Pohoda Festival, including the Prime Minister, President, Minister of Interior and many other important figures in the country. But we are continuing on our way, because I think that it's even more important to continue. If we become too afraid, we can lose everything.” Kaščák says he is not afraid of the consequences which may come, but he is, however, afraid that the people themselves will become too afraid. “So it's not easy here because I'm absolutely disappointed where the country is going, but I don't want to be paralysed.”

A similar sense of vulnerability can be felt in Georgia. Koka Gogokhia, board member at Altervision, the company behind Tbilisi Open Air, adds: “You don’t feel safe here in Georgia, and that’s the real problem. If there were security, people could fight for their rights without fear. But right now, even peaceful protests carry risks; simply standing in the street could lead to imprisonment or other serious consequences, and no one can fully guarantee protection against that.”

While EXIT and Pohoda found ways to adapt and continue their next editions with sponsors – despite receiving no government funding – Tbilisi Open Air is facing ongoing uncertainties. “At this point, we don’t really know how to plan for next year,” Gogokhia explains. “But we’ll definitely come together to figure out a way to make it possible. Planning a big international festival with a huge budget is nearly impossible right now, because there’s always the chance we may have to cancel, postpone, or move dates. You can’t make something large-scale fully flexible, but we need to explore a model that allows as much flexibility as possible.” Gogokhia is also unsure how sponsors will respond, because the pressure on them is likely to increase as well.

So what is our role in these moments of cultural and political pressure? How can we stand together and make a difference? “A fight for freedom of speech at one place, is a fight for freedom of speech in every place and for everybody,” Kovačević states. “So by supporting Serbian artists, the community, and cultural organisations, you are supporting everybody who can find themselves in a similar situation. And Serbia, as a country with a long history and a big cultural heritage, has a lot to offer in the European music and global music community. And through this fight, I'm sure that we will just get stronger.”

Fear is the tool they use to censor and manipulate. In moments when division becomes the main goal of propaganda, unity is the strongest form of resistance. It’s crucial that we support each other, speak out, and refuse to stay silent when our rights are being stripped away. The music community, in particular, must remain united and use its voice to raise awareness about what is happening, because silence only serves those in power.