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How Inside Gaza Prompted Us to Re‑Examine “Journalism” in Gaza

When we encouraged NZFOI members to watch the Inside Gaza documentary at the 2026 DocEdge Festival, it wasn’t because we expected them to agree with its framing. We recommended it because it is important to understand how narratives about Gaza are constructed, and how the global public absorbs them. The film relies heavily on footage, narration, and “on‑the‑ground” reporting from inside a territory where Hamas controls access, messaging, and the entire information environment.

Watching the trailer alone raises an obvious question:


What does “journalism” actually mean in Gaza?

This matters because most people do not consume news through careful investigation. They encounter it in passing — a TV in a hotel lobby, a bar, a waiting room, a social‑media clip. They see a PRESS vest, a microphone, rubble in the background, and a confident voiceover. Their brain fills in the rest.

The appearance of journalism becomes the credibility of journalism.
And in Gaza, that appearance is easy to manufacture.

What Journalism Looks Like in Gaza — and Why It Misleads the Public

In democratic societies, “journalist” is a profession with clear standards: independence, verification, editorial oversight, and separation from political or military actors. Gaza is not such an environment. Hamas controls:

  • press passes and media unions
  • access to locations
  • what can be filmed
  • what can be published
  • who receives a PRESS vest
  • who is allowed to work with foreign media

This means that anyone appearing on screen — whether a freelancer, a propagandist, a political activist, or a dual‑role militant — can present themselves as a journalist. And to the outside world, they all look the same.

The public cannot distinguish:

  • a genuine independent reporter
  • a freelancer selling footage
  • a Hamas media‑wing employee
  • a political activist with a camera
  • a militant who films during the day and fights at night

Yet all of them may be credited by mainstream media as “journalists” or “local reporters.”
This is how credibility is laundered through the visual language of journalism.

How This Led to the ITIC Study report on Gaza Journalists

It is in this context that the Meir Amit Intelligence and Terrorism Information Center published its 2025 report, “Profiles of Journalists and Media Personnel Killed in the Gaza Strip During the War.” The study examined 266 individuals publicly described as journalists or media workers killed in Gaza and concluded that a significant proportion had some form of affiliation with Hamas or Palestinian Islamic Jihad.

The report has been widely discussed and often criticised — but mostly for definitional reasons. Press‑freedom organisations use a de jure definition of “journalist”: accredited, independent, civilian, working for a recognised outlet. The ITIC study instead used a de facto definition:

Anyone who functioned as a journalist in practice — producing footage, reports, or content that shaped global narratives.

This included:

  • freelancers
  • cameramen
  • fixers
  • social‑media reporters
  • people wearing PRESS vests
  • individuals whose footage was purchased by mainstream media
  • media workers for Hamas‑run channels

Critics argue that this definition is too broad. But in Gaza, the de facto approach is the only realistic one, because the de jure categories break down in a territory where a militant organisation controls the media environment.

The study’s approach is therefore not “flawed” so much as addressing a different question:
Who is actually producing the content that shapes global perceptions of the war?

Why the investigation’s De Facto Approach Has Legitimacy

The investigation’s core insight remains relevant:

In Gaza, the line between journalist, activist, propagandist, and militant is blurred — sometimes deliberately — and the global public cannot tell the difference.

This is not a theoretical concern. It is a structural feature of the information environment. Hamas controls access, messaging, and the risks faced by anyone who deviates from approved narratives. In such a setting, the appearance of journalism is easy to manufacture, and the public is easily influenced by it.

This is why NZFOI members were encouraged to watch Inside Gaza with informed scepticism. Not because all Gaza reporting is false, but because the environment itself makes independent verification impossible, and because the public is highly susceptible to the signals of journalism — the vest, the microphone, the tone, the format — regardless of the source.

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→ 30 May 2026
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Why the US and Israel want to prevent a Nuclear Iran

Few issues in global security are as charged, or as misunderstood, as the determination of the United States and Israel to prevent Iran from obtaining nuclear weapons. To many, it looks like power politics or regional rivalry. In reality, it’s about something far more basic: survival in a world where nuclear weapons and apocalyptic ideology can collide.

The World That Shaped Our View of Nukes

To understand today’s fears, it helps to start in 1945. By mid–World War II, Japan’s military government showed no sign of surrender. American planners expected hundreds of thousands of Allied casualties and millions of Japanese deaths in a full-scale invasion of the home islands. Every serious assessment pointed to a fight to the death.

In that context, the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were seen as the least catastrophic option. They forced a rapid surrender and avoided an invasion that could have been far bloodier. Under the law as it existed then, the bombings were not illegal. There were no treaties banning area bombing, no codified proportionality rules, and no legal framework for weapons of such unprecedented destructive power.

Why Those Same Attacks Would Be Illegal Today

Modern Laws of Armed Conflict (LOAC) take a very different view. Nuclear weapons are inherently indiscriminate. They cannot be directed only at military targets, they cause long-term radiation effects, and they inflict suffering on a scale that modern humanitarian law does not accept.

Today, proportionality is judged strike by strike, not war by war. You cannot justify killing hundreds of thousands of civilians on the grounds that it might prevent a larger number of deaths later. Civilian immunity is central, and nuclear weapons violate that principle by design. Under the current legal framework, Hiroshima and Nagasaki would almost certainly be considered unlawful, even if the strategic logic were identical.

How Modern Enemies Exploit the Law

Urban warfare adds another layer of complexity. Armed groups such as Hamas, a designated terrorist organisation responsible for severe harm and human rights violations, often fight without uniforms, embed themselves in civilian neighbourhoods, and use human shields. They operate from hospitals, schools, mosques and apartment blocks precisely because they know modern militaries are bound by rules they themselves ignore.

The attacker still has to verify targets, minimise civilian harm and apply proportionality. The defender’s violations do not cancel the attacker’s obligations. This creates a moral and tactical asymmetry: the side that follows the law is constrained; the side that violates it is not.

Most modern jurists accept this imbalance. They argue that weakening these protections would lead to catastrophic civilian suffering. The law is designed to restrain the powerful, not the powerless. It is imperfect, but the alternative is a return to total war.

Why Nuclear Weapons Break the Entire Logic

Nuclear weapons sit outside this framework. They are not just another tool in the arsenal. They are existential. A single detonation can destroy a city, collapse a health system, poison the environment and destabilise an entire region. Once used, the question is no longer who wins a battle, but whether societies can survive.

Deterrence worked in the Cold War because both sides wanted to live. The United States and the Soviet Union feared mutual destruction. The same basic logic applies today with other nuclear states: they may be rivals, but they are not suicidal.

The problem arises when nuclear weapons are paired with apocalyptic ideology. Elements within the Iranian regime frame history and conflict in eschatological terms. Martyrdom, redemptive suffering and the idea of a purifying crisis are not just rhetorical flourishes; they are part of the worldview. Groups like Hamas also draw on themes of martyrdom and sacrificial struggle.

Deterrence assumes that the other side values survival. But if a leadership believes that destruction can serve a divine purpose, or that martyrdom is victory rather than defeat, the entire logic of deterrence begins to fail. You cannot deter someone who is willing to burn the house down while still inside it.

Why the US and Israel Draw a Red Line at Nuclear Iran

This is the core reason the United States and Israel fear a nuclear Iran. It is not simply about regional influence or prestige. A nuclear-armed Iran would not just shift the balance of power; it would undermine the basic assumptions that have kept nuclear weapons unused since 1945.

Even if Iran never launched a nuclear strike, the mere possession of such weapons would radically change the strategic landscape. It would embolden Iran’s network of allied militias and proxies. It would increase the risk of miscalculation. It would make every crisis in the region potentially existential.

The nightmare scenario is not only an Iranian missile. It is also the possibility that nuclear materials, technology or even a device could find their way into the hands of a non-state group with apocalyptic theology and nothing to lose. A state can be deterred by the threat of retaliation against its cities and infrastructure. A dispersed movement with no capital, no conventional economy and a cult of martyrdom is far harder to deter.

The Hard Truth About Law, Power and Survival

The atomic bombings of 1945 were justified in their time because they prevented a far greater catastrophe. Under today’s laws of armed conflict, they would be illegal. Modern law intentionally restrains powerful states, even when adversaries exploit those restraints. Jurists accept this because the alternative is unregulated destruction.

But nuclear weapons break the entire system. They are strategic, not tactical. They are existential, not proportional. When combined with apocalyptic ideology, they create a threat that no legal framework can reliably contain.

That is why the United States and Israel fear a nuclear Iran. It is why they use diplomacy, sanctions, covert action and, at times, force to slow or disrupt its nuclear programme. This is not simply about dominance or prestige. It is about preventing a world in which nuclear weapons sit in the hands of actors who may not be deterred by the prospect of mutual destruction.

In that sense, the red line on a nuclear Iran is not just a strategic preference. It is a civilisational necessity.

And if prevention fails…

But this is also why appeals to LOAC ring hollow in the real world. LOAC can restrain responsible states, but it has no power to restrain a regime that already commits war crimes as doctrine. If Iran acquires nuclear weapons, nothing in LOAC prevents it from using them. The only actors bound by proportionality, distinction, and necessity would be the very states trying to stop a nuclear attack — not the regime initiating one.

And once a nuclear weapon is used, the conflict leaves the LOAC framework entirely. A nuclear detonation triggers the right of unrestricted self‑defence under Article 51 of the UN Charter. At that point, the priority is not legal theory but preventing a second strike. The likely consequence is regime‑ending retaliation, regional escalation, or nuclear coercion that destabilises the entire Middle East. This is why the world cannot simply “live with” a nuclear Iran. After the first use, every option becomes catastrophic — which is exactly why prevention, not reaction, is the only responsible path.

 

 

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→ 11 April 2026
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Israel’s death penalty: A biblical perspective on the Death Penalty

Israel's death penalty: Chagall's crucifixioin

Israel’s death penalty law has been amended particularly in how it should be applied. We have been asked for a biblical perspective on the death penalty in general.

It’s always controversial — in the West

The death penalty is controversial because it sits at the intersection of justice, morality, and state power. For many people, capital punishment raises the question of whether the state should ever take a life, even in response to the most serious crimes.

Others focus on the risk of error: no legal system is perfect, and a wrongful conviction in a capital case cannot be undone. There is also debate about fairness. Around the world, critics point to uneven application across different populations, court systems, or regions, which can undermine public confidence in equal justice.

Supporters often argue that some crimes are so grave that the strongest possible penalty is justified, but opponents counter that life imprisonment already protects society without crossing a moral line. These tensions make the death penalty a recurring flashpoint in legal and public debate.

Israel’s death penalty before the amendment

Israel’s death penalty has remained almost entirely unused because the legal system was designed to make execution possible in theory but extraordinarily difficult in practice.

For decades, a death sentence in the military courts required a unanimous panel of three judges, all of whom had to be senior officers. This unanimity rule created a built‑in brake: even in severe terrorism cases, a single dissenting judge prevented the sentence.

Alongside this, the regional military commander held broad clemency powers and routinely commuted any death sentence that did emerge. In the civilian system, courts consistently preferred life imprisonment, reflecting a judicial culture shaped by the singular experience of the Eichmann trial, which reinforced the idea that execution should be reserved for uniquely exceptional crimes.

Together, these structural and cultural factors meant the death penalty existed largely as a symbolic provision rather than a practical sentencing option.

Even when prosecutors sought it, the combination of procedural safeguards and institutional caution ensured it was never carried out. This history explains why the new amendment is so significant: it removes the very safeguards that kept the death penalty dormant for more than sixty years.

For those looking for that biblical perspective, here’s a thought-provoking piece:  Carpe Deo: Israel’s death penalty

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→ 11 April 2026
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The Death Penalty Debate: Reading the Law, Not the Hype

Israel’s new “Death Penalty for Terrorists Law, 5786–2026” has generated a wave of commentary, much of it heated and much of it only loosely connected to the text of the law itself.

Claims that the law is “racist” or that it “exempts Israelis from the death penalty” are now circulating widely.

This post does something very simple: it looks at the actual wording of the amendment and the legal framework it sits within. When we do that, a different picture emerges—legally complex, morally serious, but far less sensational than the headlines.

The Death Penalty Is Not New in Israel

A useful starting point: Israel has always had capital punishment on the books.  It exists in both the civilian Penal Law and in military law, and it has been used extremely rarely (famously, Adolf Eichmann). The new amendment does not “introduce” the death penalty.  It changes the conditions under which it may be imposed.

Why Two Court Systems Exist

Since 1967, the West Bank (“the Area”) has been governed under military law, not Israeli civilian law. This is not new, and it is not created by the amendment. It comes from:

  • the Emergency Regulations (Judea and Samaria – Adjudication of Offenses and Legal Aid), 1967, and
  • the Order Regarding Security Provisions (No. 1651).

Under this framework:

  • Israeli citizens and Israeli residents are tried in civilian courts.
  • Area residents who are not Israeli citizens or residents fall under military jurisdiction.

This is a jurisdictional distinction, not an ethnic one. The amendment simply adds new sentencing rules inside this long-standing structure.

What the Amendment Actually Does

The law creates two distinct sentencing tracks:

  1. A military court track for certain terrorism-related killings by residents of the Area.
  2. A civilian Penal Law track for intentional killing aimed at destroying the State of Israel.

1. The Military Court Track: Residents of the Area

Section 3 applies to:

“A resident of the Area … excluding an Israeli citizen or an Israeli resident.”

If such a person intentionally kills in an act of terrorism, the law states:

“shall be sentenced to death, and this punishment only…”

But the law also provides an exception:

“…if the Military Court finds, for special reasons which shall be recorded, that special circumstances exist… it may impose [life imprisonment].”

The law does not define “special reasons” or “special circumstances”.  That means the military courts will have to develop the standard through case law, as is normal in a common-law system.

In practice, this is a default death penalty with a judicial escape valve.

2. The Penal Law Track: Anyone Who Kills to Destroy the State of Israel

Section 6 amends the civilian Penal Law. It applies to any person—the text contains no exclusions. It covers intentional killing:

“with the aim of negating the existence of the State of Israel.”

The court may impose:

“death or life imprisonment, and one of these punishments only.”

Here, the court has full discretion. This means Israeli citizens—Jewish, Arab, Druze, or otherwise—can face the death penalty under this track.

What the Law Does Not Do

1. It Does Not Remove the Right of Appeal

Nothing in the amendment touches appeal rights. They remain exactly as they are today.

2. It Does Not Differentiate by Race or Ethnicity

The law never mentions race, ethnicity, or religion. Its distinctions are:

  • between military and civilian jurisdiction, and
  • between Area residents and Israeli citizens/residents.

These are legal-status categories, not ethnic ones.

3. It Does Not Exempt Israeli Citizens from the Death Penalty

Under the Penal Law amendment, any person who intentionally kills with the aim of destroying the State of Israel can be sentenced to death or life imprisonment.

Why the Debate Has Become So Confused

Much of the commentary has focused only on the military-court provision and ignored the civilian Penal Law amendment. If you look only at Section 3, it is easy to conclude that “Palestinians get the death penalty, Israelis don’t.”

But once both legs of the law are read together, a more accurate picture emerges:

  • Military courts: default death penalty for certain terrorism-related killings by Area residents under military jurisdiction, with a narrow judicial exception.
  • Civilian courts: discretionary death penalty or life imprisonment for anyone who intentionally kills with the aim of negating the existence of the State of Israel.

Towards a More Grounded Conversation

The new death penalty law is serious, weighty legislation. It raises hard moral, legal, and practical questions. Those questions deserve careful discussion.

But that discussion should begin with what the law actually says:

  • It does not introduce the death penalty—it already existed.
  • It creates two sentencing tracks—military and civilian.
  • It establishes a default death penalty in the military track, with a judicial escape valve.
  • It provides discretionary death or life sentences in the civilian track.
  • It does not remove appeal rights.
  • It does not classify defendants by race or ethnicity.
  • It does not exempt Israeli citizens from the death penalty.

In short, the law is not the caricature currently circulating online. Whatever one’s view of the death penalty in principle, the debate should be anchored in the text of the law, not in slogans about it.

This analysis is based on the following translation of the Amendment Bill.

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→ 8 April 2026
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The latest newsletter is out!

The latest newsletter is out and it may be downloaded from here: Download Newsletter.

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→ 2 March 2026
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The Moral Logic Behind the Strikes on Iran

Iranians and Israelis standing together in solidarity
Iranians and Israelis standing together in solidarity

Why the current attacks on Iran are illegal under international law but justifiable under Just War Theory. Read on to find out the moral logic of the strikes on Iran.

The Legal Frame: Why the Strikes Look Unlawful

International law is deliberately narrow. It allows force only when the UN Security Council authorises it or when a state is acting in self‑defence after an armed attack. Neither condition applies here. Iran had not launched a direct attack on US or Israeli territory, and no Security Council resolution was ever going to pass with Russia and China holding vetoes.

The Charter also prohibits regime change by force. Targeting political leadership crosses into the territory of the crime of aggression. On the legal ledger, the strikes are difficult to defend.

But legality is not the same as morality. And when a regime uses diplomacy as a shield, exports violence through proxies, and pursues long‑term existential goals, the moral analysis shifts.

Why Legality Isn’t the Whole Story

Just War Theory asks whether force is morally necessary to prevent grave harm. It evaluates intention, proportionality, last resort, and the nature of the threat. When applied to Iran, these criteria lead to a very different conclusion from the one international law reaches.

Iran’s post‑1979 regime is not a conventional authoritarian state. It is a revolutionary theocracy whose ideology mandates hostility toward Israel, the United States, and the West. This is not rhetorical theatre. It is written into the constitution, embedded in the IRGC’s mandate, and expressed through decades of proxy warfare.

The aggression is not episodic. It is structural.

A Regime Built for Exporting Conflict

Iran’s leadership has spent 45 years building a network of armed proxies—Hezbollah, Hamas, PIJ, Iraqi militias, Syrian militias, the Houthis—designed to encircle Israel and pressure the United States. These groups are not independent actors. They are instruments of Iranian strategy.

Alongside this, Iran has pursued a nuclear program marked by concealment, sanitised sites, undeclared facilities, and cooperation only when cornered. The IAEA’s reports over two decades show a consistent pattern: Iran advances its program when it can, slows it when pressured, and never fully discloses what it is doing.

Diplomacy becomes a tool for delay, not resolution. And every US election cycle offers a fresh opportunity to reset negotiations, stall for time, and wait for a more favourable administration.

This is not the behaviour of a state seeking coexistence. It is the behaviour of a state preparing for a future confrontation.

The Slow‑Burn Strategy

One of the most compelling interpretations of Iran’s behaviour is that it is pursuing a long‑term, slow‑burn strategy aimed at eventually confronting Israel and the United States on its own terms. That means avoiding premature war, building asymmetric capabilities, exploiting diplomatic cycles, and using negotiations to buy time.

A central pillar of this strategy is the pursuit of nuclear capability. Nuclear weapons function in geopolitics the way a queen functions on a chessboard: they change the entire geometry of the game. States with nuclear weapons are treated differently by the great powers. They gain immunity from regime‑threatening retaliation, freedom to escalate through proxies, and leverage to coerce neighbours.

Once a regime acquires a nuclear deterrent, removing it becomes exponentially harder.

Iran understands this. Its nuclear program is not a sprint; it is a deliberate crawl toward a position where it can no longer be coerced, contained, or confronted. Its restraint is not evidence of moderation. It is evidence of patience.

A regime that wants to survive in the short term but win in the long term behaves exactly like this: calibrated escalation, proxy warfare, nuclear hedging, and ideological consistency across generations.

If this interpretation is correct, the threat is existential even if not immediate.

How Just War Theory Responds to a Threat Like This

Just War Theory distinguishes between preventive war (not allowed) and pre‑emptive action (allowed when a real, advancing threat will soon become irreversible). A slow‑burn existential threat fits the second category when intentions are clear, the threat is growing, diplomacy is being used as deception, and waiting will make defence impossible.

Iran’s behaviour meets those conditions. Its ideology is explicitly hostile. Its proxies wage continuous low‑intensity war. Its nuclear program advances in the shadows. Its diplomacy is a stalling tactic timed to US election cycles. And its long‑term strategy appears aimed at a moment when it can fight from a position of strength.

Under these circumstances, the moral case for action becomes stronger than the legal one.

Does This Justify Regime Change?

Just War Theory allows regime change only when two demanding thresholds are met: the regime itself must be the instrument of aggression, and removing it must be necessary to prevent catastrophic harm.
Iran’s regime is not simply aggressive; it is built for aggression. Its ideology, institutions, and foreign policy are inseparable from its hostility toward Israel and the West. And if the regime is indeed pursuing a long‑term strategy aimed at eventual confrontation—anchored by a future nuclear deterrent—then waiting may simply allow the threat to mature into something irreversible.

In that reading, removing the regime is not imperial overreach. It is pre‑emptive defence against a danger that cannot be neutralised any other way.

Key Takeaway

International law and Just War Theory do not always point in the same direction. Legally, the recent strikes on Iran are difficult to justify. Morally, the case is far stronger. When a regime is ideologically committed to long‑term existential harm, uses proxies to wage continuous war, pursues nuclear capability as the queen on the geopolitical chessboard, and treats diplomacy as a stalling tactic timed to US election cycles, the moral obligation may shift from restraint to action. The uncomfortable truth is that the law may forbid what morality requires.

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→ 25 February 2026
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How Headlines help Anti‑Israel Bias Escape Scrutiny

Headline push Anti‑Israel Bias

Most people never read past a headline. In the age of scrolling, swiping, and instant reactions, the headline is the story for a huge share of the audience. It shapes the emotional response, sets the frame, and often becomes the public’s memory of the event, regardless of what the article actually says.

That is why headlines matter so much in reporting on Israel. And it is why complaints to the Broadcasting Standards Authority (BSA) and the NZ Media Council so often fail, even when the headline is blatantly misleading or inflammatory.

A recent Stuff story is a perfect example.

The Stuff Headline That Does the Damage

Stuff ran the headline:

“Human rights experts join rising chorus that accuses Israel of genocide in Gaza.”

It is a headline designed to hit hard. It implies a growing, authoritative consensus. It frames Israel as a state facing a swelling global indictment. And it uses the most explosive word in the political vocabulary: genocide.

But the article itself tells a different story. Buried further down, readers learn that:

  • The International Court of Justice has not found Israel guilty of genocide.
  • The UN “experts” are not judges, not investigators, and do not speak for the UN as a whole.
  • The legal question is unresolved and contested.

A more accurate, less inflammatory headline could easily have been:

“UN-appointed experts repeat genocide allegations; legal bodies yet to rule.”

Same facts. Less heat. No distortion. But most readers never get that far. They see the headline, absorb the accusation, and move on.

Why Regulators Keep Saying “Not Guilty”

When NZFOI or others complain about biased headlines, the outcome is depressingly predictable. The BSA and Media Council almost always judge the entire article, not the headline that shaped public perception.

Their reasoning follows a familiar pattern:

  • A “reasonable reader” is assumed to read the whole article.
  • Headlines are allowed to be punchy or provocative.
  • Balance in the body text is treated as a cure for imbalance in the headline.

This approach made sense in the print era, when readers sat down with a newspaper and consumed the whole story. It makes no sense in a digital environment where headlines circulate independently on social media, often without any context at all.

The regulators are evaluating journalism as it exists on paper, not as it is consumed in the real world.

This allows headlines to help anti-Israel bias to escape scrutiny.

What the Research Shows About Headlines

Modern media research is unequivocal:

  • Many readers never click through to the article.
  • Emotional reactions occur at the headline level alone.
  • First impressions formed from headlines persist even when contradicted by the body.
  • Social media amplifies headlines in isolation, without nuance or context.

In other words, a fair body cannot fix a misleading headline. The harm has already happened.

This is especially true for Israel-related reporting, where words like “genocide,” “apartheid,” and “war crimes” carry enormous emotional weight and can inflame public sentiment instantly.

Why This Matters for Israel

Israel is uniquely vulnerable to headline distortion because:

  • Allegations are often presented as facts.
  • Headlines frequently omit legal context.
  • Nuance appears only deep in the article.
  • Social media spreads the headline, not the correction.

The Stuff headline is a textbook case. It primes readers to believe Israel is committing genocide, even though the article itself acknowledges that no court has made such a finding.

The headline becomes the verdict. The article becomes the footnote.

What Needs to Change

New Zealand’s media standards need to catch up with how news is actually consumed.

  • Headlines must be assessed as standalone communications. If the headline misleads, the complaint should be upheld, even if the body is balanced.
  • Newsrooms must stop using headlines as emotional weapons. Accuracy should not be sacrificed for clicks, especially on matters of war and public safety.
  • Regulators must recognise the real-world impact of framing. The “reasonable reader” of 2026 does not behave like the reader of 1996.

Until that happens, misleading headlines about Israel will continue to shape public opinion while escaping accountability.

 

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→ 11 February 2026
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The Francesca Albanese Problem: How a UN Mandate Creates Controversy by Design

Francesca Albanese, the UN Special Rapporteur on the situation of human rights in the Palestinian territories occupied since 1967, has become one of the most polarising figures in the UN system. Her public statements, especially since October 2023, have drawn sharp criticism from Israel, the United States, Germany, and other governments. Supporters praise her for speaking plainly about violations of international law; critics accuse her of overreach, partiality, and damaging the UN’s credibility.

But the deeper truth is this: the controversy around Albanese is not primarily about her personality or her politics. It is about a UN mandate that is structurally one‑directional, politically entrenched, and almost impossible to reform. She is operating exactly as the system was designed — and that design is what produces the tension.

Her most controversial statements

Albanese has made several high‑profile statements that triggered international backlash. The most contentious have been her repeated claims that Israel’s actions in Gaza amount to genocide or exhibit genocidal intent. This is especially sensitive because the International Court of Justice has not found Israel guilty of genocide; it has only ruled that South Africa’s claim is plausible enough to warrant provisional measures. Critics argue that Albanese’s language pre‑judges a legal question still before the Court. Supporters counter that her mandate requires her to assess violations as she sees them.

She has also accused Israel of practising apartheid, echoing the language used by several human rights organisations. But her most incendiary recent remark — describing Israel as “an enemy to humanity” — drew condemnation from multiple governments and UN member states. Critics argued that such language is incompatible with the restraint expected of someone widely perceived as a UN figure, even if technically she is not part of the UN bureaucracy. Supporters insisted she was speaking to the scale of civilian suffering and the obligations of international law.

She has further accused Western governments of enabling Israeli violations of international law, a framing that several states have condemned as politically inflammatory. And she has been criticised for not focusing on Hamas’s actions, including the 7 October attacks. Her response is consistent: the mandate does not authorise her to investigate Palestinian actors except insofar as they relate to Israel’s obligations as the occupying power.

Her communication style adds to the controversy. Albanese uses social media and public advocacy more actively than her predecessors, adopting a tone closer to activism than diplomacy. Whether one agrees with her or not, these statements have shaped her public profile — and they highlight the structural tension at the heart of her role.

How this mandate came about

To understand the controversy, it helps to understand the origins of the mandate itself. The Special Rapporteur on the OPT was created in 1993 by the UN Commission on Human Rights, at the height of the Oslo peace process. At the time, the international community believed a final settlement was within reach. The mandate was designed to monitor Israel’s conduct as the occupying power and assess compliance with international humanitarian and human rights law.

The one‑directional nature of the mandate made sense in that moment. Israel was the occupying power; occupation law places obligations primarily on the occupier; Palestinian governance structures were still emerging; and the Oslo process was expected to resolve the conflict within a few years. The mandate was never intended to be permanent.

But when Oslo collapsed, Hamas took control of Gaza, and Palestinian governance fragmented, the mandate did not evolve. It remained frozen in its 1993 form, even as the political and legal landscape changed dramatically. A mechanism designed for a transitional period became a permanent fixture — and that is the root of today’s structural problem.

What evidence she relies on — without ever entering the territory

Another source of controversy is the fact that Albanese has never visited Gaza, the West Bank, or Israel during her tenure. In fact, no Special Rapporteur has been allowed entry since 2008. Israel has denied access to every mandate‑holder for nearly two decades, including Richard Falk, Makarim Wibisono, Michael Lynk, and now Albanese.

This means that Albanese’s assessments are based entirely on secondary evidence, which is standard UN practice when access is denied. Her sources include:

  • Interviews with victims, witnesses, humanitarian workers, and journalists
  • Reports from un agencies operating on the ground (unrwa, ocha, who, unicef)
  • Satellite imagery and open‑source intelligence
  • Documentation from ngos such as human rights watch, amnesty international, b’tselem, and others
  • Verified media footage and geolocated videos
  • Legal submissions from states and experts
  • Decades of prior un findings and resolutions

This is how most UN human rights investigations operate when a state blocks access. But it also means her conclusions reflect her interpretation of evidence she cannot personally verify on the ground. That distinction is often lost in public debate, and it feeds the perception that her statements — including genocide, apartheid, and “enemy to humanity” — are not grounded in direct observation.

Why she is not required to be neutral

This is the point most often misunderstood by the public. Special Rapporteurs are not UN staff. They are independent experts, unpaid by the UN, and not representatives of the Secretary‑General. They are not bound by diplomatic neutrality. Their job is to investigate, assess, and report — not to mediate or balance competing narratives.

The mandate itself is explicitly one‑directional. It instructs the Rapporteur to examine Israel’s conduct as the occupying power. It does not instruct the Rapporteur to investigate Hamas, the Palestinian Authority, or Palestinian armed groups except in relation to Israel’s obligations. Impartiality, in this context, refers to method, not symmetry. The Rapporteur must apply international law consistently, but is not required to distribute criticism evenly.

This is why her reports — and those of her predecessors — appear one‑sided. The mandate itself is one‑sided.

How this affects the UN’s reputation

Here lies the core dilemma. The UN as an institution must be neutral and impartial. Special Rapporteurs are not required to be neutral or impartial. Most people do not understand the difference.

When Albanese makes strong statements — including calling Israel “an enemy to humanity” — many assume the UN itself is taking a position. Her statements are her own, not the UN’s institutional stance. But the reputational damage is real because the distinction between “UN official” and “independent expert” is not intuitive. The conflict is highly polarised, her rhetoric is unusually direct, and the mandate itself is structurally asymmetric. The result is a persistent perception that the UN is biased, even when the system is functioning exactly as designed.

How previous Rapporteurs handled the same tension

Every person who has held this mandate has faced the same structural problem. John Dugard was blunt and legalistic, emphasising that the mandate required one‑directional scrutiny. Richard Falk adopted an activist tone that generated significant controversy and was denied entry by Israel. Makarim Wibisono tried to soften the asymmetry but resigned when Israel refused him access, stating that the mandate prevented him from being impartial. Michael Lynk was more measured and academic, but still sharply critical of Israel. Albanese is more public and assertive than her predecessors, and her communication style amplifies the structural tension rather than softening it.

The pattern is clear: the controversy is built into the mandate, not the individual.

Why the mandate has never been rebalanced

Reforming the mandate would require a majority vote in the UN Human Rights Council. That has never happened — and likely never will. The Council is polarised, with a large bloc of states supporting the existing mandate. Western states criticise the mandate but rarely act, lacking the votes to change it. Israel does not engage with the process, viewing the HRC as biased. For many states, the mandate serves political purposes. The political cost of reform outweighs the benefit. The result is a mandate that persists by political inertia, not by design quality.

What could be done

Several theoretical reforms exist. The mandate could be rewritten to include all parties, though this is politically unlikely. A broader human rights mechanism could replace it, or a parallel mandate could be created to examine Palestinian authorities. The UN could also improve public communication, making clearer the distinction between institutional positions and independent expert opinions. Rapporteurs themselves could adopt more diplomatic communication styles, though that depends entirely on the individual.

Key Takeaway

Francesca Albanese is controversial, but she is not an anomaly. She is the predictable product of a mandate that is structurally asymmetric, politically entrenched, and widely misunderstood. Her statements — including her claim that Israel is “an enemy to humanity” — generate reputational tension for the UN not because she is violating the rules, but because the rules themselves create a clash between independent investigation and public expectations of neutrality. Until the mandate is rebalanced — or at least better explained — every future Rapporteur will face the same storm.

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Australia’s Hate‑Speech Debate and the Lessons Hidden in History

Australia Prime Minister Anthony Albanese has authorised a Royal Commission in the aftermath of the Bondi Massacre. The Bondi Massacre has renewed calls for Hate-Speech Laws to be passed.

Australia’s renewed push to strengthen hate‑speech laws, after the Bondi Massacre, has stirred up a familiar conversation across the Tasman. Whenever one democracy tightens the boundaries of acceptable speech, its neighbours inevitably ask themselves the same questions: What exactly are we trying to prevent? Do these laws work? And how do we avoid repeating the mistakes of the past?

To answer those questions, it helps to step back and look at the long, winding history of how societies have tried to regulate dangerous speech — from medieval blasphemy laws to modern hate‑speech statutes — and how New Zealand found itself wrestling with these issues in recent years.

Before “Hate Speech”: The Era of Proto‑Laws

Long before anyone coined the phrase “hate speech,” societies were already policing words. But the targets were very different from today.

Early speech restrictions were designed to protect the powerful, not the vulnerable. Medieval and early‑modern Europe punished blasphemy, heresy, and insults to monarchs. Sedition laws protected the state. Public‑order laws punished speech that threatened stability. These weren’t hate‑speech laws — but they were the ancestors of modern speech regulation. They recognised that words could inflame, destabilise, or provoke violence.

They were, in a sense, proto–hate speech laws: early attempts to control dangerous expression, but aimed at shielding institutions and dominant religions rather than minority communities.

Weimar Germany: A Warning From the Middle Ground

By the early 20th century, democracies began experimenting with laws that looked closer to what we recognise today. The Weimar Republic had statutes against inciting hatred, insulting religious communities, and spreading inflammatory propaganda. These laws were used — sporadically — against Hitler and the Nazi Party.

But they were weak, inconsistently enforced, and applied by courts often sympathetic to nationalist rhetoric. They failed not because the idea of regulating incitement was flawed, but because the state enforcing them was collapsing.

This failure became a turning point. After the war, the world understood that propaganda and dehumanising rhetoric weren’t abstract harms — they were precursors to genocide.

After the Holocaust: The Birth of Modern Hate‑Speech Law

Modern hate‑speech laws are a post‑WWII creation. Germany led the way with strict bans on Nazi symbols, Holocaust denial, and incitement against groups. These laws influenced the European Convention on Human Rights, UN anti‑racism conventions, and the frameworks adopted by Canada, the UK, and others.

For the first time, speech regulation was designed to protect vulnerable minorities, not the state or the dominant religion. The moral logic was clear: if hateful propaganda helped pave the road to genocide, democracies had a duty to intervene earlier.

But even with this moral clarity, the practical challenges remained.

The Drafting Dilemma: Why Hate‑Speech Laws Are So Hard to Get Right

Even supporters of hate‑speech laws acknowledge the same recurring problems.

Definitions are slippery.
Words like “hatred,” “insult,” and “hostility” are subjective. What one person sees as critique, another sees as bigotry.

Enforcement can become political.
Police and courts must interpret emotional concepts. That opens the door to inconsistency — or misuse.

Ideas are not people.
Laws should protect individuals from harm, not shield belief systems from criticism. When religion becomes a protected category, the line between hate‑speech law and blasphemy law can blur quickly.

Effectiveness is mixed.
Countries with strong hate‑speech laws still experience rising extremism. The laws can reduce public displays of hate, but they rarely change underlying prejudice.

These tensions are exactly what Australia is grappling with now — and what New Zealand confronted recently.

New Zealand’s High‑Threshold Approach

New Zealand has some of the narrowest hate‑speech laws in the democratic world. Under the Human Rights Act 1993, only racial incitement is covered. The threshold is high: the speech must be threatening, abusive, or insulting and likely to incite hostility or contempt.

Religion, gender, sexuality, disability, and political belief are not included. Most offensive or hateful speech is not illegal unless it crosses into threats, harassment, or incitement to violence — all of which are already covered by the Crimes Act and other statutes.

This approach reflects a strong cultural preference for free expression and a reluctance to criminalise attitudes rather than actions.

The Push to Add Religion — And Why It Backfired

After the Christchurch mosque attacks, the Royal Commission recommended expanding hate‑speech protections to include religion. The government proposed amending the Human Rights Act so that “insulting” or “hostile” speech about religious groups could become a criminal offence.

The reaction was swift and intense.

Critics warned that criminalising “insults” to religion risked creating a de facto blasphemy law — just two years after New Zealand had formally repealed its old blasphemy offence. The concern wasn’t abstract. Around the world, laws protecting religion from “insult” have been used to:

  • Suppress theological disagreement
  • Silence ex‑believers
  • Chill academic study of comparative religion
  • Shield harmful practices from scrutiny
  • Protect ideas instead of people

Public submissions overwhelmingly argued that the proposal would undermine open debate, academic freedom, and the ability to challenge belief systems — all essential in a pluralistic society.

In the end, the Law Commission declined to include hate‑speech reform in its work programme, and the government withdrew the proposal entirely.

What Australia Can Learn From New Zealand’s Experience

Australia’s debate is unfolding in a global context where hate‑speech laws are common but their effectiveness is mixed. The New Zealand experience offers a quiet but important lesson: even well‑intentioned reforms can stumble when they risk suppressing legitimate debate, especially around religion.

The challenge is not whether to protect vulnerable communities — everyone agrees on that. The challenge is how to do it without sliding back into the old pattern of protecting belief systems from criticism, the very thing modern democracies have spent decades moving away from.

If Australia wants to avoid repeating history — both ancient and modern — it will need to draft with extraordinary care, clear thresholds, and a firm commitment to protecting people rather than ideas.

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The latest newsletter is out!

NZFOI Newsletter 202602
NZFOI Newsletter 202602

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