Across the West Bank, Palestinian communities are facing a steady rise in attacks by Israeli settlers. Homes have been torched, agricultural land destroyed, and residents beaten or driven from their villages. The violence has become a source of growing concern not only for those living through it, but also for neighboring states watching the consequences spread beyond Israel’s borders.

Although these attacks are illegal—and many Israelis oppose them—Israel does nothing to stop them. In fact, Israeli security forces stationed throughout the West Bank have reportedly accompanied settlers as they storm villages, assault men, women, and children, and set fire to homes, vehicles, and agricultural land.

In the past year, these events have increased in number and intensity. In the first three months of 2026, settlers attacking or blocking access to homes resulted in the displacement of nearly 1,700 Palestinians. This is 90% of the number of Palestinians displaced during the entire year of 2025.

Unlike most situations in the Middle East, this is one problem that Israel has the power to unilaterally solve. Instead, it allows an already fraught security situation to worsen. Its failure to intervene is often seen as tacit endorsement of these attacks.

One of the neighboring states paying close attention to the escalation is Jordan.

Situated on the eastern border of the West Bank, the country consistently enjoys stability even as conflict engulfs much of the surrounding region. If the attacks continue unchecked, one of only four Arab states to have normalized relations with Israel could face growing domestic pressure that tests those ties.

Jordan is home to over 2 million Palestinian refugees and their descendants, displaced since the 1948 and 1967 wars with Israel. Israel’s reluctance to stop the settler attacks could trigger a refugee crisis as more Palestinians cross the border from the West Bank into Jordan. Jordanian authorities have strongly condemned the violence, with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs recently expressing concern that the situation could fuel extremism and undermine the possibility of a two-state solution.

The presence of Israel’s Western allies, especially the United States, serves as a powerful deterrent against a wider Middle Eastern conflict. Yet settler violence has already begun to change the tone of Israel’s relationships with many of its partners. The United Nations has expressed grave concern over settler attacks. The European Union and the Vatican have issued statements of condemnation. In June, five Western allies imposed joint sanctions on individuals and networks in Israel known to support settler violence.

If these attacks continue, Western governments could face growing pressure to impose additional sanctions, reduce military or diplomatic support, or further distance themselves from Israel. A significant weakening of those alliances could encourage rival states and armed groups to take greater risks if they believe the likelihood of a coordinated Western response has diminished. Israel would remain a formidable military power, but a sustained erosion of Western backing would make a prolonged regional war more likely.

Unhindered settler violence provides extremists in the West Bank and Israel with ideological canon fodder. Settlers are shielded from consequences and protected by Israeli security forces. They are not discouraged from carrying out these attacks; instead, they are emboldened. If this continues, an increase in Palestinian retaliation would be unsurprising.

Increased Palestinian attacks alongside continued settler violence could create a never-ending cycle. As violence escalates, security in the West Bank would deteriorate further. That environment could provide more opportunities for extremist groups on both sides to recruit and expand their influence. With more people drawn into those groups, attacks would likely become more frequent, increasing the risk of further violence in both the West Bank and Israel.

If permitted to continue, Israel’s role in West Bank settler activity could shift regional and even international alliances. Added to the already volatile regional security situation, the scales could tilt so heavily against Israel that the unprecedented Abraham Accords would become obsolete.

It is not unusual for Middle Eastern alliances to be short-lived. This is because they frequently are built not on strengths, but on shared security threats and regime survival. If the Abraham Accords were scrapped, the four Arab countries that signed on to the Accords would face regional pressure to form new alliances or join existing ones. Other nations across the world would then need to adapt in order to re-secure their own interests. Such significant shifts in geopolitical alliances centered around the Middle East could recalibrate the world.

Israel has the power to end settler violence in the West Bank. Instead, it allows the attacks to continue. What happens in this disputed corner of the Middle East does not stay here. Governments across the region have condemned the attacks on Palestinians, and the combination of escalating settler violence and continued settlement expansion has created the impression that Israel is incrementally moving toward annexation of the West Bank.

Israel has both a moral responsibility and a strategic interest in changing course. Protecting Palestinians from violence means upholding the rule of law and basic human dignity. It also serves Israel’s own long-term security. Every attack that goes unchecked increases the risk of further violence, weakens Israel’s relationships with its partners abroad, and makes regional stability harder to achieve. Ending settler violence is not only the right thing to do. It is in Israel’s own interest.

Nearly 20 years ago, a group of Holocaust deniers and anti-Israel activists were invited to Iran to support Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s supposition that the murder of six million Jews in Europe was a “myth.”

The anti-Zionist hardliner, then president of Iran, also called for Israel to be wiped off the map.

An unlikely candidate, one might think, to become a spy for a country the Islamic Republic has consistently labeled “Little Satan.”

And yet, if reports are to be believed, Ahmadinejad was allegedly groomed and recruited as an intelligence asset by Mossad, which even considered him for a role leading Iran if the Islamic Republic was toppled.

According to a report in The New York Times (NYT), Israel’s most feared intelligence service sent its top spy to Budapest to meet with the anti-Zionist former president. The mission continued even after Israel’s devastating war in Gaza against Hamas after October 7.

The terrorist group has received millions of dollars in funding from its staunch ally, the Islamic Republic of Iran.

It may read like a far-fetched Hollywood movie plot. That’s certainly the line Ahmadinejad’s office is putting out there, which has dismissed the “Hollywood-style claims” that were “not worthy of denial,” before accusing the NYT of publishing “fabricated” material.

The paper also reported that Ahmadinejad is now under house arrest after Iranian authorities uncovered much of his alleged interaction with Israel. His office denies this.

For those who have followed Ahmadinejad’s career after he left office in 2013, the decisions that may have led him down this path are not so incredulous.

“Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has been ostracized out of the political sphere. And his ambitions remain unfulfilled. This motivation could be manipulated to get him on board with Mossad’s tasking. Israel gets control of domestic politics in Iran, and Ahmadinejad gets his old job back, something he believes he deserves,” says Jonathan Hackett, a US Marine Corps veteran specializing in counterintelligence and the author of Iran’s Shadow Weapons: Covert Action, Intelligence Operations, and Unconventional Warfare.

Such an operation is “High-risk, low probability of success,” one which most states would not undertake. But, Hackett goes on to say, “Mossad has an interest in influencing and directing Iran’s domestic politics. If Mahmood Ahmadinejad can achieve this for them, it would make sense.”

Ahmadinejad rose to power with the direct backing of Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, serving as Iran’s president from 2005 to 2013.

He soon became one of the Islamic Republic’s most recognizable figures—not only down to his appalling views on the holocaust, but the violent crackdown that followed his disputed “landslide” re-election in 2009.

Many Iranians believed he didn’t win the election fairly, leading to mass protests on the streets, which became known as the Green Movement.

But it was Ahmadinejad’s relationship with the ruling establishment that was a bigger thorn in his side. The regime which brought him to power steadily deteriorated, and he was repeatedly barred from returning to the presidential race. That frustration would have turned into anger towards the regime, making him easy fodder for recruitment.

“Whilst he is not the most desirable asset from a handling perspective, the placement and access he has may outweigh the costs of difficult handling,” said Hackett, when asked why Mossad would recruit him.

In recent years, Ahmadinejad became a critic of the Islamic Republic, accusing senior officials of corruption and poor governance. His views became more moderate, and he worked on improving his English and getting a makeover. He trimmed his beard and reportedly had Botox.

Iranian-born historian Dr. Arash Azizi recalled arranging an interview between Ahmadinejad and an Israeli journalist, claiming that the former president repeatedly expressed an interest in discussing Jewish history and Israel.

“He seemed to be open to normalization with Israel,” Dr. Azizi told Iran International, a Persian-language satellite channel based in London.

It’s not clear when Israeli intelligence first approached the former president, but the NYT reported that the Islamic Republic traced at least some of Ahmadinejad’s contacts with Israeli intelligence to a 2023 trip to Guatemala.

According to the newspaper, David Barnea—then head of the Mossad—also traveled to Hungary to meet Ahmadinejad, after he had been invited to speak at Ludovika University at a climate conference the year before.

The story was corroborated in the left-wing Israeli newspaper Haaretz, which suggested that the former Mossad director even skipped a security consultation about Gaza with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu to focus on Ahmadinejad.

Israeli officials reportedly paid him for housing and travel, with Mossad operatives meeting him several times.

Naturally, Ahmadinejad’s behavior started to arouse the Iranian regime’s suspicions. He twice slipped his security detail during a 2025 trip to Budapest—shortly before that summer’s 12-day war between Israel and the US—and confronted him about his disappearances.

The operation reached its most dramatic moment on February 28, according to the NYT, when the US and Israel began military strikes against Iran, killing several Iranian figures including Ayatollah Khamenei.

An Israeli strike also hit Ahmadinejad’s compound, targeting a building used by his bodyguards. But the former president, according to the NYT, had been driven away by four Mossad agents, who then kept him at a safe house in Tehran.

Ahmadinejad had not been seen in public for months, sparking widespread speculation. But then he appeared among mourners at Khamenei’s funeral in July. In video footage, Ahmadinejad looked weary but raised a hand, perhaps to reassure someone off-camera, before nodding and smiling.

If the regime thought there was any truth to the spying allegations, why would he be seen at such a high-profile event?

“The regime is very weak and fractured,” Hackett explains. “They may be prioritizing the show of a unified front in the face of adversity for the time being. This does not mean Ahmadinejad is eternally safe. This is probably a temporary situation. The major figures both present and absent from the funeral were likely chosen deliberately, so having him there was a choice.”

So why reveal this alleged relationship now?

Such details would only have been released by Israel if there were compelling narrative benefits to doing so, according to an intelligence source. It would signal Mossad’s ability to recruit and handle agents who previously operated at the highest levels of a hostile state’s government.

Even then, exposing an alleged agent would carry enormous risks. Perhaps Ahmadinejad became troublesome or threatened Israeli interests.

If these details were authorized for publication, it suggests Israeli officials believed the strategic benefits of the disclosure outweighed the operational cost.

Unless Mahmood Ahmadinejad speaks out, we may never know whether any of it is true. However, if the allegations are accurate, they point to a far broader objective than simply removing Iran’s leadership.

Hackett concludes: “Despite rhetoric to the contrary, Israel is not so much interested in regime change in Iran, as it is in regime control.”

Editor's Note: This article contains descriptions of sexual violence and the killing of children that some readers may find distressing. "Sarah" and "Fatima" are pseudonyms used to protect the identities of the source and victim. In a country where justice is often out of reach and many such crimes go undocumented, we believe it is important to bear witness to these stories.

PARWAN, Afghanistan - It was around 8:30 am on July 7 in the Shinwari district of Parwan province when Sarah, a young healthcare worker, was called into a room to examine a patient. Sarah is not a doctor, at least not yet; she was there that day auditing one of the clinic’s wards in her capacity as a healthcare assistant.

“I heard shouting and screaming from the hallway before they called us to come and check her out,” recalls Sarah, who is an aspiring doctor and is currently studying medicine at an online university in Afghanistan. “A lady had just brought in a 10- or 11-year-old girl in her arms as she was crying. The Taliban officials asked us, only female healthcare workers, to see what was wrong with her.” Sarah was the first to get to the room where a young girl (we will call her Fatima), soaked in blood, lay in bed. “I went to check on her, but she was already deceased,” she says.

As the room filled with other female staff, they were all left paralyzed by the horrific scene in front of them. “We noticed that she was killed with a sharp object, most likely a knife, striking first her throat right under her chin,” she says with a trembling voice, adding, “We counted 17 stab wounds all over her abdomen and body, and since blood was still coming out of them, we stitched and closed them.”

Soaked in blood, Sarah and her colleagues continued examining Fatima’s body. It quickly became clear that this was more than a homicide. They found scars, bruises, and signs of tissue damage on her legs, thighs, arms, abdomen, and face. After consulting one another, they conducted a further examination and concluded that Fatima had likely been raped either before or after she was killed.

“I could not sleep for weeks after that incident because all I could see in front of me was the picture of that girl that day,” Sarah recalls.

Fatima’s case is far from unique. Since the Taliban returned to power in 2021, reported cases of rape and femicide (the intentional killing of women or girls because of their gender) have increased across Afghanistan, despite the regime’s crackdown on journalists, watchdogs, and dissidents who document such crimes. According to Afghan Witness, more than 332 cases of femicide were documented between August 2021 and June 2024. Even that figure is likely a significant undercount, with researchers describing it as only “the tip of the iceberg.”

Afghan Witness found that nearly half of documented femicides were committed by a family member or relative of the deceased. Another 12 percent were attributed to Taliban members, while 39 percent were carried out by “unknown actors.” Even when perpetrators are identified, accountability is rare. Deeply ingrained notions of family honor and shame often discourage relatives from pursuing justice, while a legal system that offers women little protection leaves many cases unresolved.

“After we examined the body, we filed a report and asked for the body to be sent to Kabul to the coroner’s office for forensic analysis,” says Sarah, adding, “I handed the report to the management office at the clinic since we are not allowed to talk to anyone in there [since they are all men].”

Not only was the report never sent to Kabul, but when Fatima’s parents finally arrived after an hour, they begged Sarah not to disclose that her child was raped.

“Her mom begged me and asked me not to tell anyone about her daughter being raped; she cried and said, ‘I have 5 more daughters, and nobody will marry them out of shame if they find out.’”

Fatima’s father demanded his daughter’s body be handed over, and they buried her two and a half hours after she was first brought into the clinic.

“Fatima’s father told me that now he has to marry off the rest of her daughters as fast as possible to save face,” Sarah told me.

The identity of the alleged perpetrator, and what happened afterward, made the case even more disturbing. Based on Sarah’s subsequent conversations with people close to the family, the man who murdered Fatima was her uncle by marriage, a neighbor who, they said, lured her into his home by claiming her aunt wanted to speak with her. According to those familiar with the case, Fatima was raped, murdered, and her body was left in a shallow stream across from the family’s house.

It was Fatima’s cousin who found her and alerted her aunt, who had been sowing wheat in a nearby field. Her aunt carried the 10-year-old to the clinic, hoping she was still alive.

Sarah says the suspect spent just nine days in prison before being released on bail. Devastated by her daughter’s death, Fatima’s mother has pleaded with her husband to leave the village.

The lack of accountability, proper investigative mechanisms, forensic analysis, and administrative authority is not merely an unfortunate consequence of the Taliban’s return to power, but the result of a system designed to function this way. Under the regime, women are afforded little value or protection, and crimes against them rarely warrant the resources or attention needed to deliver justice. Many of the killings and kidnappings of “public” women in Afghanistan have been carried out by Taliban members without any repercussions. Zan Times has documented these cases in a digital map of women who have been imprisoned or killed by Taliban members or unknown actors in recent years, illustrating the scale of this systematic oppression.

Cases of femicide in Afghanistan are on the rise and severely underreported.

On July 12, 2026, the body of 11-year-old Roida was found in her home in the Qazaq area of Sar-e-pol province. She had been fatally stabbed by an unknown perpetrator while her mother was outside. Earlier that June, the body of 8-year-old Saira was discovered several days after she disappeared from her uncle’s house in Kunar province, where she had been spending her school holidays. The perpetrator remains unknown, and the investigation produced no publicly known results. On June 8, 2026, Chiman Hosseinzadaeh and her daughter, Sara Yousufi, were found shot dead in Sar-e-pol province after Chiman reportedly refused to allow a local Taliban official to marry her 15-year-old daughter.

Sarah also shared reports she had heard of other young girls who were raped and killed in the same district. She was careful to distinguish rumor from firsthand knowledge, stressing that she had not witnessed these cases herself. Still, against the backdrop of rising femicide, such accounts are difficult to dismiss outright. “I heard from some of the villagers from the same area about a stepbrother who, in retaliation for his stepmother’s cruelty, raped his 2-year-old stepsister,” she says. “She did not survive.”

When the Taliban returned to power in 2021, dismantling the institutions and legal protections for women was among their first priorities. The result has been a system with little accountability, few mechanisms to investigate crimes against women, and even fewer avenues for justice. Cases of femicide continue to emerge, but many are never documented, investigated, or publicly reported.

It is rare for healthcare workers like Sarah to speak publicly about what they witness. They work under intense scrutiny and severe restrictions, including a ban on smartphones in many medical facilities, making it far more difficult to document abuses or share evidence with the outside world. Stories like Fatima’s reach the public only because people like Sarah are willing to take extraordinary risks to tell them.

While scrolling through social media during the war in Gaza, I came across a post saying that a friend of mine had been detained by the Israeli army while sheltering in Khan Younis. No one knew where he had been taken, and I did not know whether I would ever see or speak to him again. Months later, when a post from him appeared on Facebook, I rushed to message him. After hearing what he had endured, I promised him I would help make his story heard.

Mahmoud Alhadad was detained at Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis on February 14, 2024, while sheltering at one of the last functioning hospitals in Gaza after much of the enclave’s healthcare system had been devastated by the war. Blindfolded and handcuffed, he was taken by Israeli soldiers to Israel, where he spent a year in detention without ever being charged with a crime.

Alhadad is not the only Gazan who was detained during the war without being charged with a crime. Like hundreds of Gaza’s residents, he was held under Israel’s Incarceration of Unlawful Combatants Law. Following the Hamas attacks on October 7, 2023, Israel massively expanded its use to detain Palestinians from Gaza en masse without charge or trial. The law allows the Israeli military to imprison people the army considers affiliated with groups engaged in hostilities against Israel.

Asking him to describe the first moments of his detention, he said: “They gathered all of us in a crowded room, then a truck came to take us all together,” he recounted. During his initial interrogation near the Gaza border, Alhadad said he was beaten and threatened by the Israeli soldiers. “They asked me where the hostages are? Where does Hamas store guns? The interrogator told me either you answer me, or you are going to die at my hands.”

Mahmoud thought his answers would save him, but they did not. He told interrogators he had no information about hostages or weapons, explaining he was a civilian seeking medical care at the facility. Despite this, he was transferred into Israel’s prison system.

His first stop was the notorious Sde Teiman detention center in Israel’s Negev desert. The facility drew international attention after a leaked video showed five Israeli reservists beating and sexually abusing a Palestinian detainee, who survived with a ruptured bowel, severe internal rectal injuries, broken ribs, and punctured lungs.

“It’s like a storage facility,” Alhadad said. “We will be on our knees, handcuffed. We were something like 100 prisoners, with our hands to the back, from 6 am to 11 pm.”

He described being forced to kneel for up to 17 hours a day, where even the slightest movement was met with beatings. “You cannot stand or change your position to lean, look at others, or sleep; if you try, you will be beaten,” he said. Even basic needs were restricted. “When I want to go to the toilet, I go handcuffed, and my eyes are closed. Even when we want to sleep, we sleep handcuffed, and our eyes are closed.”

Alhadad said guards used dogs to intimidate prisoners. “They used to freak us out with dogs; sometimes they unleashed them on us. People peed on themselves from fear.”

Alhadad’s account confirms details from other reports by human rights organizations who demanded the closure of this facility, including Amnesty International and B’Tselem (The Israeli Information Center for Human Rights), which described the facility as “only the tip of the iceberg” of a broader, institutionalized network that has effectively been converted into de facto torture camps.

Three weeks after he arrived, Alhadad was transferred to another detention facility, known as the

“Al-Moskobiya” detention center in Jerusalem, where he remained for 33 days. He was then moved to Ofer Prison for 120 days, followed by a stint at Negev Prison, where he stayed from July 2024 until his release in February 2025.

Alhadad said the conditions in the Negev prison were no better. He described severe overcrowding, with 30 to 40 prisoners housed in tents with only 14 beds. “The winter was extremely cold, and the summer was extremely hot,” he stated. “I wept due to the cold weather; we lacked warm clothing.” Each morning, guards would confiscate blankets and mattresses, only to return them at night. “Rather than cleaning them, they are causing us to endure additional hardship,” he told me.

On top of the psychological and physical torture, there was a widespread outbreak of skin diseases, especially scabies and boils amongst the prisoners, due to lack of hygiene.

Alhadad’s ordeal extended beyond his own treatment. Cut off from his family in the Gaza Strip and denied any phone contact, he had no way of knowing whether or not they were alive. During interrogations, he says he was threatened with their murder if he did not provide information about Hamas and the hostages—a tactic he says was also used against many other Palestinian prisoners and detainees.

The abuse of Palestinian prisoners in Israel is an open secret in Gaza. I remember hearing stories from the older generation in the Strip about numerous Palestinians who were arrested and tortured in the aftermath of the first Intifada, and the pattern is continuing now. Beating, threatening, humiliating, and recently sexually abusing Palestinian prisoners. Suspicion of affiliation is enough to justify it—absent any concrete proof.

When I asked about the food, hoping to steer the conversation toward something less painful, his answer did little to lighten the mood.

“We eventually recover from scabies after we’re released,” he said. “But no one gets enough food. I lost 30 kilograms during my detention.”

He added that everyone was held under the same legal framework, regardless of who they were: “People who had lost a leg, the elderly, young people, women, doctors, and criminals.”

When I asked whether he had access to a lawyer, Alhadad said legal representation was largely symbolic.

“Lawyers visited only a limited number of prisoners, and no prisoner was allowed more than one visit,” he said. “The lawyer only asked about prison conditions. He had no authority to defend you or look into your case. Basically, his job was just to see that you were alive.”

Alhadad was released a year later as part of the February 2025 hostage-prisoner exchange. Today, he lives in a makeshift tent in Gaza.

Torture is a war crime. When committed systematically and on a large scale, it constitutes a crime against humanity. Multiple human rights organizations argue that this standard applies to the treatment of Palestinian detainees in Israeli custody.

At least 98 Palestinians have died in Israeli detention facilities since October 2023, according to Palestinian authorities and human rights organizations, citing violence, starvation, inadequate medical care, and other inhumane conditions.

Mahmoud Alhadad survived. He left detention thirty kilograms lighter after a year without charge or trial. He contracted scabies, was forced to kneel for up to 17 hours a day, threatened with the murder of his family, and released without ever being told why he had been imprisoned.

I recounted my own experience of torture and imprisonment at the hands of Hamas in my recently published book, Seashells at the Shores of Gaza: Testimonies and Memories from a Shattered Land.

As my friend spoke, I recognized much of what he was describing. Our captors were different—his were Israeli prison guards, mine were Hamas—but torture has a way of stripping away those distinctions. You are thrown into a place where your body and mind are systematically broken. Even after you leave, part of you never does.

The Israeli detention centers where Alhadad says he was abused are still open, and the legal framework that enabled his imprisonment without charge remains largely intact. Many of those implicated in allegations of abuse continue to serve, while new reports of mistreatment continue to emerge.

(Just yesterday, 60 prisoners were released from Israeli custody and transferred to Nasser Medical Complex in Khan Younis. Many arrived in wheelchairs, appearing visibly malnourished and exhausted.)

As we spoke, it became clear that Alhadad was not seeking revenge. Like so many survivors of torture, he simply wants acknowledgment, accountability, and the assurance that no one else would endure what he did. Hamas has never claimed to be bound by the rule of law. Israel does. That is precisely why it has a duty to investigate these allegations, hold those responsible to account, and ensure its detention system reflects the standards it expects others to uphold.

The family table laden with favorite childhood dishes; lazy days at the beach soaking up sun with friends. For some, the hallmarks of a Lebanese summer are noisy weddings that bring everyone together. For others, it’s waking up to familiar smells from the kitchen and being asked whether they want coffee or Nescafé.

When Tala* travels back to Lebanon every year, she looks forward to home-cooked kibbeh nayyeh served with tabbouleh and the constant ring of the doorbell announcing more guests. Her husband is from North Macedonia, and she relishes the chance to share these traditions with him—”The food, the people, the hospitality, the sunsets… but also the annoying things like traffic and noise and politics. Everything, the good and the bad.”

This year, forced to postpone her visit due to the conflict between Israel and Hezbollah, she is unsure. “I’m waiting for reassurance from my family that it feels safe enough to come.”

For millions of Lebanese living abroad, the summer visit is an annual ritual that reaffirms family ties and deepens their connection to a homeland many were forced to leave. In a country of contradictions, instability seems to strengthen the attachment of a dedicated diaspora that typically maintains close links with their homeland, even after decades away. But this year, the unpredictable chaos of regional war has made even the most intrepid Lebanese travelers hesitate before booking flights home. “Part of me wants to continue living my life, go back, and enjoy Lebanon. The other hurts to see what the country and its people are going through,” Tala said.

In a typical year, the summer months bring a spike in arrivals as around one million Lebanese return home to visit family and friends. Lebanon has one of the world’s largest diaspora communities relative to its population, with an estimated 15 million Lebanese people based abroad compared to around 5.7 million living in Lebanon. These communities provide a lifeline to the country’s struggling economy, sending back remittances that account for 33 percent of the nation’s Gross Domestic Product (GDP).

The annual homecoming reaffirms their connection to a country where political instability, financial crisis, and regional conflict have alienated many Lebanese, prompting mass emigration in recent years. It also brings a much-needed boost for the economy. Cafes fill up, festival tickets sell out, usually quiet beaches bustle with people, and shopping malls throng with visitors again.

For Nour Zreika, who moved to Italy following Lebanon’s financial crisis in 2019, it is when a scattered community comes back together. Her immediate family lives in the US, but they visit Lebanon every year, maintaining their connection to a country they still call home.

The 33-year-old looks forward to reconnecting with childhood friends who live in different countries and return to Lebanon during the summer months. “And, of course, the food, the sea, and the overall feeling of being back home.”

This year is different.

Figures for the first quarter of the year show a steep drop in traffic at Beirut Rafic Hariri International Airport, with a 33 percent decline compared to the previous year. Flight numbers also decreased while ticket prices rose considerably on regional routes.

Reem Jabri, who works in HR in London, has canceled her flight back to Beirut. “I try my best to visit regardless of the situation, but it got really bad with the war this year,” she said. “The lack of safety and uncertainty makes me think twice.”

A ceasefire agreed in April, followed by subsequent agreements in June, has done little to restore confidence amid frequent flare-ups of fighting. Around 1.2 million people have been displaced and more than 3,900 killed in the latest round of clashes between Israel and Hezbollah, which began on March 2 following the assassination of Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei.

The war is the latest in a series of conflicts that have prompted waves of Lebanese professionals and young people to move abroad, deepening the brain drain that threatens the country’s prospects for economic growth.

When Rami Mehio, 33, left Beirut seven years ago, he planned to build his career then return when the situation improved. As time passed and successive crises pushed Lebanon’s recovery further into the future, he felt his enthusiasm ebb. “I have become less attached to it. If my family was not there, I don’t think I would be visiting as frequently,” he said.

His wife is expecting their first baby in October, and the couple is reluctant to visit a war zone while she is pregnant. With ticket prices soaring and the increased risk of getting trapped if hostilities flare, he may cancel his trip for the second time this year.

“The cost of living has become so high [in Lebanon] that I am weighing up whether it’s better to go there or send the funds to help my parents with living expenses,” he said.

The country’s economy is projected to shrink by seven to 10 percent this year, with the current war expected to cost an estimated $20 billion. Lebanon was already struggling from financial collapse in 2019 and the 2024 war between Israel and Hezbollah. Much now depends on the tense ceasefire between Israel and Hezbollah brokered in June following renewed clashes earlier that month.

In May, Lebanon’s Finance ‌Minister Yassine Jaber said in a Reuters interview that the full extent of economic damage would also be determined by the flow of remittances from the Gulf and the success of the summer tourist season.

Summer tourism brings billions of dollars into Lebanon each year, providing crucial support for the hospitality sector. Visitors come for the beaches, cuisine, culture, hospitality, heritage, scenery, nightlife, and events. They book hotels and eat in restaurants, typically spending more than diaspora visitors who tend to stay in family homes.

Early indicators this year suggest a sharp drop in bookings as foreign tourists avoid Lebanon amid travel warnings and flight disruptions. Traditionally, the country’s tourism sector has demonstrated remarkable resilience, with the 2025 season registering a 44.5 percent increase on the previous year despite the impact of clashes between Israel and Hezbollah linked to the wider conflict in Gaza. However, a new wave of regional volatility and repeated ceasefire violations in 2026 have cast doubt on whether this recovery can be sustained.

In an article examining the financial fallout of a lost tourism season in Lebanon, Libnannews cites the knock-on effects across the economy, resulting in lost earnings, failing businesses, and families under pressure.

“Tourism is often presented as a leisure sector. In Lebanon, it is also a social shock absorber. It employs waiters, maids, receptionists, cooks, drivers, security officers, technicians, musicians, delivery agents, guides, vendors, and seasonal workers. Many depend on a few months of activity to hold the rest of the year.”

After a slow start to the season, July hotel bookings showed tentative shoots of recovery, but the sector remains vulnerable to shocks. “A strike in Beirut, an evacuation order in Tyre, a flight suspension or an embassy alert may be enough to break the momentum… A country cannot build a sustainable tourism strategy if each summer depends on a ceasefire negotiated abroad.” Libnannews reported.

For Lebanese living overseas, watching loved ones endure the impacts of another war adds to their dilemma. “Part of me feels that if they are living through it, then I can manage to visit, but it requires more careful planning and awareness of the situation,” Tala said.

She avoids mainstream media coverage, which she feels paints the situation as “black and white.” Instead, she takes guidance from people on the ground and has booked a trip to Lebanon for the end of August, when she hopes the situation will be clearer.

Sophie Mawad, 33, visits three times a year, at Christmas, Easter and in summer, from her home in Saudi Arabia. She is among hundreds of thousands of Lebanese based in Gulf cities, where the wider regional conflict with Iran has placed economies under pressure. Of an estimated $6 billion in annual remittances, nearly 50 percent come from Gulf countries. However, job losses among expats threaten the flow of remittances back to Lebanon.

In diaspora hubs, including Saudi Arabia and the UAE, the war has disrupted tourism and trade, damaged energy infrastructure, and upended supply chains. Many fear that being stranded in Lebanon could jeopardize their jobs abroad. Others find the anguish of watching their country suffer has only deepened the desire to return home.

Mawad is adamant that she will stick to her travel plans: “I always end up going, no matter what.” However, for those living further away, or traveling with children, trips to Lebanon in the current climate can feel impossible.

After hoping the situation would improve, Lina Hallab has reluctantly decided against visiting this year. “We opted to stay in the US this summer, especially now that we have a toddler,” she said. “There was so much uncertainty…and we are worried if the situation gets worse, we might get stuck there.”

In a typical year, the summer months bring people together from all over the world as Lebanese from Brazil, Canada, the UK, Europe, West Africa, and other countries reunite in the Levantine nation. From June to August, the atmosphere lifts as families celebrate special occasions, young people dance to blaring music, and tanned bodies stretch out on the beach.

This homecoming persists in the face of ongoing crises, replenishing a country that seems constantly on the verge of unraveling. Tourism in Lebanon has weathered geopolitical shocks before. The question this year is whether repercussions from the 2026 Iran war threaten a deeper impact. As the blow to tourism and remittances filters through the economy, wage cuts, job losses and business failures may prompt even more Lebanese to leave.

It’s a dilemma that preoccupied Lebanese students attending the inaugural Cedars Conference in London earlier this year. Aimed at enhancing the sense of community among Lebanese students abroad, the conference featured speakers who discussed the challenging prospects of building their future careers in Lebanon. Speaking to the crowd gathered at the London School of Economics, former director general of the Finance Ministry and current chairman of the Citizen Foundation Alain Bifani captured the contradiction that confronts the next generation. “I would be ashamed to tell a young person in Lebanon to stay, but I wouldn’t like to tell them to leave.”

Now and in the future, practical considerations compete against emotional ties to a country where decades of conflict have alienated some but deepened the connection for others. Nour Zreika has canceled plans to return for her cousin’s wedding in August, but longs to feel the familiarity of home. “If anything, [the situation] has strengthened my connection with Lebanon. Of course, uncertainty and safety concerns affect my decisions, but I still feel a strong desire to return whenever I can.”

For generations of Lebanese abroad, returning home has never been simply a vacation. It is how families stay connected across continents and how many continue to invest in a country they refuse to give up on. Another lost summer risks fraying both.

Lebanese President Joseph Aoun arrived in Washington this week with a difficult proposition. Lebanon wants Israeli forces to withdraw from the south and reconstruction to begin. It also accepts that, in time, the state’s authority must extend to every armed group, including Hezbollah. The challenge is persuading each side to move before the others do.

Aoun returned with a decision to restore direct commercial flights between the United States and Lebanon for the first time in four decades, public support from the Trump administration, and the outline of a bargain that Lebanon still lacks the power to enforce.

Aoun’s visit was the first by a Lebanese head of state to the White House in nearly twenty years. He arrived at a moment when Lebanon is expected to restore state authority, even though Israeli forces still hold positions in the south and Hezbollah has no intention of giving up its weapons.

During the meeting, he made the case that Hezbollah’s disarmament could not be separated from Lebanon’s broader recovery. Asking Beirut to confront the group before Israel withdraws and before the state has the capacity to replace it, he argued, will leave intact the very conditions Hezbollah cites to justify keeping its weapons.

Aoun first met Secretary of State Marco Rubio, who praised the Lebanese government’s efforts to restore sovereignty and disarm Hezbollah. Rubio didn’t waste time mincing words after that, stating frankly that Lebanon could not achieve lasting peace while an armed organization remained stronger than, or ran parallel to, the state. Aoun also held talks with members of Congress and senior administration officials, making the visit broader than a single Oval Office meeting.

That outreach may prove to be more consequential than the Aoun-Trump meeting. American assistance to the Lebanese army, reconstruction support, sanctions policy, and long-term backing for any settlement with Israel cannot depend entirely on Trump’s mood. Aoun was trying to solidify Lebanon’s position across Washington, not just woo one president.

Still, charm played its part.

During the meeting, Aoun praised Trump's commitment to peace, told him securing it in Lebanon could become his legacy, and described him as a "great president." Trump smiled, agreed with the compliment, called Aoun handsome, and said the Lebanese president “knows how to get to me,” before adding: “Now he can have anything.”

It was, by diplomatic standards, practically a bromance. Trump, after all, had recently complimented Iraqi Prime Minister Ali al-Zaidi’s looks as well. Perhaps he has a type.

The exchange was amusing, but Aoun understood the man across the table. Trump likes praise, legacies, and agreements that can be presented as personal victories. Aoun did not lecture him on Lebanon’s historical complexity or beg for favors. Instead, he offered something far more useful—the prospect of making peace in Lebanon part of the president’s legacy.

For a small country negotiating with a superpower, understanding who you’re negotiating with is the first step toward good diplomacy.

Following the meeting, Trump directed his administration to allow American airlines to fly directly to Lebanon again, ending a ban imposed after the 1985 hijacking of TWA Flight 847. The decision carries real weight for Lebanon’s large diaspora in the United States, making it easier to maintain the family and cultural ties that connect many Lebanese Americans to their homeland.

The flights will not resume immediately. American officials must first complete a security assessment of Beirut airport, and airlines must decide whether the regional security environment makes the routes commercially viable. The United States also continues to advise its citizens against traveling to Lebanon.

The possibility of a broader agreement was introduced as well.

According to Lebanese media reports, they discussed linking the end of Hezbollah’s military role to a political and economic return for Lebanon that includes Israeli withdrawal, reconstruction assistance, international support, and investment. Economic zones, potential American investment in Lebanon’s offshore gas fields, and Lebanon’s possible place in new regional energy corridors were reportedly among the issues raised.

For now, this is all talk. Nevertheless, the talks show that Aoun was trying to present sovereignty as an economic project, not merely a security operation. A state expected to replace Hezbollah’s parallel military and social structures must be capable of offering citizens more than speeches about sovereignty—and it needs support to do so.

Aoun rejected any Syrian military intervention against Hezbollah. Instead, the discussion turned toward Lebanese-Syrian cooperation to secure the border, stop weapons smuggling, and disrupt Hezbollah’s supply routes. Rubio similarly argued that Syria should focus on securing its side of the border rather than entering Lebanon.

Syria invading Lebanon to fight Hezbollah would reopen old wounds and risk importing Syrian vengeance that could escalate into another Lebanese conflict, but Syria preventing weapons from crossing its territory would be a legitimate contribution to Lebanese sovereignty.

Trump also described Parliament Speaker Nabih Berri as a “good person” who might join the process once he saw progress. Berri responded that Trump seemed to understand him better than some Lebanese did, while warning that neither a complete ceasefire nor the required Israeli withdrawals had yet materialized.

The exchange exposed Washington’s realism. No Lebanese agreement involving Hezbollah can easily bypass Berri, Hezbollah’s closest institutional ally and the gatekeeper of parliament. But relying on him also carries an obvious risk. For decades, Berri has cast himself as a bridge between Hezbollah and the state, but only so long as the path leads somewhere Hezbollah is willing to go.

The visit coincided with the first Israeli withdrawal under the pilot-zone program. Israeli troops left Zawtar al-Gharbiyeh, and Lebanese soldiers began deploying there. The next negotiating round is scheduled for August 4 in Italy, where the timetable for further withdrawals and army deployments will be central to the discussion.

This gave Aoun a concrete sign of progress, but it also demonstrated how fraught the process is. Israel says it will retain territory so long as Hezbollah remains armed. Hezbollah refuses complete disarmament and rejects direct negotiations. Lebanon argues that an Israeli withdrawal would remove the justification Hezbollah has long used for retaining its weapons.

Everyone wants the other side to move first.

Aoun did not return with a commitment to a full Israeli withdrawal, a reconstruction package, or Hezbollah’s agreement to disarm. Nor could anyone reasonably have expected a single White House visit to deliver those outcomes.

The better measure is whether he left Lebanon in a stronger position than when he arrived. He did.

The warmth between the two presidents was genuine. The agreement to restore direct flights, even if implementation takes time, is a tangible result. The broader understanding between the two countries is still taking shape, but Aoun appears to have secured something just as valuable: Trump’s attention and admiration. As the president himself joked, Aoun could now “have anything.”

Lebanon will soon discover whether that includes the two things it needs most: its territory back and a state strong enough to keep it.

Bab el-Mandeb has long been known as the “Gate of Tears.” Yemen’s Houthis now appear determined to ensure it lives up to its reputation.

On July 20, the Iran-aligned militia announced an immediate maritime blockade against Saudi Arabia, threatening vessels entering or leaving Saudi ports. The Houthis have not yet physically sealed the strait, and their ability to enforce a total closure is unclear. But that distinction offers little comfort to shipping companies. By July 22, several tankers had already changed course, while European authorities warned vessels connected to Saudi Arabia, the United States, or Israel that they faced an increased risk of attack.

This is how a strategic waterway can be effectively closed without a formal naval occupation. The Houthis need only to fire enough missiles, launch enough drones, or issue enough credible threats to make insurers, crews, and shipping companies decide that the risk is too high to proceed.

Bab el-Mandeb connects the Gulf of Aden to the Red Sea and, farther north, the Suez Canal. Around 12 percent of global trade and roughly one-quarter of the world’s container traffic normally pass through the narrow waterway. When ships avoid it, they must travel around the Cape of Good Hope, adding one or two weeks to voyages between Asia and Europe and sharply increasing fuel, insurance and transportation costs.

Its importance has grown because of the disruption in the Strait of Hormuz. Saudi Arabia has been using its East-West Pipeline to move crude to Yanbu on the Red Sea, allowing millions of barrels to bypass the Persian Gulf. More than seven million barrels of petroleum reportedly passed through Bab el-Mandeb each day in June, compared with roughly four million before the Iran war. Saudi Arabia alone has recently been exporting approximately four million barrels a day through Yanbu.

A Houthi campaign against those exports would place one of the world's most important energy routes at risk. Markets are highly sensitive to the possibility of disruption, even before supplies are affected. Crude oil prices rose by more than 6 percent this morning alone, illustrating how quickly concerns over the strait can ripple through the global economy.

Reuters estimated that a complete closure could remove as much as 7 percent of global oil supply. Even an incomplete blockade could raise energy prices, increase transportation costs, and accelerate inflation throughout economies that have no connection to Yemen’s civil war.

For the Houthis, civilian economic suffering is part of the strategy rather than an unintended byproduct.

The militia describes their blockade as retaliation against Saudi Arabia’s restrictions on Houthi-controlled Yemen and the recent strike on Sanaa International Airport. The confrontation escalated after an Iranian aircraft carried Houthi officials between Yemen and Iran, followed by Saudi action against the airport and Houthi missile and drone attacks on Abha International Airport.

The Houthis have their own local conflict with Saudi Arabia. They are not merely robots waiting for someone in Tehran to press a button.

But recognizing their local ambitions should not obscure the larger strategic reality.

The Houthis are a central component of Iran’s so-called Axis of Resistance. Their missiles, drones, political ideology, and regional posture have been developed through a long partnership with Tehran. Their latest escalation also directly benefits Iran by opening a second pressure point while maritime traffic through Hormuz is already under strain.

Whether the order was transmitted directly from Tehran may be impossible to prove publicly. But the outcome is the same: an armed faction ruling much of Yemen is using Yemeni territory to strengthen Iran’s position in a wider regional confrontation.

Iran gains leverage while the Houthis gain relevance. Ordinary Yemenis are left to endure the retaliation that follows.

They say the blockade applies to ships trading with Saudi ports. Tomorrow, a vessel may be targeted because of its ownership, previous destinations, cargo, insurer, flag, or alleged relationship with a country the Houthis consider hostile.

Shipping companies cannot base billion-dollar operations and the safety of their crews on Houthi “assurances.”

The uncertainty itself is a weapon.

The declared blockade represents the most serious direct escalation between the Houthis and Saudi Arabia in years. Major fighting had largely subsided after the 2022 truce, giving Yemenis an uneasy period of relative calm. That calm is now in jeopardy.

Saudi Arabia has promised to protect vessels and respond firmly to Houthi attacks. Should the militia begin striking tankers or laying naval mines, retaliation is almost inevitable. Such an exchange could reignite the Yemeni war and pull the country deeper into the confrontation between Iran and the United States.

The Houthis may believe that geography insulates them and assume that Saudi Arabia, the United States and other powers fear another prolonged conflict in Yemen. They may also be betting that threatening global energy supplies will force foreign governments to pressure Riyadh.

But it is ordinary Yemenis who will bear the costs. Whatever strategic gains the Houthis expect, Yemen will emerge poorer and less stable than before.

The international response must protect freedom of navigation while avoiding the illusion that airstrikes alone can solve Yemen’s political disaster. Airstrikes may be necessary to deter missile launches and protect commercial shipping, but they will not be enough on their own.

The Houthis claim they are blockading Saudi Arabia in defense of Yemen. In reality, they are once again blockading Yemen’s future. They have turned the country’s strategic location into a tool of Iran’s regional strategy, leaving Yemenis to bear the economic and military consequences.

Bab el-Mandeb may indeed be the Gate of Tears. But it is the Houthis who keep ensuring that Yemenis have reasons to weep.

For most governments, diplomacy is a tool used to prevent war. Fighting begins only after negotiations have been exhausted. But Iran’s leaders do not see the two as separate phases. In Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi’s telling, diplomacy and war are not alternatives but successive tools in the same struggle.

In a recent interview, Araghchi lays out a strategic worldview unfamiliar to those who value peace. He sees negotiations as a way to delay conflict, shape international opinion, justify military action, and convert military gains into political ones. War, in turn, strengthens Iran’s position at the negotiating table. Rather than replacing one another, diplomacy and military force reinforce each other in pursuit of the same strategic objective.

Araghchi’s account of Iran’s recent negotiations was unusually explicit. Tehran does not enter talks expecting success to be measured by a signed agreement. The real test is whether Iran can defend its interests without signaling that military pressure can compel it to yield.

Iran, he says, has two ways of pursuing its rights: “Either we fight, or we talk and negotiate.” Negotiation is “the easier and less costly path.”

The similarity with Western thinking ends there.

Araghchi does not describe negotiations as a search for compromise, but as a contest of resolve. Iran can negotiate honorably, he argues, only from a position of strength.

That helps explain why he rejects the common claim that failed negotiations caused the war to begin with. The United States and Israel demanded that Iran abandon uranium enrichment. Iran refused. Once its adversaries realized “they could not achieve what they wanted through negotiations,” he argues, “they started the war.”

“The war began from there. When the other side saw that it could not achieve its demands through negotiation, it turned to war. It was not that negotiation led to war.”

The distinction is subtle but important. In Araghchi’s telling, diplomacy did not fail; it exposed a dispute that neither side was willing to negotiate away. Washington and Jerusalem saw Iran’s enrichment program as an unacceptable security threat. Tehran saw surrendering it under pressure as an admission that coercion works.

Iran ultimately refuses to set the precedent that it can be forced into anything.

When asked whether a temporary suspension of enrichment might have prevented the war, Araghchi dismisses the idea outright. Accepting such terms, he says, would have inflicted greater damage than the war itself. Iran would have “sold the country’s dignity” while demonstrating that military threats could pressure the Islamic Republic to retreat.

“This pattern must not be established,” he says. Iran therefore maintained its position in negotiations, “even if the price was war.”

He later reduces the doctrine to a principle attributed to Iran’s former Supreme Leader:

“We do not fight because war has costs and dangers. But when the cost of not fighting becomes greater than the cost of fighting, then you must fight. You must not hesitate.”

Iran sees itself as a besieged but enduring regional power surrounded by adversaries seeking to limit its sovereignty. From that perspective, no concession is ever isolated. Every step back under pressure becomes an invitation for greater demands later.

The Islamic Republic is willing to sacrifice infrastructure, prosperity, and even the lives of its own people as long as the regime can claim it has preserved its power and deterrence. The regime measures success by more than the damage Iran suffers. As long as it can adjust, preserve its military leverage, and avoid appearing defeated, it can still claim victory. That is also why it keeps negotiating even when it expects the talks to fail.

Araghchi effectively acknowledges as much. Iranian officials believed another war was imminent even as talks resumed, but they negotiated anyway. Either the negotiations would persuade the other side to abandon its demand for zero enrichment—which he regarded as unlikely—or they would demonstrate to domestic and international audiences that Iran had exhausted peaceful alternatives before resuming military action.

Political scientist Muhanad Seloom argues that the Strait of Hormuz exposes the economic dimension of Iran’s doctrine. When Iran’s chief negotiator declared that Hormuz “will never return” to its prewar condition, Seloom argues, the remark was misunderstood.

“It was not bravado,” he writes. “It was a business plan.”

Iran may never dominate the Gulf conventionally, but its geography allows it something different. By controlling the northern shore of one of the world’s most important energy chokepoints, the regime can increase the costs of regional stability even after suffering severe military setbacks.

“The toll booth is built,” Seloom observes. “Only the billing is paused.”

Araghchi’s interview reinforces that interpretation.

Iran had already prepared contingency plans to close Hormuz under specific circumstances.

“Why was the Strait of Hormuz closed on the first day?” he asks. “Because it had already been planned that if the leadership was targeted, the strait would be closed immediately.”

The closure of the Strait continues to complicate Iran’s relationship with its Gulf neighbors.

Iran’s leadership does not necessarily view Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Qatar, Kuwait, Bahrain or Oman as its principal enemies. What it rejects is the idea that these states can remain economically insulated while Iran is isolated, bombed, or prevented from exporting its own energy.

In essence, if Iran cannot export its oil freely, others should not expect to do so without consequence. If American forces launch attacks from Gulf territory (as the regime falsely claims), then those bases—and the economic infrastructure surrounding them—become legitimate targets.

As Seloom argues, Gulf states risk paying “rent to the threat” while simultaneously paying “a retainer to the protector.” Iran can demand concessions for keeping Hormuz open, and the United States can demand stricter security commitments for defending it. Meanwhile, the Gulf states face much of the economic fallout but have little say in the negotiations shaping the region’s future.

The Islamic Republic only needs to retain enough leverage to make regional stability dependent on Iranian consent. It can lose missile sites, aircraft, nuclear facilities, and senior commanders while still retaining bargaining power through geography, disruption, and the credible threat of escalation.

None of this suggests Iran is eager for perpetual war. If anything, Araghchi’s interview suggests the opposite. Tehran is conscious of war’s costs; it simply defines strategic rationality differently from governments that prioritize immediate economic stability. The Islamic Republic believes there are moments when accepting dependency or externally imposed limits is more dangerous than fighting. Buildings can be rebuilt. Lost deterrence is far more difficult to restore.

That worldview should not be romanticized. Iran’s strategy has imposed enormous suffering not only on its adversaries but on Iranians, Iraqis, Lebanese, Syrians, and increasingly the Gulf states. Its claim to resist domination has often meant extending its own coercive influence over weaker neighbors.

But dismissing Araghchi’s argument as mere propaganda risks misunderstanding how the Islamic Republic behaves. Western policymakers often ask whether diplomacy with Iran has succeeded or failed. Araghchi’s interview suggests Tehran asks a different question altogether. Negotiations are not meant to end the struggle. They are simply one phase of it.

Seloom concludes:

“None of this means choosing war over diplomacy. It means recognizing that the diplomacy is the war now, fought by other means, and that passivity is not neutrality but surrender by installment. The strait will be governed by rules. The only question is whose. Iran has taught the Gulf, at enormous cost, that Hormuz belongs to whoever is willing to set its terms and enforce them.”

Effective diplomacy begins with understanding how the other side defines success. For Tehran, negotiations are not designed to prevent conflict but to strengthen Iran’s position within it. Any strategy that mistakes those objectives for its own risks misunderstanding the Islamic Republic from the very start.

The mourners came out in full force. Clad in black despite the unforgiving summer heat, they joined an 80-kilometer procession through Tehran, weeping and chanting either “revenge” or “bayad barkhast”—“we must rise.”

It was July 6, and hundreds of thousands of Iranians attended the week-long state funeral procession for former supreme leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei.

The casket was taken across various cities in Iran, even crossing the border into Iraq, where it was carried through the holiest Shia shrines.

Three days later, he was finally laid to rest in his birthplace of Mashhad.

Emotions were certainly running high. Some mourners unfurled a banner reading: “We will kill Trump.”

But one figure’s absence was notably conspicuous—Mojtaba Khamenei.

The 56-year-old succeeded his father as Iran’s new Supreme Leader. Yet, since assuming the country’s highest office, he has not been seen in public since the Israeli air strike on February 28 that reportedly wounded him and killed Ali Khamenei.

His absence has fueled intense speculation inside and outside Iran. While some rumors have suggested he was merely injured, others have gone further, claiming he may have died.

The funeral ceremonies were carefully choreographed to project continuity. Foreign delegations attended, seemingly pointed Quranic verses were recited throughout the proceedings, and senior officials were present, including President Masoud Pezeshkian, Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi, and Parliament Speaker Mohammad Bagher Ghalibaf.

Hassan Khomeini, grandson of the founder of the Islamic Republic, attended alongside other family members.

Three of Ali Khamenei’s sons—Mostafa, Masoud and Meysam—appeared repeatedly throughout the funeral ceremonies, appearing to be physically well.

Only Mojtaba was missing. Instead, a cardboard cutout was placed to pay tribute in his stead. A statement on Tasnim News Agency, affiliated with the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC), said that Khamenei may lead a memorial ceremony for his father on July 23.

“I don’t even know the last time in global history where we’ve had a head of global state who has been absent throughout his time,” says historian Dr. Arash Azizi, author of What Iranians Want: Women, Life, Freedom.

“It’s not like where, once in a while, you don’t see a president for a few months because they’re sick. This is something much more radical.

“This is a head of state who has not even issued a five-second voice note. This is added to the fact that even before he was Supreme Leader, there were very few things that have ever come out of this guy in his life.”

Khamenei’s first message to the nation, on March 12, was delivered not personally but read aloud by a news anchor. In the speech, he vowed to “avenge the blood of our martyrs” and to keep the Strait of Hormuz closed.

Since that address, Iran’s state media has released no new images or recordings of Khamenei.

Earlier this year, a video of regime supporters cheering a cardboard cutout of Mojtaba Khamenei went viral, leading some people to mock him as the “cardboard ayatollah” and question whether he is even alive.

Asked if Khamenei could be dead, Azizi said it was “not impossible,” before adding:

“But I find it quite unlikely. I think it stretches incredulity. I also think Israel and the US have excellent intelligence in Iran. If they were sure Mojtaba is dead, they would declare it publicly.”

Azizi says he wouldn’t be surprised if this status quo continued not just for months, but even years.

According to a report by The New York Times, Iranian security officials blocked Mojtaba from attending his father’s burial because they feared Israel could either assassinate him or track him back to his secure location. The report cited two unnamed members of the IRGC and a person involved in planning the funeral.

If accurate, the decision highlights the extraordinary security environment surrounding Iran’s new leader. Since the opening strikes of the conflict, Israel has demonstrated an unprecedented ability to target senior Iranian military and political figures deep inside the country.

Jonathan Hackett—a US Marine Corps veteran specializing in counterintelligence and the author of Iran’s Shadow Weapons: Covert Action, Intelligence Operations, and Unconventional Warfare—concurs with Azizi’s assessment.

But, he adds, Israel and the US “may calculate that keeping his status ambiguous publicly may be beneficial for them as well.”

He continues:

“The IRGC is gaining by having kept Mojtaba incommunicado. This allows the real power players like [Ahmad] Vahidi, Ghalibaf… to carve out their own power bases within the IRGC absent any public interference from the new, untested Supreme Leader.”

Khamenei’s fate is important to monitor “because the way his status is described will help us understand how the dynamics inside the IRGC and clerical elite are playing out privately,” says Hackett.

Insiders have sought to counter the more dramatic rumors. One source familiar with the matter said Mojtaba was in good health and that reports of serious injuries had been exaggerated. Mojtaba, the source continued, sustained some injuries to his feet and some facial scarring during the conflict, but was recovering well.

The funeral itself also revealed growing political tensions.

Despite the carefully managed ceremonies, several senior officials encountered open hostility from hardline mourners. Pezeshkian, Araghchi, and Ghalibaf were heckled by some attendees over negotiations with the US. In one incident, Araghchi was reportedly confronted by protesters who shouted insults and threw stones at him.

This, Hackett says, demonstrates that the clerical establishment retains influence over the IRGC. He points to several “more extreme religious figures” who openly described Qalibaf’s negotiations with the United States as a “soft coup.”

The guest list itself was also noteworthy. The most significant attendee was former president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, whose appearance came after months of widespread media speculation over his alleged links to Mossad, Israel’s intelligence agency—claims that he has denied.

Ahmad Vahidi, the newly appointed IRGC commander, was seen publicly for the first time since the war began. Vahidi had himself been the subject of persistent rumors that he had been killed in Israeli airstrikes.

If Khamenei is alive and active, he would almost certainly rank high on Israel’s target list, which would explain why Iran’s leadership has prioritized security above all else.

Yet the longer he remains out of public view, the more questions are likely to grow. In the absence of official images or appearances, speculation has filled the vacuum, leaving observers to debate whether his invisibility reflects genuine security concerns, health issues, or a deliberate political strategy.

“Mjotaba’s absence could actually be used to fit him into the hidden imam narrative that is deeply woven into Shi’a Islamic thought,” says Hackett.

Within Twelver Shi’a belief, the 12th imam is still alive, although he is said to have gone into occultation after disappearing in 941 AD. The Mahdi, or “Hidden Imam,” will supposedly reappear at the end of time to restore justice and peace on earth before the Day of Judgment.

This connection, says Hackett, could serve as a useful tool for propagandists of the Islamic Republic in order to keep Mojtaba’s hidden status as a sign of legitimacy rather than weakness.

As for who is running Iran on a day-to-day basis, Azizi believes it is not Khamenei but rather Ghalibaf and his team at the national security council. This could lead to major changes in Iran.

“Ghalibaf might very well take the regime in a different direction, and the most likely direction he’d go in is a pragmatic one,” says Azizi. “It’s one in which Iran makes deals with the United States to help lift sanctions, tries to become a more normal country, and becomes less of a revolutionary one.”

But Ghalibaf, he says, will face resistance from the hardliners and parts of the deep state.

For now, we remain in limbo. Over 100 days after Ali Khamenei’s death, Iran has a new Supreme Leader but has yet to publicly introduce him. It continues to raise questions that neither official statements nor public ceremonies have managed to answer.

What is the truth behind Mojtaba’s lack of appearance, and will we finally get a glimpse of him? We may find out later this week.

President Donald Trump’s meeting with Iraqi Prime Minister Ali al-Zaidi puzzled many observers of Iraq. On its face, the meeting appeared contradictory. Zaidi rose to power from the Coordination Framework, the coalition of predominantly Shiite political parties that has served as the principal political vehicle for Iranian influence in post-2003 Iraq. Before becoming prime minister, he was also publicly associated with allegations involving financial networks that U.S. authorities said were facilitating sanctions evasion benefiting Iran’s infamous Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC).

Yet there he was, warmly welcomed at the White House, praised by President Trump, and presented as a potential partner in leading Iraq into a new chapter.

Many analysts have treated this as evidence that Washington has either abandoned its previous concerns about Iranian influence in Iraq or become willing to overlook them for the sake of short-term stability. I believe there is a third, more likely explanation. The Trump administration is betting that Iraq’s political elite are less ideological revolutionaries than political mercenaries, willing to shift their loyalties when their interests stand to benefit from it.

Iran’s influence in Iraq rests on two mutually reinforcing pillars. The first is political and ideological. Through parties, militias, religious networks, and patronage, Tehran has spent more than two decades embedding itself within Iraq’s governing institutions. The second is economic. Iraq became Iran’s financial and commercial lifeline, particularly after the expansion of international sanctions. Access to Iraqi banks, exchange houses, border crossings, oil and gas deals, and commercial networks enabled Tehran to soften the blow of economic isolation.

Iraq’s integration into the global economy was an asset to Iran. It needed Iraq to remain sufficiently connected to international and regional markets because that connectivity created opportunities for sanctions evasion, financial transfers, and commercial activity that would have been impossible inside Iran itself.

This dual structure exposes an apparent contradiction in Iranian strategy. While Tehran invested heavily in maintaining armed groups and ideological influence, it also had every incentive to preserve an internationally recognized, economically integrated, and Western-financially integrated Iraqi state. Iraq functioned as a bridge between Iran and the global economy. The revolutionary project depended, to some extent, on the very international system it publicly rejected.

Washington, rather than attempting to dismantle Iraq’s political order or engineer another ambitious nation-building project, seems to be taking a risky gamble, asking, “What happens when the interests of Iraq’s political class begin to diverge from those of Tehran?”

This question deserves more attention than it has received. Many Iraqi politicians who built their careers in the post-2003 political system are not only ideological revolutionaries, as some claim. They are political entrepreneurs. Their primary objectives have often been longevity, influence, access to state resources, and personal enrichment rather than advancing an Iranian revolutionary project.

Iraqi leaders often develop interests that differ from those of the coalitions that elevated them. Every prime minister inherits responsibility for governing an increasingly complex country whose economic future depends on international investment, financial stability, and functioning relations with both regional and global powers. Once in office, Iraqi leaders often find that governing the country conflicts with the narrower interests of the political factions that helped bring them to power.

This pattern has appeared repeatedly since 2003. Successive Iraqi prime ministers, despite entering office with varying degrees of support from Iran-aligned political forces, have sought to consolidate their own authority once in government. Some attempted to strengthen relations with Arab neighbors. Others pursued closer cooperation with Washington. Still others tried to distance Iraqi state institutions from militia influence without directly confronting Tehran. Their success was mixed, but shows that political elevation in Baghdad often requires catering to personal political and financial interests rather than remaining indefinitely loyal to the coalitions that brought them to power.

Trump’s strategy suggests he understands this dynamic. Rather than assuming that every politician associated with the Coordination Framework is permanently subordinate to Tehran, the administration appears willing to test whether self-interest can become a more powerful force than ideological loyalty. The implicit offer is straightforward. Iraq’s political leadership can retain access to international capital, American investment, energy partnerships, and broader integration into global markets, provided it demonstrates a willingness to strengthen state institutions, combat corruption, and gradually reduce the autonomy of armed groups operating outside the state’s control.

Whether the strategy succeeds will depend on whether Iraq’s political elite are ultimately driven by ideological loyalty or political and economic self-interest.

The debate unfolding across Iraqi and Arab media reflects precisely this uncertainty. Some commentators argue that Zaidi represents the first serious opportunity in years to restore Iraqi sovereignty by centralizing control over weapons, pursuing anti-corruption efforts, and reducing the influence of armed factions operating beyond the state’s authority. Others are deeply skeptical, noting that he is still a product of the same political ecosystem that enabled Iran’s influence in the first place and questioning whether any leader selected through the Coordination Framework can genuinely dismantle the networks that produced him. Still others argue that Zaidi’s real objective is neither alignment with Washington nor with Tehran, but the preservation of a delicate equilibrium between the two powers while maximizing Iraq’s room to maneuver.

As it currently stands, there are a lot of unanswered questions.

Will the Iraqi government move beyond arrests of lower-level officials and begin confronting politically protected corruption networks? Will financial channels that have enabled sanctions evasion be dismantled? Will the government establish a genuine monopoly over the use of force, or will armed organizations continue to operate as parallel security institutions? Will Iraq deepen its economic integration with Gulf states and Western investors while simultaneously attempting to preserve privileged economic ties with Iran?

The answers to these questions will determine whether Trump’s wager succeeds.

The administration is not attempting to transform Iraq into a liberal democracy. Nor does it appear to believe that Iraq’s political class will suddenly embrace the US-led world order.

Instead, it assumes that once presented with a clear choice between participation in the global economy and continued dependence on an increasingly constrained Iranian regional network, at least some of Iraq’s governing elite will choose the former.

This is not an explicitly transactional strategy. It rests on a reading of Iraq’s political economy’s evolution over the past two decades.

Iran retains enormous leverage through political allies, economic networks, and armed groups that continue to shape Iraq’s internal balance of power. Yet if Washington has correctly assessed that the defining characteristic of Iraq’s political elite is not ideological commitment but political and economic self-preservation, then Trump’s approach may prove more realistic than many of his predecessors’ attempts to reshape Iraq through military or institutional engineering.

The success or failure of this strategy will be measured by whether Iraq’s ruling class ultimately proves more committed to preserving its access to global markets than preserving the Islamic Republic’s regional project. If Trump’s calculations are correct, the forces that gradually loosen Tehran's grip on Iraq may be the very political incentives that once helped entrench it.

Last week, Hamas dissolved the body through which it has governed Gaza and claimed it was ready to transfer civilian authority to a committee of Palestinian technocrats.

Mohammed al-Farra resigned as head of the so-called Government Emergency Committee. The committee itself was dismantled. In its place, Hamas says it is prepared to accept the National Committee for the Administration of Gaza, led by former Palestinian Authority official Ali Shaath.

Hamas seized control of Gaza in 2007. Since then, it has directly governed the territory. Its power rested partly on its weaponry, but also on the fact that it decided who ran the institutions, who received government jobs, which political organizations could operate freely, and what Palestinian children were taught in schools.

Control of the government allowed Hamas to shape Gaza's institutions—and, through them, Palestinian society.

Hamas coveted that position for years before attaining it. It fought Fatah for it, consolidated it through violence, and preserved it for nearly two decades. So the decision to dissolve the government tells us something about the condition Hamas now finds itself in.

The movement has lost much of the political momentum it once had in Gaza. Its claim to govern rested on the idea that armed “resistance” would eventually lead to victory over Israel. Instead, Gaza has been devastated, much of its population displaced, and its future placed in the hands of foreign mediators, international donors, and an administration assembled in Cairo.

Hamas’s leadership would have preferred to emerge from this war as the undefeated government of Gaza. It also wanted to control the reconstruction money, appoint the officials, and claim credit for whatever recovery followed.

Instead, it is being forced to give up the public face of power. Most of its leadership from October 2023—Yahya Sinwar, Ismail Haniyeh, Mohammed Deif—has been killed.

That creates a real opening. Ali Shaath’s committee has described its purpose as stabilizing Gaza, restoring civilian government, and establishing a single authority for security.

But what does Hamas intend to do from the sidelines?

It has dissolved its government while retaining its armed organization. Its fighters, command structures, and tunnel networks remain, albeit damaged. Its personnel continues to police areas under Hamas control.

The technocratic committee could end up being responsible for the day-to-day work of government, while Hamas preserves the power to set the boundaries within which that government operates.

Imagine that Ali Shaath appoints a police chief who begins investigating corruption involving Hamas officials. What happens then?

Imagine that a newspaper publishes evidence of abuses by Hamas commanders. Who protects the journalists?

If another Palestinian political movement begins organizing in Gaza and attracting popular support, Hamas may still be able to crush it.

This is the Hezbollah model.

Hezbollah entered Lebanese politics, participated in elections, and worked through state institutions. At the same time, it maintained an armed force with its own leadership and strategic goals. This allowed Hezbollah to share in government while preserving a separate source of power greater than its parliamentary representation, insulating the group from real responsibility while rendering the official government largely ineffective.

Lebanese governments shouldered the responsibility for economic decline, public services, and international negotiations. Hezbollah retained the ability to pressure those governments and make decisions that carried consequences for the entire country.

Hamas may now be seeking a similar position.

Direct governance has become a burden for Hamas. Gaza requires an immense reconstruction effort, with damage estimates running into tens of billions of dollars. Whoever governs will face public anger, ruined infrastructure, and intense scrutiny over the distribution of foreign aid.

By stepping away, Hamas can allow the technocrats to absorb these pressures. It can present itself as a “resistance movement” again, rather than the authority responsible for the condition of Gaza.

Shaath’s committee has begun recruiting a new police force. Around 2,000 Gazans applied within hours of recruitment opening, and the international plan envisions training 12,000 officers. Hamas, meanwhile, has sought places in the new system for roughly 10,000 existing police officers and more than 40,000 civil servants.

Realistically, many of those civil servants—responsible for functions such as water and sewage systems, rubbish collection, electricity distribution, public records, schools, hospitals and salary payments—will have to remain in place. They have the knowledge required to keep basic administration functioning.

The police present a different problem. A police officer carries coercive authority.

Existing officers could join a new force as individuals, after vetting and retraining, under commanders appointed by the new administration. But absorbing Hamas’s police units intact would preserve the organization inside the new state.

The same applies to Hamas’s military wing. Disarmament means breaking the organization’s independent capacity to use force. Its weapons need to pass into the custody of the new authority or an agreed international mechanism. Its military units need to dissolve.

This distinction provides a practical test for every proposed compromise. A Hamas member serving as an ordinary police officer under Shaath’s command represents a transfer of authority. A Hamas battalion entering the new police force under its existing commander would just be a continuation of the previous regime.

The negotiations are in limbo because while both Israel and Hamas have agreed that Israel will withdraw and Hamas will give up its weapons, each side is demanding the decisive concession first. Meanwhile, Shaath’s committee is in Cairo, with Hamas still policing the territory it says it is ready to hand over.

A workable agreement therefore needs a reciprocal timetable. As Hamas hands over weapons and dissolves its armed units, the new police force can deploy, and the technocratic committee can assume control. As that authority expands, Israeli forces can withdraw from agreed areas. Outside monitors can verify both processes.

Hamas has already surrendered the formal machinery of government it spent eighteen years building. The next stage asks it to surrender the independent armed power that allowed it to dominate that machinery.

That is the real measure of whether Gaza is entering a new political era or merely rearranging the old one. If Hamas relinquishes both government and its monopoly on force, Gaza could finally have a single Palestinian authority accountable to its people. If it keeps its weapons while others assume the burdens of governing, Gaza will not have replaced Hamas’ rule. It will simply have adopted a different version of it.

A strange number has recently begun appearing online beneath videos about Jewish history, antisemitism, and the Holocaust.

Sometimes it appears just as “271K.” Other times it is accompanied by a cookie emoji, an oven, a glass of juice, or a comment about wooden doors. To most people, these posts look meaningless. But not to those of us familiar with the language of online extremism.

The number is used to claim that only 271,000 Jews were killed during the Holocaust rather than the factually accurate figure of approximately six million. It is not the product of newly discovered evidence or previously sealed archives, but rather an old falsehood repackaged for the age of algorithms, influencers, and short-form video.

Like many successful conspiracy theories, it begins with a real document before stripping away nearly all of its context.

The figure traces back to records held by the Special Registry Office in Bad Arolsen, Germany. Holocaust deniers circulated a document listing death certificates issued for prisoners held in a limited number of concentration camps. Those certificates were created only after relatives applied for them and officials found sufficient documentation to confirm an individual’s death. They were never intended to represent everyone killed during the Holocaust.

The records excluded millions of Jews murdered in extermination camps such as Auschwitz-Birkenau, Treblinka, Sobibor, and Belzec, as well as victims killed in ghettos, during mass shootings across Eastern Europe, and countless others whose deaths were never formally documented or whose records were destroyed.

The Arolsen Archives has repeatedly explained that the document records only a small fraction of those persecuted and murdered by the Nazis. Holocaust deniers nevertheless present it as though Germany—or even the Red Cross—admitted that the accepted death toll was false.

The estimate of approximately six million Jewish victims does not rest on a single document. It is the product of decades of research drawing on Nazi records, deportation lists, demographic studies, eyewitness testimony, physical evidence, and surviving archives. As the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum notes, the Holocaust is among the best-documented genocides in history.

The appeal of “271K” has never been its evidence, but that if you repeat that number enough times, some people will start believing it.

The underlying claim has circulated in extremist circles for decades. What changed around 2024 was its packaging. By reducing a complicated conspiracy theory to a single number, extremists created something that could be posted beneath thousands of videos, instantly recognized by supporters while appearing meaningless to everyone else.

Its rise has coincided with a broader resurgence of open Holocaust denial in parts of the West. Ideas once confined to neo-Nazi publications and obscure internet forums now reach millions through podcasts, livestreams, and short videos.

Dan Bilzerian, for example, told Piers Morgan in 2024 that he would bet his entire net worth that fewer than six million Jews were murdered during the Holocaust. He offered no serious historical evidence, relying instead on vague claims that the mathematics did not add up.

Nick Fuentes has taken a different approach. Rather than denying the Holocaust directly, he tells vague stories about cookies and ovens that invite audiences to draw the conclusion themselves. His followers understand the references and repeat them across memes, comment sections, and short videos.

Neither Bilzerian nor Fuentes invented Holocaust denial. What they provide is reach. They move ideas from the political fringe into ordinary online conversation.

A falsehood shared during a two-hour podcast can quickly become hundreds of short clips circulating across TikTok, Instagram, X, and Telegram, detached from any challenge or correction. By the time it reaches a teenager scrolling through videos, Holocaust denial looks like a joke, a provocative question, or forbidden knowledge that powerful people supposedly do not want discussed.

UNESCO estimates that denial or distortion appears in roughly 16 percent of Holocaust-related content on social media. On public Telegram channels, nearly half of discussions about the Holocaust contain the same forms of misinformation.

That raises another question: why rely on cookies, ovens, and coded numbers instead of simply saying what is meant?

Part of the answer is moderation.

Platforms can identify explicit phrases like “the Holocaust did not happen.” They struggle far more with a cookie emoji, a number, and an inside joke, especially when each symbol has an innocent meaning in other contexts. That ambiguity is precisely the point.

It allows users to communicate antisemitic messages while insisting they were “only joking.” It also draws in curious users. Someone unfamiliar with “271K” may search for it, only to find an online ecosystem filled with manipulated documents, edited videos, and conspiracy theories.

UNESCO-supported research has found that Holocaust deniers deliberately rely on humor, memes, and parody both to evade moderation and to make antisemitic ideas appear entertaining rather than extremist.

The cookie metaphor serves another purpose. It reduces murdered human beings to objects, stripping away their names, families, and lives until genocide becomes little more than a debate over production capacity. Dehumanization is the goal.

The trend emerged in English-speaking extremist communities, but numbers, emojis, and memes travel easily across languages. Podcast clips were subtitled into Arabic. Screenshots spread across X, TikTok, Instagram, and Telegram. Many accounts repeated the joke without ever explaining where it came from.

The war in Gaza created especially fertile ground for this kind of misinformation. Some users began touting Holocaust denial as an act of solidarity with Palestinians. Others repeated the claim because it appeared to challenge Israel or undermine the political use of Holocaust memory. Many almost certainly shared it without understanding its origins.

Research from George Washington University’s Program on Extremism documented a sharp increase in antisemitic Arabic-language content after October 7, 2023, identifying Holocaust denial as one of its recurring themes and warning that social media companies remain poorly equipped to detect coded antisemitism in Arabic.

None of this means criticism of the Israeli government is antisemitic. It is not. Nor does condemning the killing and displacement of Palestinian civilians amount to hatred of Jews.

But Holocaust denial is not criticism of Israel. Mocking Jewish victims does not advance Palestinian rights. Replacing six million murdered people with a fabricated number does nothing to save a single Palestinian life.

If anything, it weakens the Palestinian cause by allowing its critics to portray advocacy for Palestinian rights as a vehicle for antisemitism. It shifts attention away from Palestinians themselves and toward an indefensible historical falsehood.

Countering that misinformation requires more than simply labeling it false. Reliable information has to exist in the languages people actually use.

That is why Ideas Beyond Borders, through our translation program, translated Wikipedia’s article on Holocaust denial into Arabic, Persian, Dari, Kurdish, and Pashto. Those articles have since been viewed more than 100,000 times, giving readers access to reliable information where conspiracy theories often spread unchecked.

Our latest initiative, in partnership with the William Levine Family Institute for Holocaust Education at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, goes a step further. Together, we are producing videos for audiences across the Middle East and North Africa that explain not only why claims like “271K” are false, but how they are constructed and why coded language has become such an effective tool for spreading them.

Providing that information matters because a young person searching for “271K” should encounter evidence before they encounter propaganda.

Palestinians do not need the Holocaust to be false for their suffering to be real.

The killing of Palestinian civilians does not become more tragic if Jewish victims are erased from history, just as Palestinian rights are not strengthened by turning six million murdered Jews into cookies, emojis, or internet jokes.

We should be capable of recognizing both the Holocaust and the suffering of Palestinians without treating either as a threat to the other. We can oppose antisemitism, anti-Arab racism, Islamophobia, occupation, collective punishment, and the killing of civilians without abandoning historical truth or embracing antisemitism.

The moment we begin discarding evidence because it is politically inconvenient, we teach the next generation that facts matter only when they support our preferred narrative.

That is a lesson none of us should be willing to pass on.

Since the beginning of the U.S.-Israel-Iran war, I have tried to approach the conflict differently from many of the voices dominating social media, television panels, and political debates. Rather than begin with the outcome I wanted, I tried to stay loyal to the facts, even when they were unpopular or inconvenient.

That may sound obvious, but war makes it unusually difficult. Conflict creates enormous pressure to choose a side, join a camp, and interpret every development through the lens of loyalty. Once that happens, sincere analysis becomes secondary. Evidence is valued only when it supports a conclusion people have already reached.

I have watched this pattern repeat across the Middle East, and this war has been no different.

My colleague’s and my work through Ideas Beyond Borders is grounded in the belief that societies in the region can become freer, more open, and more prosperous. Those values matter deeply to me and are the reason I have dedicated my entire professional life to this work. But believing in freedom and the painstaking work it takes to bring it to fruition does not exempt us from confronting reality. On the contrary, anyone serious about changing the world has an obligation to understand it as it is, not as we would like it to be.

That is why I made a conscious decision not to become a public cheerleader for any side. I wanted to understand what was actually happening on the ground.

Working across the region gives us access to sources often overlooked by pundits pushing a particular agenda or outcome. Through our audience, partners, local conversations, media monitoring, and increasingly sophisticated sentiment analysis, we hear from people living through these events in real time. Their perspectives often differ sharply from the dominant narratives circulating online.

One of the first assumptions I questioned when the war began was the idea that the Islamic Republic was on the verge of immediate collapse. That never seemed especially convincing.

This is not because the regime is strong in every respect. It faces serious economic, social, and political pressures, and it does not enjoy universal support among Iranians. But predictions of imminent collapse often ignore how such systems actually function.

The Islamic Republic is not simply a government. It is a dense network of institutions, security services, religious authorities, economic interests, patronage systems, and competing centers of power that has developed over nearly half a century. Systems like this do not usually disappear overnight.

Iran has also had something many of its neighbors did not: time to observe and learn.

The leadership in Tehran watched Saddam Hussein fall in Iraq, Libya collapse after Gaddafi, the Arab Spring unseat governments once considered stable, and Syria come close to disintegration. It studied military interventions, sanctions campaigns, insurgencies, uprisings, and civil wars. Like any regime focused on survival, it drew lessons from each.

One of the most persistent misconceptions about authoritarian systems is that they are static. They are not. They study one another’s failures, adapt their institutions, create redundancies, and refine the tools of surveillance, coercion, and political control. The Islamic Republic has spent decades examining why regimes fall and what helps them endure.

Whether we find that reality acceptable is beside the point. Refusing to acknowledge it does not make it less true.

Another assumption I found troubling was the belief that ordinary Iranians would naturally align themselves with outside powers simply because they oppose aspects of their own government. That reflects a shallow understanding of how people behave during crisis.

Those living inside a country experience war differently from those watching from abroad. When bombs are falling, the economy is deteriorating, and daily life is dominated by uncertainty, political priorities shift. National identity, fear, survival, family obligations, and social pressure can become more immediate than ideology.

That does not mean people suddenly become supporters of the state, but their choices become more complicated than outsiders often allow.

I have also noticed a widening gap between parts of the Iranian diaspora and many people inside Iran. This is not unique to Iran; similar tensions exist in Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, Venezuela, Cuba, and elsewhere.

Those living abroad often have the safety and freedom to advocate for outcomes whose consequences they will not directly bear. Those inside the country must calculate risk differently because they will live with whatever follows. Neither perspective is inherently illegitimate, but treating one as representative of the other can lead to serious analytical errors.

What concerned me most during this conflict was not disagreement. Disagreement is necessary. It was the extent to which people seemed more interested in defending a narrative than understanding the more complicated truths.

Too many commentators were not asking, “What is actually happening?” They were asking, “What do I want to happen?” Those are not the same question.

I believe deeply in aspiration. My work depends on the conviction that societies can change for the better. Without that belief, there is no reason to work for change. But aspiration untethered from reality does more harm than good.

The challenge is to hold both at once: the courage to imagine a better future and the discipline to assess the present honestly.

Throughout the war, I have approached each development by asking three separate questions: What do I want to happen? What is possible? And what is the reality on the ground?

In the Middle East, the answers to those questions often contradict one another. The region has a way of exposing simplistic thinking and punishing those who confuse hope with probability. It resists neat ideological frameworks and repeatedly forces us to confront complexities we would rather avoid.

Recognizing that a regime has staying power does not mean admiring it, and acknowledging the limits of a strategy does not mean opposing the goal behind it.

Too often, describing reality is treated as a form of defense or endorsement. In fact, the opposite is true. Understanding reality is the first requirement for changing it.

As this conflict continues to reshape the Middle East, I hope more people resist the pressure to become partisans first and observers second. The future of the region will not be determined by the narratives we prefer, but by the realities we are willing to face.

And if we genuinely want to build something better, honesty about the world as it is must come before confidence about the world as it could be.

“What It’s Like To Be” takes readers inside the lives of people working in remarkable and often demanding professions across the Middle East. Each installment offers an intimate look at the realities shaping their daily world. Look for WILTB in your inbox on Sundays.

The pain always arrived with stress. Leaving England for Dubai. Packing up the family villa before another international move. Putting the children to bed each night. “My back would flare at 7:15 p.m. on the dot, always,” says Gemma McFall. Sometimes the pain was so severe that someone else had to step in.

Her back problems began a week before she moved to Dubai with her husband in 2010. While performing at a dance conference in London, she felt a sharp click as something in her back gave way.

Leaving London and saying goodbye to family and friends, her discomfort intensified. It would be eight years before she freed herself from these pain episodes. “If we had stayed in England, it would have just settled, but I was so anxious about the move,” the 43-year-old says.

Arriving in Dubai, she went down a route familiar to many bad back sufferers, bouncing from treatment to treatment in search of respite. The city’s booming healthcare scene presented a dizzying array of remedies, and she progressed from TENS machines, to doctors, to physiotherapists, to muscle relaxants, to epidural injections in her spine.

Then, in her desperation, she found a doctor abroad willing to perform surgery.

It wasn’t until years later that she read a book about the mind-body connection and understood her mistake. The classic signs were there. Her pain was not fixed, but resurfaced in different areas of her back. It was also inconsistent, continuing to flare up during stressful life events.

McFall had always pushed herself to be a high achiever, pursuing athletic challenges and a demanding career as an HR director. She is also a self-described people-pleaser and perfectionist, traits that make her more susceptible to neuroplastic pain, when the brain misinterprets safe signals from the body as dangerous.

The good news, she discovered, is that this pain is caused by learned neural pathways rather than ongoing tissue damage. It can therefore be unlearned and reversed by retraining the brain.

It would be a while before McFall grasped the full significance of her discovery. After years of suffering and chasing treatments, she had uncovered a completely different way of understanding pain. It would not only banish her chronic bad back. It would also allow her to help others overcome problems from migraines and shoulder pain to Irritable Bowel Syndrome and tinnitus.

“Once you realize the pain is emotional, not physical, the edges start to soften, and you no longer spiral,” she explains.

Not everyone responds with relief. “It’s a hard pill to swallow—hearing that the pain you have endured for years could have been fixed all along,” McFall adds.

As a pain recovery coach, she sees the debilitating physical and mental effects of persistent pain, which can also lead to depression, anxiety, and sleep issues. Gradually, people’s lives get smaller, and they stop doing the activities they once enjoyed.

The strain is felt by the entire family. “It’s really hard to live with somebody who has pain,” says McFall, who often hears partners express guilt for carrying on with their lives.

McFall’s first step with a new client is to ensure there are no signs of an underlying medical condition that requires standard care. Conventional medicine has historically focused on identifying structural or biological causes, such as arthritis or disc problems. However, there is growing recognition that pain is influenced by interactions between the nervous system and emotional states. For some people, persistent pain can continue long after an injury has healed because of changes in how the brain and nervous system process pain signals.

Many find this can be reversed when they realize their pain is neuroplastic and learn to manage the emotional triggers that prompt it. “Their recovery blows me away every time,” McFall says.

In a recent episode of his podcast, British physician and television presenter Dr. Rangan Chatterjee talks to Dr. Howard Schubiner, author of Unlearn Your Pain, about the science behind neuroplastic pain.

They discuss how all pain is created by the brain as a protective mechanism. This can be a warning due to physical injury, or a response to emotional trauma and anxiety.

Exposure to stress or fear can cause the brain to become hypervigilant and turn up the volume of physical symptoms that may have healed long ago. This is evident from the way that a person can be injured without experiencing pain, or experience pain without injury, says Dr. Schubiner, whose work aims to expose the “myth” that chronic pain is irreversible and incurable.

“In structural pain, there’s clear tissue damage so your brain creates pain to help you protect the area... In neuroplastic pain, there’s some sort of perceived danger but no real injury. Both types are real. You are feeling pain. The difference is in the treatment,” he explains.

Back in 2017, McFall was desperate. The pain was intolerable, and basic tasks were becoming impossible. Even lifting her children into high chairs required support. “I was googling how people with disabilities look after small children,” she says.

She sent her MRI scan to a surgeon in Singapore, who agreed to operate. Her “aha moment” would come years later, when she understood that “abnormal” findings on MRI scans can be common signs of aging rather than an explanation for pain. “We get sent for MRI scans very quickly these days and once you see signs of damage, the brain panics and sends more pain signals,” she says.

Her journals from that time reveal the regimented exercise routine she followed to strengthen her back. “I can see that the harder I was trying to get rid of the pain, the worse it was getting. The exercises were not helping at all because they were putting my brain into fight or flight mode.”

At the last minute, McFall’s insurance company blocked her operation, questioning the surgeon’s justification for the procedure. Instead, they sent her case notes to three specialists for a second opinion. All three returned different verdicts on her condition. “That’s when the alarm bells started to go,” she says.

The family had just moved again, this time to Sri Lanka. As her husband started a new job, McFall packed up the family villa and finished her notice period at work while caring for two small children. By the time she arrived, her stress levels were soaring. Still, she enrolled in an executive coaching course, unwilling to let her career stall.

She learned about the mind-body connection from a book recommended by her teacher. “I felt I had found this magical secret,” she recalls.

As she took on clients to coach, McFall realized she could help people with more than their careers. “I worked with three people who had chronic pain. All three had such good outcomes; I thought, I have to do this.”

Returning to Dubai after five years, McFall decided against resuming her HR career. Coaching was already a crowded field, so she specialized, training with SIRPA in the UK and the Pain Reprocessing Therapy Center in the US before introducing the concept to a region where it was relatively unknown.

“In Sri Lanka, coaching was a new phenomenon, but I quickly realized that in Dubai, when you tell people that you’re a coach, they roll their eyes because everyone is doing it.”

Still, Dubai was the ideal environment to launch a new business. In the five years they spent abroad, visa regulations had relaxed, and the city’s entrepreneurial scene was buzzing. The challenge for McFall was standing out from the crowd.

She engaged with the city’s entrepreneurial communities, participating in panel events and networking in the medical sector to raise awareness around the mind-body approach to pain. “My kids joked that I should be a pain influencer,” she says.

At first, it felt like there was little room for low-tech treatment methods in Dubai’s state-of-the-art medical landscape. “Everyone has insurance, so they just keep going to different doctors. Why pay for something alternative?” she says. More recently, however, the growth of wellness centers and holistic treatments has begun to shift attitudes.

“People get the fact that the body shows physical symptoms from suppressed emotions. Everyone knows a migraine can be because of stress, but now they are also realizing that things like IBS, fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue syndrome, back pain, and other conditions could be due to stress or pressure.”

Now, when a physio refers a patient to McFall for treatment, they have more faith in her methods. “Mental health is on the map,” she says.

In some cases, it can be as quick as one or two sessions. One client’s chronic pain ceased immediately. “The discovery call was enough. He was so grateful he left a video testimonial on my website,” McFall laughs.

She finds it most rewarding when people are able to resume the activities they love. One 77-year-old woman was forced to give up a ballroom dancing career before she learned to reprocess her pain. Now she is back to performing in competitions and is the lead dancer.

Helping parents of young children feels especially meaningful to her. One patient, a man in his early thirties balancing a demanding senior role with family life, had lived with back pain since childhood. Watching people like him return to the lives they want to live again “gives me goosebumps,” she says.

McFall knows how good it feels to be liberated from pain. She spends her weekends cycling around Dubai, swimming at the beach and camping in the desert. She has trained herself to respond calmly when stress surfaces, resisting the panic spiral that fast-tracked her pain.

Her client base is international, including a growing number of people from the Middle East, where back and shoulder pain and migraines are among the most common symptoms. “We’re not trying to get rid of the pain; we’re trying to get rid of the fear around the pain,” she says.

These days, bedtime is no longer a source of stress in McFall’s house. There’s no stabbing sensation along her spine when the kids play. Instead, she turned the most stressful time of day into a game, driving the children to bed on an imaginary train and harnessing the brain’s immense power to govern her body. “I wish more people understood they have control over their brains,” she says. “I wish they knew that pain pathways can be unlearned.”

The women in this story are still waiting for the opportunities they have been denied. If you’d like to support underground schools for women in Afghanistan, click here.

For a long time, I knew Afghan women the way most people do: through headlines. They appeared in stories about school bans, compulsory burqas, and Taliban decrees, but rarely as fully formed people. That changed when I began teaching English to a group of young Afghan women over WhatsApp.

Most of them were teenagers when we first met, having lost their right to education after the Taliban returned to power in 2021. I am in my mid-forties, but over the past few years we have become friends.

Their friendship has changed how I consume the news. It has made me more aware of how headlines are designed to provoke immediate emotional reactions, and of how easily we mistake that reaction for sustained attention. More than anything, it has shown me that people often disappear from public consciousness long before their problems disappear from reality.

Like many people, I once had a two-dimensional view of Afghan women. I saw victims whose suffering was visible, but whose personalities were not. The young women I speak with each week are funny, cheeky, clever, ambitious, irreverent, and principled. They have strong opinions, challenge one another, tell jokes, and worry about the same everyday things as my friends and colleagues. Knowing them has shown me how readily we reduce people to symbols, overlooking the rich, complicated lives behind the headlines. Denied a platform in their own country, they have embraced the internet as a space to learn, connect, and satisfy an insatiable curiosity about the world.

Our conversations can feel surprisingly ordinary, which makes it easy to forget how extraordinary their circumstances are. They have spent years denied an education. Their freedom of movement is almost nonexistent: they cannot leave home without the permission and accompaniment of a male relative. Whenever I stop to imagine what that means in practice—the dependence, the constant negotiation, the confinement—I feel claustrophobic.

While many of us in the West debate the internet’s impact on our mental health and our children, for the women I know in Afghanistan it is a lifeline. It is their only window to the outside world—a place to study, connect with like-minded people, and imagine a future beyond the confines of Taliban rule. It also offers something many of us take for granted: the freedom to explore ideas without asking permission.

The women we teach are among the fortunate few whose families can afford an internet connection and allow them to use it. It is no exaggeration to say that much of their world depends on it.

That is why, when the Taliban shut down the internet last year, these women were terrified. The international community’s response to the blackout demonstrated what might happen if it lasted longer: a day or two of outrage, a handful of hashtags, statements from governments and NGOs, and then the world's attention would move on. For the women I teach, they feared losing their only link to the outside world—and, with it, disappearing from public view.

I couldn’t reassure them because they were right. I had spoken to a couple of girls just that morning, and the experience of our text conversations being suddenly cut short, and my read receipts remaining singular and grey—neither received nor read—was unnerving. It occurred to me that I had always been perversely ‘pleased’ when Afghanistan made the headlines, because it meant the world focused on the country for a short time. But if the internet were to stay off, it would not take long for us all to forget Afghanistan because there would be no story: like the internet, our imaginations cannot function in a vacuum—we’d be distracted by other news and move on.

The internet rewards visibility. It is built to amplify what is new, dramatic, and emotionally immediate, not to sustain attention over time. For Afghan women, however, visibility can be dangerous. Remaining out of sight is often essential for survival under the Taliban. Yet the paradox is that people who cannot safely make themselves seen are also the easiest to forget.

Recently, Afghanistan returned to the headlines when the Taliban legalized marriage for girls as young as nine. The announcement rightly prompted widespread outrage and served as a reminder that millions of people continue to live under Taliban rule. But history suggests that attention will soon move elsewhere. The Taliban has learned that it can repeatedly cross moral lines, knowing each new headline will eventually be replaced by another. As consumers of news, we need to recognize that meaningful support depends not on moments of outrage, but on sustained attention.

This pattern extends beyond the headlines themselves. Plenty of institutions have learned the benefits of the aesthetics of charity, while knowing the spotlight will fade before any questions arise about the effectiveness (or existence) of their initiatives.

While researching opportunities abroad for some of the women I teach, I found universities proudly advertising scholarships for refugees and Afghan women that were almost impossible for refugees or Afghan women to access. Some required qualifications these women had been prevented from obtaining because of the education ban. Others required them to be on campus to benefit from them.

Similarly, commitments made by organizations and companies often involve public promises but privately underdeliver. Most initiatives have to be legal in the local country, which sounds like a respectful and reasonable requirement until we remember that the Taliban created laws specifically to erase women from public life: retreating behind these same laws is legitimizing them, not challenging them, and certainly not providing support to those in need. Those with the most to gain from these pledges and promises are voiceless and cannot speak out, while those of us in a position to hold institutions accountable are continually distracted.

I do not believe this is solely the responsibility of institutions. It is also down to us as consumers of information. We cannot pay attention to everything, but we can be more deliberate about where we direct our attention and how long we keep it there. Looking beyond the headlines does not require special expertise; it just requires curiosity and interest in the world beyond ourselves.

Personally, I have found that curiosity helps curb a sense of helplessness and compassion fatigue that can set in from endless doom-scrolling. The women I teach have taught me to be more active and intentional in what I pay attention to. They are striving to maintain their education so they are prepared for any opportunity that might come along; it’s up to us to ensure those opportunities reach them.

Each week, the teachers I work alongside spend time speaking with women in Afghanistan, asking nothing of them beyond what they would like to talk about. Those conversations have transformed how I see Afghanistan, what is happening there, and the voices that must be heard.

Where I once saw anonymous victims, I now see individuals with humor, talent, dignity, and agency.

These women—and the millions more like them across Afghanistan—deserve more than fleeting sympathy whenever a new Taliban atrocity makes the news. They deserve to be seen, heard, and remembered as people with ambitions, talents, and agency. Real solidarity, the type that enables people to challenge the status quo, is more than statements of concern and virtue-signaling; it demands sustained commitment, practical support, and accountability for the promises made in their name. By listening, we help these women shape their stories and bring them to a wider audience. By ensuring that scholarships, grants, and opportunities are genuinely accessible, we empower them with the conditions they need to build the futures they want for themselves and their country.

At Ali Khamenei’s week-long funeral, the body of the dead supreme leader was not the only thing being carried through the procession.

There were clerics, cameras, delegations, black clothes, grieving officials—all playing a part in the carefully curated choreography of a regime making a spectacle out of burying its most powerful figurehead. But something else was being covertly communicated. Iran used the funeral to address its guests through Qur’anic verses, seemingly selected to reinforce alliances, reward loyalty, and remind each delegation where it stood in Tehran’s regional order.

Qur’anic recitation at the funeral of an Iranian Supreme Leader is not unusual. It would have been odd if there were none. What made this ceremony different was that when different delegations entered, different verses were recited—and for a specific reason. Soon, people across the region began asking questions. Was Iran speaking in code?

No official Iranian explanation has confirmed that each verse was selected as a political message. But the regime is no stranger to coded communication, and this time the signal was hard to mistake.

Let’s start with Saudi Arabia. The verse recited before the Saudi delegation—Surat Al Nisa’, verse 13—recalled a moment when a smaller band of believers overcame a stronger enemy, a victory offered as a lesson to all who watched. The political meaning was difficult to miss. It was a reminder to Riyadh that Tehran remembers who stood where when the war came. In plain terms: we remember that you sided with the enemy.

This is often how Iran likes to levy threats. Sometimes you don’t need missiles or direct confrontation to get your point across.

Next came Qatar. The verse recited before its delegation—Surat Al Fath, verse 2—comes from a chapter associated with a compromise that initially appeared to be a concession but was later remembered as a strategic victory. For a state that helped facilitate negotiations, the implication was almost gracious by Iranian standards: thank you for helping make the agreement possible. But the victory belongs to us. Qatar was being reminded that, in Tehran’s telling, mediators facilitate history—they do not make it.

Turkey received a metaphorical cold shoulder. The verse recited before the Turkish delegation distinguished between those who join the struggle and those who lag behind, declaring that God grants a higher rank to those who fight with their wealth and their lives. Iran was telling Ankara: you watched. You calculated. You avoided the cost while others paid it. God, Tehran was suggesting, knows the difference.

Pakistan received a soft, but not neutral message. The verse associated with its delegation spoke of patience, steadiness, and remaining on God’s path. The meaning nearly supplied itself. Pakistan had stood close enough to Tehran to matter, yet cautiously enough to remain useful. Iran’s message seemed clear: remain patient, stay aligned, and do not drift when pressure rises.

Oman, too, had its place in the script. The chosen verse used the language of strength, solidarity, and a firm front. Oman is not a militia or a loud revolutionary actor, but a mediator, a subtle channel, and a state that often speaks softly where others shout. Yet even Oman was folded into Iran’s wider production. The message extended beyond mourning: the axis was meant to appear intact, disciplined, and unbroken.

Then came Lebanon. Iran’s view of the country has always been split in two. The official Lebanese delegation heard a verse about those who would hesitate if ordered to sacrifice themselves. Hezbollah’s delegation heard a line ending with “the party of God will be victorious”—a phrase that also translates literally as “Hezbollah.”

The meaning was unmistakable. The Lebanese state was portrayed as weak and hesitant; Hezbollah as loyal. The official delegation was addressed with caution, while the militia was addressed in the language of divine victory. The message was not only for Beirut, but for everyone watching: in Iran’s regional order, official governments are secondary. The groups that fight for the axis are rewarded.

Hamas was encouraged, with Iran focusing on endurance and sacrifice through a verse about men who fulfilled their covenant, both the dead and the living. It was scripture tailored to the politics of martyrdom. The message was: your losses are not the end of the struggle, but proof that the struggle must continue. Once again, in Iran’s hands, death was glorified.

This is both the power and the danger of Iran’s political language. The regime does not simply invoke religion to justify its policies after the fact. It fuses politics with religious symbolism until the two become inseparable. Rivalries are cast as divine warnings, negotiations as evidence of Iranian triumph, neutrality as moral failure, and militias as instruments of God’s will. Even death is reframed—not as an ending, but as a mandate to continue the struggle.

Saudi Arabia received a warning. Qatar was thanked for facilitating compromise. Turkey was rebuked for standing aside. Pakistan was urged toward patience and steadiness. Oman was folded into the facade of a strong regional front. Lebanon was reminded of its hesitation, and Hezbollah was given a metaphorical victory lap. Hamas was encouraged to endure.

A dead man was being mourned, but the living were being lectured.

There is something chilling in that. A funeral could have been a moment of silence and reflection, even for a man whose rule was defined by repression, war, and regional ruin. Instead, it became one last stage for the system he built, with Qur’anic verses used to reinforce its view of power, loyalty, and obedience.

Perhaps the most revealing part was not that Iran may have been sending political messages through Qur’anic verses. It was that so many people immediately understood them that way. Whether or not every verse was selected with that intention is almost secondary. The assumption itself reflects the political power the Islamic Republic has cultivated over decades.

In Tehran, religious symbolism rarely exists apart from politics. Scripture is used not only for worship, but also to frame alliances, rivalries, victories, and expectations. The funeral became another opportunity to do the same.

Khamenei may be gone, but the system he built will take much longer to dismantle. If the funeral demonstrated anything, it was that the Islamic Republic continues to view every public ceremony as an opportunity to assert dominance, reinforce alliances, reward loyalty, and signal where it believes everyone belongs—and expects each actor to play the role assigned to them.

There is a moment early in Open Wide the Doors that captures the absurdity of Mahvash Sabet's imprisonment.

Having been transferred to solitary confinement, in a room that other female inmates called “the kennel,” the warden looks at the 55-year-old schoolteacher with genuine puzzlement.

“The judge says you must stay in solitary for fifteen days,” she tells her. “But I honestly don’t know why. You’re not an addict. This is hardly the place for the likes of you.”

That bewilderment runs throughout Sabet’s memoir. She was not imprisoned for violence, espionage, or political conspiracy, despite what Iran’s authorities alleged.

She was jailed because she is a Baháʼí.

The Baháʼí Faith is a global monotheistic religion founded in 19th-century Persia by Baháʼu’lláh. It teaches the essential worth of all major religions, the unity of humanity, and the harmony of science and religion. Baháʼís are persecuted in Iran because the Islamic Republic views the religion as a “deviant cult” and a political threat.

Published in English after hundreds of pages were secretly written inside prison and smuggled out by prisoners, Open Wide the Doors is both an account of one woman’s ordeal and a window into the Islamic Republic’s decades-long persecution of its largest unrecognized religious minority.

It was translated by Azita Mottahedeh and Bahiyyih Nakhjavani—the latter had previously translated Sabet’s poetry. When the two women finally met in 2017, after Sabet’s release, Bahiyyih was struck by her warmth after years in prison.

“I thought, what an amazing lady,” she tells Middle East Uncovered. “I was surprised for someone who had suffered for 10 years, how radiant and positive she was. And so full of energy and laughter.”

Inside Iran, Sabet remains subject to stringent state restrictions. Even now, she hasn’t had access to the complete memoir, nor has her daughter, Negar, seen the copy.

However appalling the conditions she has endured, Sabet refuses to surrender her dignity or empathy towards those around her—something that comes through in the memoir.

Before 1979, Sabet had built a career in education. She taught in Tehran, became the principal of one of the city’s leading schools and worked with Iran’s National Literacy Committee. But like thousands of Baháʼís, that career ended almost overnight after the Islamic Revolution, when followers of the faith were systematically excluded from public employment.

Nearly three decades later, in March 2008, she traveled to Mashhad believing she was answering routine questions about arranging the burial of an elderly Baháʼí man. Instead, she disappeared into Iran’s prison system.

The accusations quickly expanded far beyond the original allegation. Interrogators demanded false confessions, attempting to portray Sabet and the other members of the informal Baháʼí group, the Yaran-i-Iran (‘Friends of Iran’), as spies working for foreign powers. She refused. After spending two-and-a-half years imprisoned before trial, Sabet and six colleagues were sentenced to lengthy prison terms.

Sabet would ultimately spend a decade behind bars before being released in 2017, only to be arrested again in 2022 and sentenced to another ten years. Now aged 74 and suffering serious heart and lung problems, she remains under the threat of being returned to prison.

Her memoir mostly focuses on her time in solitary confinement, and is at its most powerful when it dwells on the small humiliations and impossible choices that define Sabet’s life behind bars.

Newly arrived at a quarantine block housing more than a hundred women, she encounters just two toilets and two showers. The floor is slick with filth, used menstrual pads and human waste.

“The filth was appalling and the stench even worse,” she writes. “Balls of hair were scattered everywhere, seething and quivering in the faint light. The floor was slippery underfoot and the air so foul that I could hardly breathe.”

Hunger becomes another instrument of punishment. After days without proper food, Sabet discovers a discarded piece of stale bread tucked into the corner of her bunk. She recoils at the thought of eating something so dirty, wondering who had touched it or how long it had lain there.

“Before I knew it I had eaten the whole thing,” she writes.

Her dinners are served in a dog bowl.

In isolation, she measures time by the distant sounds of Nowruz (the Persian New Year) celebrations beyond the prison walls, fireworks, and car horns reminding her that ordinary life continues only a few streets away.

“Was I really in the same world as these people setting off fireworks?” she wonders.

These moments are not included for shock value. They reveal how imprisonment can lead to the steady erosion of a person’s dignity, particularly for minority groups.

Baháʼís are the largest unrecognized religious minority in Iran. They have been the target of harsh, state-backed repression since their religion was established in the 19th century. After the 1979 Islamic Revolution, Iranian authorities executed or forcibly disappeared hundreds of Baháʼís, including their community leaders. Since then, the regime has codified its repression of Baháʼís into law and official government policy. Baha’i homes and businesses are often raided or confiscated.

It would be enough to crush anyone’s spirit. Yet Sabet finds comfort in her religion.

“As long as I remained firm, as long as I stayed honest and true, one way or another, the principles of the Baháʼí Faith would prevail,” she writes in prison.

Sabet is transferred from one jail to another and held alongside drug addicts, prostitutes, murderers, as well as political prisoners of different affiliations.

On her return to Evin Prison in 2011, she meets fellow inmates Nasrin Sotoudeh (a human rights lawyer) and Narges Mohammadi (an activist and Nobel Peace Prize winner), who encourage her to start writing and document everything she has endured since 2008.

Prison Poems, her first poetry collection translated into English, was published in 2013 and won her recognition as a Writer of Courage from PEN International.

Sotoudeh’s memoir, Women, Life, Freedom: Our Fight for Human Rights and Equality in Iran, was published in 2023, while Mohammadi’s book, A Woman Never Stops Fighting, is due out soon.

“These books are all pieces of the same puzzle,” says Bahiyyih. “Mahvash felt she was just one of many. She wanted to do this for all the people of Iran. On behalf of Baháʼís and women.”

In July 2022, Iranian authorities arrested Sabet and other members of the long-disbanded Yaran-i-Iran.

Iran’s Intelligence Ministry alleged they were spies for the Baháʼí World Centre in Israel, and that November, following a sham trial that lasted only one hour, the Revolutionary Court’s Branch 26 in Tehran sentenced Sabet and Kamalabadi to 10 years in prison. The judge rebuked the defendants for “not learning their lesson” before handing down his harsh sentence.

In 2024, Sabet was granted a medical furlough to undergo urgent heart surgery. She suffers from pulmonary fibrosis and heart issues. Members of the European Parliament have called for her unconditional release on humanitarian grounds, a call that has so far been ignored.

“Mahvash is in a perilous condition. She has the sword of Damocles hanging over her,” says Bahiyyih, who explains that Sabet must get regular medical tests in order to prove she’s too unwell to go back to prison.

“It’s like a Kafka novel. If you’re sick you’re free, but if you’re well you go to prison.”

The British-Iranian comedian Omid Djalili—who is also Baháʼí—has described Sabet’s memoir as “absolutely extraordinary.”

For years he has raised her plight, as well as that of the Baháʼís in his country of origin, because it represents something much bigger.

“The treatment of Baháʼís is a litmus test for the condition of human rights in Iran,” says Bahiyyih. “If Baháʼís don’t have rights, then the people of Iran don’t have rights either.”

It would be easy for Sabet to despair. The Islamic Republic remains firmly entrenched in power, and Mahvash Sabet’s life is in limbo—she could be recalled to prison at any moment.

Despite that, “She wants people to continue to have hope,” says Bahiyyih.

At this year’s FIFA World Cup, millions of people around the world watched Iran’s national soccer team take the field wearing the colors of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC): green, white, and red. They marched beneath the regime's flag, sang its anthem, and presented themselves as representatives of more than 90 million people whom the Islamic Republic exploits and oppresses.

But for millions of Iranians, both inside the country and across the diaspora, one question hovered over every match: Who do they actually represent?

Can athletes truly claim to represent sportsmanship, humility, respect, integrity, and inclusion on a national stage while publicly embracing the very regime responsible for imprisoning, torturing, and killing their own nation’s people and diaspora across the globe?

As a former Iranian women’s national soccer player, I don’t think so. I was banned for life after being photographed playing soccer with male friends in Switzerland without wearing a hijab. Due to the regime’s harassment, I was forced to seek asylum in 2017.

So I speak from experience when I say that this team does not represent the Iranian people. It represents the Islamic Republic.

After one of Iran’s group-stage matches, midfielder Ramin Rezaeian was asked about the ongoing human rights situation inside Iran. His response was familiar—something I have heard many times before from authoritarian sympathizers. He described it as an “internal matter,” insisted that foreigners should not interfere, and suggested that Iranians were capable of solving their own problems.

That argument might sound reasonable if the issue were a mere domestic political disagreement. It is not.

When a government shoots peaceful protesters in the streets, executes political prisoners after sham trials, systematically tortures detainees, and criminalizes the most basic freedoms—including the right of women to choose how they dress— it ceases to be an internal matter and becomes a universal human rights crisis.

No government should be able to invoke sovereignty as a shield against crimes committed against its own citizens.

Since the “Woman, Life, Freedom” movement began, the Islamic Republic has brutally suppressed peaceful demonstrations. It has imprisoned Nobel Peace Prize laureate Narges Mohammadi and targeted dissidents abroad. It has sentenced young protesters to death. Families continue to search for justice while the world is asked to look the other way.

When members of Iran’s national team dismiss these atrocities as nobody else’s concern, they are helping protect the regime from international scrutiny under the guise of defending Iran’s sovereignty.

On the same international stage shared by the rest of the democratic world, pawns like Rezaeian use the national platform to chant “Death to America” and “Death to Israel” on American soil, and praise deceased Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei—who bears responsibility for over 40,000 innocent lives lost. Is FIFA holding them accountable? Does FIFA support the values the Islamic Republic claims to represent?

There is another reason so many Iranians reject the idea that this team represents them. The Islamic Republic does everything in its power to silence and repress freedom wherever it can—even beyond its own borders. Its players insist Iran’s human rights crisis is an “internal matter,” yet the regime has no hesitation making American freedom of expression its business. At this year’s World Cup, Iranian officials formally urged FIFA to prohibit Pride-themed events and rainbow flags, attempting to export the regime’s intolerance onto the world’s biggest sporting stage.

Women in Iran are not allowed to enter stadiums freely. For years, they have been barred from attending soccer matches simply because they are women. Those who have tried to challenge this ban have been arrested, jailed, and even tortured.

And yet, FIFA still chose to host the team representing the regime.

FIFA says politics should not interfere in sport. But everyone knows that Iranian sport, especially soccer, is fully under the control and supervision of the terrorist-designated IRGC and the security apparatus of the Islamic Republic.

And the real cost is borne by the athletes who refuse to become mouthpieces for the regime.

During the recent nationwide protests, thousands of Iranians lost their lives. Among the victims were numerous athletes who should have been celebrated, not buried. Female soccer player Zahra Azadpour, soccer player Mojtaba Torshiz, and professional women’s referee Sahba Rashtian are among the names remembered by many Iranians as victims of the regime’s brutality.

Today, hundreds of male and female athletes remain imprisoned. Many report being tortured. Some continue to face the threat of execution simply for supporting peaceful protests or expressing dissent. They sit behind bars while others wearing the national jersey enjoy the privilege of competing before global audiences.

This is FIFA’s failure.

During the Woman, Life, Freedom movement, Iranian athletes, activists, former players, and human rights organizations repeatedly appealed to FIFA. They asked FIFA to recognize that the Islamic Republic’s systematic repression could not be dismissed as ordinary politics, and to stop granting the regime the legitimacy afforded to any other national federation.

FIFA refused. Instead, it retreated behind the language of political neutrality.

Neutrality can be a principled position. But when an organization that regularly invokes inclusion, respect, equality, and human dignity declines to respond to systematic repression, that neutrality begins to look less like impartiality and more like acquiescence.

FIFA President Gianni Infantino has repeatedly demonstrated that the organization’s stated principles are flexible whenever political convenience demands it. The world’s governing body for soccer has shown remarkable willingness to overlook the realities facing Iranian athletes while continuing to provide the regime with one of its most valuable international platforms.

This raises uncomfortable questions, not only for FIFA, but also for democratic governments that continue to separate sporting participation from political accountability.

The Islamic Republic has always sought to export not only its ideology but also its methods of intimidation. Whether targeting dissidents abroad, threatening journalists, or attempting to shape international sporting events according to its own repressive worldview, the objective is always to normalize authoritarianism wherever possible.

History teaches us that sports have never been morally neutral. The international community has previously excluded governments because of apartheid, racial discrimination, and aggression. Why should systematic executions, torture, and state repression be treated differently?

When athletes willingly participate in authoritarian propaganda, they assume a role that extends beyond sport. They become ambassadors for a regime seeking international legitimacy.

Iran’s true representatives are not the men standing beneath stadium lights in the national jersey. They are the women who remove their compulsory hijabs despite knowing they may never return home. They are the parents carrying photographs of children killed for demanding freedom. They are the imprisoned athletes who refused to surrender their conscience.

They are the soccer players who walked away from the national team rather than become instruments of dictatorship. They are the journalists, artists, lawyers, students, workers, and ordinary citizens who continue to risk everything for the belief that Iran deserves to be free.

They are the ones who carry the dignity of the Iranian nation. If anyone represents Iran, it is them.

Iran’s national soccer team was eliminated from the 2026 FIFA World Cup. The more enduring loss belongs to the mothers still searching for justice, to victims like Mahsa Amini and Nika Shakarami, to the countless unnamed Iranians whose lives were stolen by state violence, and to the imprisoned athletes, disappeared soccer players, and families shattered by executions.

FIFA had an opportunity to stand on the right side of history. Instead, it chose institutional caution over moral clarity.

Iran’s national soccer team represents a regime that has spent decades using sport as an instrument of political legitimacy. FIFA had an opportunity to distinguish between representing a nation and legitimizing a dictatorship. Instead, it chose to treat the Islamic Republic as just another participant in the world’s most popular sport. Until that changes, the tournament will continue to offer authoritarian regimes something far more valuable than points or trophies: international legitimacy.

This week, Tehran is staging what it hopes will be the largest funeral in modern history. According to Al Jazeera, representatives from more than one hundred countries are expected at the seven-day farewell to Ali Khamenei, who was killed on the first day of the war launched by the United States and Israel. Pakistan’s prime minister is attending in person. Turkey is sending its vice president, China a senior lawmaker, India a deputy foreign minister and a state governor.

The processions will span from Tehran to Qom, cross into Najaf and Karbala, and end at the shrine in Mashhad, where the man who ruled Iran through fear for thirty-seven years will be laid to rest with full honors. One must admire the guests’ discipline. It takes a certain level of composure to bow before the coffin of a leader whose security forces, only months earlier, opened fire into crowds of unarmed protestors. It takes diplomatic skill of the highest order to offer condolences to a state that was, at that very moment, preparing to execute the very protesters it had arrested.

The dignitaries will speak of stability, history, and respect between nations. None of them, to be sure, will mention the innocent Iranians gunned down in January.

The guest list is instructive. Pakistan, whose prime minister stands among the chief mourners, is the same Pakistan that brokered the April ceasefire and the June memorandum of understanding between Tehran and Washington. The mediator and the mourner are one government.

According to CBS News’s live coverage, the mediators announced that the next round of US-Iran talks would be scheduled as soon as possible—but only after the funeral processions conclude. The diplomacy of the world’s great powers has come to revolve around the Islamic Republic’s calendar of mourning.

The world is waiting, hat in hand, for the regime to finish grieving.

Missing from the negotiating table is what U.N. High Commissioner for Human Rights Volker Türk laid out in April. His office recorded at least twenty-one executions in the months prior, including nine hangings tied to the January 2026 protests, along with over four thousand arrests made under broad “national security” accusations.

He cited evidence of torture, forced confessions, and staged executions. He also described a financial tracking system built to seize the assets of Iranians abroad, four hundred of whom have been branded traitors to the homeland. He described an internet shutdown that had, by then, lasted sixty-one days. Amnesty International’s May report pushed the numbers higher: more than six thousand arrests, at least thirty-nine political executions, and an internet blackout that ultimately stretched to eighty-eight days, the longest ever recorded, sealing ninety million people off from the world.

I was among those in the streets that murderous January. I marched and bled among thousands of others. I still bear the wounds from the Islamic Republic’s response to my simple desire for an ordinary life.

So when I read that officials have since claimed over three thousand lives, while independent civil society groups, operating in darkness due to the blackout, believed the number to be much higher, I don’t see just a figure. It’s personal. I remember their faces, if not during the day, at night in my nightmares. The numbers represent real people who stood shoulder to shoulder with me. I can still remember the fruity, burning onion smell of tear gas that suffocated us, the stun grenades that blinded and deafened us, and the cinders I felt under my feet when I was shot.

The regime cut the internet precisely so that the world would never be certain of the number, and the world, conveniently, has moved on to discussing shipping lanes and frozen assets. The truth is simpler, as Eurasia Review recently put it: The Islamic Republic’s factions may quarrel over negotiations, foreign policy, and setting the tone to take with the West, but they converge absolutely on one policy: preserving power through coercion.

Escalating executions ensure the system’s survival. The weaker the Islamic Republic becomes politically, the more institutionally it depends on the gallows. A House of Commons Library briefing recorded that the United Kingdom backed the renewal of the UN’s fact-finding mission on Iran, deplored the crackdown, and promised further sanctions legislation.

These measures matter, yet they are dwarfed by the moment. A fact-finding mission documents the graves; it does not prevent the digging of new ones.

A state that hangs teenagers for protesting, disappears its critics, confiscates the property of exiles, and effectively muzzles ninety million people for three months is not merely conducting routine internal governance. It is simultaneously exporting its methods, through proxies, transnational repression, and the normalization that every bowed head at this funeral.

Negotiate with Tehran if you must; wars end at tables. But any agreement that trades assets and opens straits while the executions of innocent civilians continue is not peace. At least not for Iranians. It funds the next round of hangings. The regime is showing us exactly what it values at this funeral.

The rest of the world is simply deciding how much Iranian blood it is willing to overlook in order to secure a deal.