For four days in late August, Portobello Town Hall in Edinburgh, Scotland, was fully decked out in Palestine paraphernalia. Flags adorned lampposts and post boxes, and a massive banner stretching across the neoclassical façade proclaimed: “Welcome to the Fringe, Palestine.” 

This festival within a festival — forming part of the month-long Edinburgh Festival Fringe — showcased Palestinian culture through a line-up of visual artists, writers, thinkers, theater groups, and musicians. Against the backdrop of Israel’s ongoing genocide in Gaza, and Britain’s sweepingcrackdown on pro-Palestine protest, the event sought to overcome this censorship by giving a platform to the Palestinian story at one of the UK’s leading celebrations of culture. 

“When the genocide began, we asked ourselves what actions or responses we could take,” Farah Saleh, the festival’s Ramallah-born, Edinburgh-based co-founder, told +972. “There’s a huge assault on Palestinian art and culture, and we wanted to counter that, because it’s essential for resilience.”

According to Saleh, the festival was made possible by nearly 100 volunteers and thousands of donors, large and small. An open call for participants drew hundreds of applications, which the organizers narrowed down to 22 artists, including several from Gaza. Some who had already managed to leave the Strip were there to perform in person; others, still trapped inside, had to perform remotely.

First launched in 2015, the mini-festival remains one of the very few places where the British public can encounter Gaza’s music and art first-hand, beyond the filter of a phone screen. Perhaps more importantly, the event creates a space for Palestinian artists themselves — both in Palestine and in the diaspora — to meet, connect, and collaborate. “I’ve reconnected with old friends and had the privilege of meeting new people,” said Saleh, who is herself a choreographer and dancer.

‘Do you see us?’

Scotland has a rich history of advocating for Palestinian liberation. In 1982, Scottish Friends of Palestine was formed to promote cultural exchange and support Palestinian self-determination. The Scottish Palestine Solidarity Campaign (SPSC) emerged two decades later during the Second Intifada, pressing local institutions to cancel Israeli-funded events. The Green Brigade — the “ultras” of Celtic Football Club — routinely display Palestinian and Irish flags at their team’s games, alongside banners declaring: “Show Israel the Red Card.”

Curiously, both nations also share a love of bagpipes. The instrument took root in Palestine as a hangover from British colonial rule, and has been played at parades and celebrations ever since, often infused with Arabic melodies. Today, as in Scotland, the bagpipe has become a symbol of resilience, culture, and national identity.

“Welcome to the Fringe, Palestine” embodies that intersection of resistance through culture. On one panel, Ahmed Alnaouq, a Palestinian writer from Gaza who lost 21 members of his family in an Israeli airstrike in October 2023, spoke about his media platform, “We Are Not Numbers,” and outlined his plans to build alternative media outlets, following his viral confrontation with a BBC journalist earlier this summer.

Afterward, the theater collective “Hands Up Project” took the stage with “Welcome to Gaza” — a series of 19 short plays written and produced by children in the West Bank and Gaza, and performed in part by their original creators. Though written before October 7, the plays have since been adapted to include testimonies from the genocide.

The performance opened with a short film of three young girls in Gaza speaking directly to the camera. “There’s an audience, I can see them!” says one. “I wonder if they see us. Do you see us?”

From there, six young Palestinian women carried the show onstage. As they spoke of their hopes to study and work, award-winning playwright Peter Oswald interjected with testimonies from young people in Gaza. The performance closed to a standing ovation.

Next to take to the stage were musicians Reem Anbar — Gaza’s first female oud player — and Louis Brehony on bouzouki. The duo, who tour internationally as “Gazelleband,” performed music from Palestine, Egypt, Syria, and Ireland, pausing to explain the revolutionary roots of each piece. By the end of every song, they broke into improvisation, encouraging the somewhat stiff Edinburgh crowd to cheer along.

Anbar was born and raised in Gaza but has not returned since 2017, though her family and friends remain there. Now based in Manchester, she said she has always found solace in music during times of war.

“When I was in Gaza in 2014, I was playing all the time over the sound of the bombings,” she told +972 after the show. “I worked in schools with children who had lost their homes or family members. We struggled with food, electricity — everything. So I kept playing, to give people hope, music, and joy in the middle of the war.”

Today, amid an ongoing genocide, music continues to serve as a lifeline of hope for Anbar. “I would love to travel all over the world to speak about my people and play traditional Palestinian music,” she said. “This is my way to resist.”

“I see how people receive the music, they feel it and understand me,” she added. “Many tell me they’ve learned new things from my stories, and that it pushes them to act for the people of Gaza.”

For Anbar, events like “Welcome to the Fringe, Palestine” are vital at a time when Gazan voices are so often silenced. “They invited many people from Gaza, which is very important, because while a lot of festivals raise money for Gaza, most of the artists are not actually from there,” she explained.

The organizers made a deliberate effort to ensure Gazan culture in all its forms was represented. On the festival’s final day, Palestinian-British author and storyteller Diline Abushaban stood on stage to prepare daggah, a traditional Gazan tomato-and-dill salad. “You think your lemons are fresh,” she teased the crowd. “You need to try the lemons in Gaza.”

“To make this dish you need sea salt, Palestinian oil, garlic, lemon, dill, and one of these,” she added, holding up a zibdiya, a traditional clay bowl made from the soil of Gaza. “But if you can’t find one, that’s okay, don’t give up. You can use a pestle and mortar.”

“I came to Scotland in 2008. It was a difficult time to leave Gaza and my family,” she continued. “I’m always dealing with guilt, sadness, and worry. Am I going to see my family again? What’s going to happen? As soon as this war began, I knew it would reach a totally different level of injustice, oppression, and brutality.”

Despite the weight of her words, Abushaban appeared almost serene on stage as she chopped dill, the scent filling the theater and making Gaza feel suddenly closer. As she prepared the daggah, she recalled the simple joy of cooking with her family and spoke of her sister Huda, who was her anchor: always calling, sending family updates, and calming her fears. But just before Abushaban began teaching an art workshop in November 2023, a message arrived from her aunt: Huda and her children had been killed.

Abushaban’s voice cracked as she recounted that moment. “Food and cooking keeps alive the memory not only of my family, but of every single soul — their beauty, their culture, their creativity,” she said. “This is part of my healing.”

‘We want to hear music instead of explosions’

That evening, the festival closed with a remote performance by LAFI, a rapper from the now destroyed Jabalia refugee camp in northern Gaza who has never been able to leave the enclave. He prepared a video montage of tracks and visuals projected onto the theater screen, watching the audience’s reactions via livestream.

LAFI’s music carries the weight of confinement. In one track, he raps in Arabic against the rubble of a collapsed building, his voice cutting through a trap beat as basslines made the theater walls tremble. Children appear throughout his videos — sometimes dancing between alleyways, sometimes sitting listlessly by the roadside. 

The second half of his set, composed after 2023, is darker, more mournful. In one sequence, he stands alone on the beach, then drifts through empty streets at night, backdropped by a scorched landscape.

Though creating music has been far more difficult over the past two years, LAFI said it remains his lifeline. “Despite the harsh conditions I endured, I was able to create music during the war,” he told +972. “There are no music studios, but I have my mobile phone, which I use as the main tool for production. Sometimes I record inside a car just to isolate the sound enough to capture the beats.”

He explained that international rap doesn’t inspire him, as it doesn’t reflect his life; he prefers writing about the daily struggle for survival. “Amid continuous bombing and destruction that engulfs everything — homes, schools, hospitals — making music can feel like a cynical act,” he said. “Even the simplest things, like securing food and water, are daily battles. So making music becomes a side challenge I take on when I can gather enough energy.”

Still, seeing the Fringe audience respond to his work brought him joy. “Those were precious human moments amid all the destruction,” he said. “At the same time, I felt a painful sense of alienation and depression because I wasn’t physically there. I was in darkness from power cuts, surrounded by a harsh reality. Still, I need this support in order to keep going.”

“Welcome to the Fringe, Palestine” has given Palestinian artists around the world a direct line into one of the world’s most prestigious cultural festivals. It has created a rare space for them to meet when such gatherings are impossible in their fractured homeland, fostering a sense of unity in a world that so often forces Palestinians apart.

“These events give voices from inside Gaza a space to speak,” LAFI said. “They provide an opportunity to talk about our country directly and genuinely from our perspective, away from media distortion. They showcase the authentic arts that express us as Palestinians — people who love life, who want to hear music instead of explosions and rockets.”

Looking ahead, LAFI hopes to stand on the Fringe stage in person, in a world where his rights are finally recognized. “My dreams are simple,” he said. “First to obtain my human rights, then I can dream about my artistic career.”