By John Foster
The hysterical reaction to Kneecap’s Glastonbury performance highlighted the terrorism case against band member Mo Chara, underlining how fragile freedom of speech is in the UK.
Chara, whose real name is Liam Óg Ó hAnnaidh, was charged in May 2025 with displaying a Hezbollah flag and chanting "up Hamas, up Hezbollah" at a London concert in November 2024.
Though the rapper has been free on unconditional bail since a Westminster Magistrates’ Court hearing on 18 June, the charges made against him under the UK Terrorism Act carry real legal weight, potentially leading to up to six months in prison or a fine. He is sure to further legal scrutiny ahead of a hearing in August.
Rather than focus their case on political speech, the prosecution framed their case as a violation of the UK's law against displaying materials linked to banned organisations. Prosecutor Michael Bisgrove clarified that political expression—even solidarity with Palestinians—remains lawful, but the deliberate public display of Hezbollah paraphernalia constitutes a separate offence.
Chara’s legal team countered that the flag was thrown on stage, meaning that its presence was not intentional. In addition, they questioned the validity of the proceedings on the grounds of statutory jurisdiction.
Although the alleged offense happened in November 2024, charges were not filed until more than six months later, suggesting the case might legally collapse due to timing. This raises profound questions about the limits of retrospective prosecution and the proper way to mobilise terrorism statutes.
Beneath these surface legal mechanics looms the spectre of political policing.
Mo Chara and his supporters have argued that this prosecution is not simply about a teenager waving a flag, but part of a broader campaign aimed at suppressing dissent and political speech, particularly criticism of Israel. It’s no accident that the charges were only filed after Kneecap’s incendiary pro-Palestinian messaging at the American Coachella festival earlier in 2025 resurrected online footage of the flag incident.
Meanwhile, political advocates, along with well‑known artists including Massive Attack, Paul Weller, Primal Scream, and others, have vocally condemned the case, claiming that the government’s case against Chara equates satirical or theatrical gestures with terrorism.
It also unfairly targets dissenters from Northern Ireland.
During the Troubles 1970s and 1980s, the state faced fierce dissent from armed factions of both republicans and loyalists. In response, the UK introduced Diplock courts, tribunals designed to prosecute terrorist offenses without the possibility of jury intimidation.
The legitimacy of these Diplock courts was widely debated. While they enabled convictions, they compromised the right to a fair trial. This model foreshadowed Ireland’s introduction of the Special Criminal Court under the Offences Against the State Act 1939, a three‑judge, jury‑less tribunal established originally to prosecute IRA violence.
The British government responded to criticism of the Diplock courts by arguing that this deformation of the justice system was necessary to counter organized violence. But this explanation rang hollow, since these exceptional practices were applied much more frequently to the Nationalist community.
History has not been kind.
Both the Diplock courts and the Special Criminal Court have frequently been savaged for overriding civil liberties and blurring the line between political discourse and criminality.
Ireland’s history includes devastating miscarriages of justice tied to terrorism allegations. In 1975, for example, six Irish men, the “Birmingham Six,” were convicted and imprisoned for life for the pub bombings in that city.
Their convictions, later overturned in 1991, stand as stark reminders of the dangers posed by skewed evidence, police misconduct, and public hysteria in terrorism prosecutions. The exoneration of the Birmingham Six prompted major legal reforms, reinvigorating the right to a fair trial and establishing independent review bodies to combat wrongful convictions.
Against this backdrop, Mo Chara’s case revives the tension between national security and freedom of expression.
On one hand, authorities are obligated to enforce laws that prevent the glorification of proscribed organizations. The British government's list of proscribed terrorist entities—spanning over 80 global groups—empowers law enforcement to curtail messages that could foster or normalise extremist ideology.
On the other hand, the prosecution in Mo Chara’s case hinges on conduct that took place during a public performance in which audience response makes it difficult to determine artistic intention.
Critics contend that equating satirical or symbolic flag-waving with terrorist support conflates political expression with criminal intent. They point to a disparity in legal treatment; loyalist symbols—flags for paramilitary groups implicated in thousands of deaths—are often tolerated in Northern Ireland settings, while the display of a Hezbollah flag provokes an overt terrorism charge.
This tension spotlights a core phenomenon in terrorism law known as “de-politicisation". Under statutes like the UK Terrorism Act 2000, routine criminal behavior cloaked in political, religious, or ideological color is prosecuted under terrorism legislation, regardless of its actual violence or intent.
According to legal scholars, only a minority of terrorism prosecutions relate directly to violent acts. The rest are hinged on symbolic or supportive behavior, raising concerns about over-criminalisation and the state's authority to define the boundaries of lawful political expression.
In the Irish context, the legacy courts established during the Troubles—Diplock courts and the Special Criminal Court—were intended to address a distinct violent threat. But their remit has been questioned, especially as terrorist violence diminished after the Good Friday Agreement. Critics allege they were applied to non-violent expressions, including political ones.
In addition to questioning the timing of the charges brought against Mo Chara, his defence will assert that his political statements target Israel’s actions, not terror groups, and that he did not realise which flag was handed to him. Furthermore, they will ask whether Kneecap’s performance represents a genuine endorsement rather than an artistic provocation.
This is the heart of the debate: should courts judge speech—even theatrical, provocative, deliberately disruptive speech—as tantamount to supporting a terrorist organization.
This debate isn’t abstract. If courts affirm that public display of proscribed symbols constitutes terrorism, without proof of sincere ideological intent or a causal link to violence, they risk criminalising a wide spectrum of speech. Mo Chara’s potential conviction could be a watershed, setting a precedent enabling the prosecution of musicians, artists, and protestors whose creative expression includes extremist imagery, even ironically or satirically.
The European Convention on Human Rights protects freedom of expression, subject to necessary restrictions for public safety or preventing disorder. Historical oversight bodies have cautioned that genuine artistic or political expression—especially with satirical or ironic intent—should not be penalized unless it crosses a threshold of direct incitement to violence. Misapplied, terrorism laws can infringe those freedoms.
Turkey recently reinforced such legal tension. By prosecuting individuals for provocatively displaying the PKK symbol, Turkish courts faced criticism for stifling dissent. Similarly, the United States raised concerns under flag-saluting jurisprudence: symbolic speech is constitutionally protected unless it directly incites imminent illegal action.
Returning to Mo Chara, his case hinges on interpretation. If the court applies a strict liability standard—displaying the Hezbollah flag triggers prosecution regardless of intent—it risks undermining expressive freedoms. And if it recognises the satirical and commercial context of Kneecap’s performance, a conviction may be seen as overreach.
Public reaction has been mixed but fervent. Hundreds gathered outside the court on 18 June, waving Irish and Palestinian flags, chanting “Free Mo Chara.” Renowned artists released statements condemning the prosecution as “a campaign of intimidation” and a policing of content rather than intent.
Meanwhile, critics accuse Kneecap of flirting with extremist rhetoric, pointing to earlier lyrics or chants like “the only good Tory is a dead Tory” or “up Hezbollah” as irresponsible. In response, the band responded by apologising for the Tory statement, while denying any genuine support for terrorism.
The temperature of the debate has raised dramatically since Kneecap’s appearance at Glastonbury. Both Kneecap’s set and that of hip-hop punks Bob Vylan were accompanied by chants of “death to the IDF”.
This didn’t help matters.
Kneecap have been quite clear that they are not in favor of anyone getting hurt. Human decency calls for the IDF to be stopped, not killed.
And this is certainly Kneecap’s actual position. But expressing oneself in this way, or creating a space for such impressions, creates an opportunity for the forces of the other side to shift the debate from the situation in Gaza to the one in Somerset.
While Glastonbury has complicated the situation, however, it hasn’t changed what is at stake. Historically, wrongful convictions—like the Birmingham Six—serve as cautionary memory: when state fears overwhelm fair process, innocent lives suffer.
Mo Chara’s case does not implicate violence, but the principles are parallel.
Where does legitimate political dissent end and criminal endorsement begin? Does the law punish intent or merely appearance? Does the performer’s lack of premeditation matter?
In sum, the legal ramifications of Mo Chara’s prosecution reach far beyond a rapper waving a flag or starting a chant. They speak to democratic tolerance for dissent, the limits of state power under terrorism laws, and the safeguarding of expression—even when that expression shocks or displeases.
Modern terrorism statutes, forged in eras of violent conflict, are being stretched to securitise and silence political art. This risks miscarriage of justice.
As Mo Chara awaits his next hearing, his case is shaping up to be a crucible moment. Will contemporary societies tolerate politically provocative art or punish it as symbolic terror?
Photograph courtesy of Paul Hudson. Published under a Creative Commons license.