Navi Pillay’s Nobel Prize and the Debate It Reopens

Navi Pillay’s Nobel Prize has pushed her long human‑rights career back into the spotlight. Supporters point to her work on gender justice, international criminal law and her leadership at the UN Human Rights system. The award reflects that legacy. But it also brings renewed attention to the UN Commission of Inquiry (COI) she chaired on the Israeli–Palestinian conflict, especially its most contentious claim: that Israel committed genocide.

A Mandate That Set the Direction

The COI’s problems start with its mandate. Unlike most UN inquiries, this one operated without time limits and with a scope that centred almost entirely on Israel. Legal scholars such as Eugene Kontorovich argue that this structure steered the inquiry toward predetermined conclusions. Former UN officials have also noted that the terms of reference built an asymmetry into the process, shaping how evidence would be collected and interpreted.

Evidence Used Without Balance

The report leans heavily on public statements from Israeli officials and casualty figures produced by Hamas‑run bodies. Analysts at UN Watch have shown that the COI downplayed Hamas’s military strategy: embedding fighters in civilian areas, constructing tunnel networks under hospitals and schools, and using human shields. These factors are essential for assessing proportionality and intent under international humanitarian law, yet the report treats them as secondary.

A Genocide Finding Without the Required Proof

The genocide allegation rests on the most fragile part of the report. The Genocide Convention requires proof of specific intent to destroy a protected group. The COI infers this intent from patterns of harm and inflammatory rhetoric. Former ICC Prosecutor Karim Khan directly addressed this issue in an interview with Mehdi Hasan, stating that “everything is a function of evidence” and that he had not seen evidence sufficient to support a genocide indictment against Israeli leaders. Khan stressed that even extreme suffering does not automatically establish genocidal intent. His comments highlight the gap between atrocity and genocide — a gap the COI attempts to close through interpretation rather than demonstrable proof.

Scrutiny Applied Unevenly

The report also applies scrutiny unevenly. It examines Israeli actions in exhaustive detail while giving Hamas and Palestinian Islamic Jihad far lighter treatment. The COI often redirects their conduct back to Israeli policy instead of assessing their independent legal obligations. Jurists such as Irwin Cotler argue that this imbalance undermines the credibility of the findings and weakens the report’s legal foundation.

A Prize That Revives an Argument

Pillay’s Nobel Prize celebrates her broader human‑rights work, not the COI report. Still, the award inevitably brings the report back into public debate. Its structural flaws, evidentiary gaps and asymmetric analysis remain central concerns for many legal experts. As Karim Khan’s comments show, genocide is the highest and most demanding threshold in international law — and many believe the COI has not met it.

How Sustainable Peace Can Be Achieved in Gaza: A Conflict Theory Perspective

Hamas

Why Gaza’s Conflict Feels Impossible to Resolve

Sustainable peace in Gaza will not come from slogans or quick diplomatic fixes. Conflict theory reminds us that some conflicts become existential—where one side believes its survival requires the destruction of the other. The sociologist Ali Alghafli, studies structural intractability in the Palestinian–Israeli conflict.  He notes that both societies can become “entrapped in a perpetuating cycle of fighting for their perceived right to national existence.” When one actor insists the conflict is existential, the opposing side is forced into existential behaviour, even if it did not choose that framing.

How Hamas’s Ideology Blocks Coexistence

This is the dynamic Israel faces with Hamas and the wider Muslim Brotherhood movement. Hamas’s charter, rhetoric, and actions openly reject coexistence and frame the struggle as a religiously mandated effort to eliminate Israel. The strategic scholar Daniel Sobelman, specialises in asymmetric conflict. He writes that Hamas increasingly viewed Israel’s destruction as a realistic strategic objective, culminating in its attempt to “plunge Israel into an existential war.” Conflict theory tells us that as long as one actor insists on an existential war, coexistence becomes structurally impossible. Peace requires changing the structure of the conflict, not simply urging goodwill.

History Shows Existential Conflicts Can Still Find Peace

History, however, offers encouragement. Northern Ireland, South Africa, Colombia, and even Israel’s peace with Egypt show that existential conflicts can transition into stable coexistence. In each case, peace emerged only when the existential actor either moderated, lost capability, or was replaced by a governing authority with non‑eliminationist goals. Alghafli’s work reinforces this pattern: structural change, not sentiment, is what breaks cycles of existential fear.

Pathway One: Removing the Means to Wage Existential War

Applied to Gaza, conflict theory identifies three realistic pathways to sustainable peace. First, Hamas must lose the military capability to pursue its existential aims. Sobelman’s research on hybrid warfare shows how non‑state actors impose “rules of the game” on stronger states by maintaining the ability to regenerate and strike. Removing Hamas’s military infrastructure would break this dynamic. When an actor cannot credibly pursue maximalist goals, the conflict shifts from existential to political. Cold coexistence becomes possible.

Pathway Two: Ideological Moderation—The Least Likely Route

The second pathway is ideological moderation within Hamas. This is how the IRA and PLO eventually moved from armed struggle to political engagement. But for Hamas, whose identity is built around sacred‑text absolutism and resistance until victory, moderation is historically unlikely. Sobelman’s analysis reinforces this: Hamas’s strategic vision is tied to existential resistance, not political compromise. Conflict theory treats this pathway as theoretically possible but practically remote.

Pathway Three: Replacing Hamas with a Responsible Authority

The third pathway is the emergence of a new governing authority in Gaza. Sustainable peace requires a Palestinian leadership that is not committed to Israel’s destruction and is capable of governing without militant coercion. The Israeli strategist Maj. Gen. (res.) Gershon Hacohen, writes extensively on Israel’s security doctrine.  Hacohen argues that Israel must recognise Hamas’s existential framing and engage actors who do not share that worldview. This pathway mirrors transitions seen in Lebanon after its civil war and in South Africa after apartheid.

How Trump’s Board of Peace Fits This Pathway

President Trump’s Board of Peace initiative is an example of this third pathway being attempted in real time. The Board’s charter—ratified in January 2026 and supported by a coalition of international actors—aims to create a governing and reconstruction framework for Gaza that is not controlled by Hamas. Its stated goals include demilitarisation, governance reform, and large‑scale rebuilding, all under an authority committed to coexistence rather than eliminationist ideology.

Conflict theory would describe this as an effort to remove the existential actor from governance and replace it with a structure capable of sustaining peace. The key question, however, is whether the Board can actually meet the three structural conditions required for coexistence.

Can the Board Establish Legitimate Local Leadership?

This is the hardest hurdle. Gazan society has been shaped for decades by Hamas’s political, social, and religious networks. Any new authority must be seen as authentically Palestinian, not externally imposed. Alghafli’s work on conflictive social structures shows how deeply embedded identity networks sustain conflict. The Board’s success depends on whether it can cultivate leaders with genuine local credibility. This is possible, but far from guaranteed.

Can the Board Prevent Hamas from Reconstituting Itself?

This condition is achievable only if regional actors—especially Egypt—cooperate in sealing borders, restricting arms flows, and dismantling underground networks. Sobelman’s analysis of asymmetric deterrence highlights how Hamas exploits regional seams to rebuild capacity. The Board has a chance here: its mandate includes security coordination with states that have both the capability and the incentive to prevent Hamas’s return. This condition is difficult, but structurally plausible.

Can the Board Secure Regional Cooperation?

This is the Board’s strongest advantage. Egypt, Jordan, the UAE, and Saudi Arabia have all signalled interest in a post‑Hamas Gaza that is stable, demilitarised, and economically viable. Hacohen’s writing emphasises that Israel’s security environment is shaped by regional alignments; if these states continue to support the Board’s framework, it will have the regional scaffolding needed to sustain political transition.

Taken together, conflict theory would judge the Board of Peace’s chances as tangible but highly conditional. It cannot guarantee coexistence, but it is attempting the only pathway that has ever worked in other existential conflicts: replacing the maximalist actor with a governing authority committed to peace. If the Board succeeds in even two of the three structural conditions, it could create the first genuinely sustainable peace architecture Gaza has seen in decades.

Why Israel Cannot Unilaterally Create Peace

Conflict theory’s central insight is that peace is not achieved by asking Israel to “show restraint” or “take risks for peace.” Peace becomes possible only when the existential framing is removed from the conflict system. Israel cannot unilaterally choose coexistence while facing an actor committed to its elimination. Sustainable peace requires transforming the conditions that make the conflict existential in the first place.

A Hopeful but Realistic Path Forward

For Christians who care deeply about peace, justice, and the wellbeing of both Israelis and Palestinians, conflict theory offers a sober but hopeful message: peace is achievable, but only when the structures that reward perpetual conflict are dismantled. When the existential threat is removed—whether through military defeat, ideological change, or political replacement—coexistence becomes not only possible, but durable.

The Future Depends on Changing the Structure, Not the Slogans

Sustainable peace in Gaza will come when the people of Gaza are governed by leaders who seek life rather than destruction, and when Israel can engage a neighbour who accepts its right to exist. Conflict theory does not promise easy answers, but it does show a clear path: change the structure, and peace can follow.

—
NZFOI

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.

Review: Spies of No Country by Matti Friedman

Matti Friedman has built a reputation as one of the most compelling interpreters of Israel’s early history. A Canadian‑Israeli journalist and former AP correspondent, he writes with a reporter’s precision and a storyteller’s instinct for the human detail that reveals a larger truth. In Spies of No Country, he turns his attention to the Palmach’s Arab Section—the tiny, improvised precursor to Israel’s modern intelligence services—and uncovers a story that is both humbler and more astonishing than the sleek mythology that later grew around the Mossad.

The first surprise is how primitive it all was. Today’s popular imagination, shaped by the James Bond franchise and decades of Mossad legend, assumes espionage is synonymous with gadgets, global reach, and surgical precision. Friedman dismantles that assumption from the opening pages. The men he profiles—Gamliel Cohen, Isaac Shoshan, Havakuk Cohen, and others—were not trained in high‑tech tradecraft. They were barely trained at all. They operated with forged papers that could fall apart in the rain, radios that barely worked, and cover stories held together by nerve and improvisation. Their missions were improvised, their support minimal, and their survival far from guaranteed.

What made them uniquely suited to this work was not sophistication but identity. These were young Mizrahi Jews—men from Aleppo, Damascus, and other Arab cities—who had grown up speaking Arabic and absorbing the rhythms of Middle Eastern life. Yet in the Yishuv of the 1940s, dominated culturally and institutionally by Ashkenazi Jews from Europe, they often felt like outsiders. Friedman shows how the Arab Section gave them something they had not previously been offered: purpose, belonging, and a chance to turn the very thing that marginalized them—their Mizrahi background—into a strategic superpower.

Their success, as Friedman presents it, was a blend of audacity, instinct, and perhaps good fortune. Some readers will see providence in their survival; others will see the improbable luck that often accompanies the bold. Whatever the interpretation, the results were remarkable. These young men infiltrated Arab cities, gathered intelligence that shaped the 1948 war, and helped lay the foundations of a state that did not yet formally exist.

But Friedman refuses to romanticize them. The book is as much about failure as triumph. The Arab Section’s work was riddled with danger, and the margin for error was razor thin. Being a Mizrahi Jew raised in a Muslim environment did not guarantee mastery of every dialect, custom, or social nuance. A misplaced word, a gesture slightly out of place, or a moment of hesitation could—and sometimes did—lead to exposure and death. Friedman treats these losses with gravity, showing how the same qualities that made these men invaluable also placed them in situations where the risks were almost unbearable.

What emerges is a portrait of espionage stripped of glamour and restored to its human scale. These were not super‑agents but teenagers and twenty‑somethings improvising their way through history. Their achievements were extraordinary precisely because they were so fragile, so dependent on courage rather than machinery, and so deeply intertwined with questions of identity, belonging, and sacrifice.

One of the most poignant threads Friedman draws out is the dislocation these young agents experienced when they finally returned from their long stretches undercover in Beirut, Damascus, and other Arab cities. Some had slipped across borders when Israel wasn’t yet a state at all—when the Yishuv was fighting simply to survive—and they came home to a country that had been transformed in their absence. Israel was now sovereign, a member of the United Nations, already building institutions and a national identity. Yet for all their service, they still didn’t quite fit in. The very skills that had made them indispensable in the shadows—Arabic fluency, Middle Eastern mannerisms, the ability to disappear into Muslim-majority societies—were not traits the new, largely Ashkenazi state celebrated or understood. They returned as heroes who were not fully recognized, men who had risked everything for a homeland that had changed without them and still struggled to find a place for them.

Spies of No Country is ultimately a story about the birth of Israeli intelligence, but it is also a story about the birth of Israeli society—messy, diverse, improvised, and shaped by people whose contributions were long overlooked. Friedman gives these men the recognition they deserve, and in doing so, he reminds readers that the foundations of modern Israel were laid not only by generals and politicians but by young Mizrahi Jews who risked everything in the shadows.

 

Review: The Sword of Freedom – Israel, Mossad, and the Secret War by Yossi Cohen

Yossi Cohen’s The Sword of Freedom is marketed as an inside look at Israel’s Mossad: high-stakes operations, secret wars, and the shadow struggle against Iran. On that level, it delivers. Cohen recounts, in vivid and sometimes cinematic detail, operations such as the remote-controlled assassination of an Iranian nuclear scientist and the daring theft of the Iranian nuclear archive. These episodes are gripping, polished, and clearly designed to showcase the reach and precision of Israel’s intelligence services.

But to read this book only as a Mossad memoir is to miss its deeper purpose. Beneath the operational anecdotes and cloak-and-dagger atmosphere, The Sword of Freedom functions as a kind of political “stretch application” – or perhaps more accurately, a “reach application” – for the office of Prime Minister of Israel. The Mossad stories are the vehicle; the leadership narrative is the destination.

Cohen consistently presents himself not merely as a former intelligence chief, but as a statesman-in-waiting: articulate, globally connected, morally certain, and strategically far-sighted. Each chapter is structured so that the operation described becomes a parable of leadership. A covert action against Iran becomes a lesson in resolve; a diplomatic back-channel becomes a lesson in statecraft; a high-risk decision becomes a lesson in moral clarity. The message is subtle but unmistakable: these are not just stories about what he did, but arguments for what he could be trusted to do in a higher office.

Several reviewers have picked up on this dual character of the book. One reviewer remarked that it “reads less like a conventional intelligence memoir and more like a carefully crafted leadership profile,” noting how often Cohen shifts from operational detail to broad reflections on Israel’s destiny and the qualities required of its leaders. Another observed that the book “feels at times like a campaign biography in disguise,” pointing out how frequently Cohen places himself at the centre of pivotal moments, framed as the decisive, steady hand in times of crisis. A third review commented that Cohen “seems to be auditioning for a larger role on the national stage,” highlighting the way he moves from Mossad operations to sweeping political and moral conclusions.

None of this makes the book less interesting; in many ways, it makes it more revealing. As a pure institutional history of the Mossad, The Sword of Freedom is selective and highly curated. Cohen avoids the internal frictions, bureaucratic struggles, and strategic missteps that would complicate the heroic narrative. What he offers instead is a streamlined version of events that consistently reinforces a particular image of himself: bold but measured, ruthless when necessary yet guided by a strong moral compass, deeply rooted in Jewish identity yet comfortable on the global stage.

Where the book is most striking is in its treatment of Iran. Cohen frames the Islamic Republic not only as a strategic adversary, but as a civilisational threat that demands exceptional clarity and resolve from Israel’s leadership. The implication is clear: the kind of leader who successfully orchestrated these covert operations is the kind of leader Israel will need in the years ahead. The past operations become, in effect, a résumé for a future role.

Readers who come to The Sword of Freedom expecting a comprehensive, warts-and-all history of the Mossad may feel that the institutional story is thinner than the marketing suggests. But readers interested in the future of Israeli politics will find something else: a carefully constructed self-portrait of a man who plainly sees himself as a contender for national leadership. The book is less about the Mossad as an organisation and more about Yossi Cohen as a brand.

In that sense, the cover is only half right. Yes, this is a book about the Mossad and its secret war. But more than that, it is a public, polished, and deliberate reach application for the highest office in the country. The operations are the backdrop; the real subject is the man who wants to be seen as Israel’s next sword of freedom.

Social Media, State Actors, and the Battle for World Opinion on Israel

Over the last five years, social media has transformed from a digital town square into a geopolitical battlespace. Nowhere is this clearer than in the global conversation about Israel. What once unfolded through journalism, diplomacy, and long‑form analysis now happens through 15‑second videos, anonymous accounts, and algorithm‑driven outrage. And while many in the West still treat social media as entertainment, hostile states treat it as a weapon.

The new information battlefield

During the October 7 attacks and the Gaza war that followed, platforms like TikTok, X, Instagram, and Telegram became the primary source of information for millions. But “information” is generous. Much of what went viral was unverified, emotionally charged, or outright fabricated. Israel often found itself responding to false claims within minutes simply to prevent them from hardening into “truth.”

This shift has had measurable consequences. In 2023, for the first time since polling began in 1998, more Americans sympathised with Palestinians than with Israelis. That change did not happen in a vacuum. It was accelerated by digital ecosystems optimised for emotional impact, not accuracy.

State actors are exploiting Western vulnerabilities

Foreign governments have learned that social media allows them to influence Western societies at almost no cost. Russia’s bot networks are well‑documented. China’s algorithmic shaping of TikTok content is now a matter of national‑security concern in the United States. And Iran—often underestimated in this space— has become increasingly sophisticated.

One of the most revealing examples came when Iran shut down its own internet during a 12‑day internal crisis. Almost immediately, the volume of social‑media posts advocating Scottish separatism collapsed. That wasn’t a coincidence. It was a glimpse into how foreign actors seed and amplify divisive narratives abroad. When the servers went dark in Tehran, the “grassroots” Scottish nationalism online suddenly evaporated.

This is the world we now inhabit: a world where adversarial regimes can reach directly into Western societies and widen every existing fault line—political, racial, religious, generational—because division weakens democracies.

The herd instinct and the illusion of consensus

Human beings are social creatures. We instinctively assume that if thousands of people are saying something, it must be true—or at least partly true. Social media exploits this instinct mercilessly.

When users see a flood of posts vilifying Israel or demonising Jews, the sheer volume creates an illusion of consensus. But volume is not evidence. It is often automation.

AI‑driven botnets can generate thousands of posts per minute, each containing a sliver of selective truth wrapped in emotionally charged framing. These posts mimic human behaviour, recycle trending language, and create the impression of a global groundswell. In reality, it may be a handful of operators in Moscow, Tehran, or Beijing pressing a button.

This is not public opinion. It is manufactured perception.

And once people fall into these digital stampedes, they become trapped in algorithmic silos so deep they can no longer see out of them. They stop encountering opposing views. They stop trusting mainstream institutions. They stop believing that disagreement can be honest.

A society that cannot talk to itself cannot defend itself.

War may not interest the West—but war is interested in the West

Many in the West understandably want nothing to do with conflict in the Middle East. But geopolitical adversaries are deeply interested in them. Iran, Russia, and China all view Western freedoms—speech, religion, equality, democratic governance—as existential threats to their own systems.

This is why Iran calls the United States “the Great Satan.” Not because of culture or history, but because a free society is a standing rebuke to tyranny. As long as the West remains free, Iran will continue pursuing nuclear capability and sponsoring proxy groups like Hamas and Hezbollah to destabilise the region and  weaken Western resolve.  And it’s working.  In the last two conflicts in the Middle East, the US has lacked the resolve to complete the mission.  

Tyrannies do not fear Western armies as much as they fear Western ideas.

Weaponising Western empathy

One of the most effective tools used against the West is its own moral instinct. Free societies value compassion, fairness, and human rights. Authoritarian regimes understand this—and exploit it.

They flood social media with emotionally charged content designed to provoke outrage, guilt, or moral confusion. They present themselves as victims while hiding their own abuses. They manipulate Western audiences who assume that everyone values truth the same way we do.

But in many parts of the world, truth is not a virtue—it is a tactic.

How free societies defend themselves without sacrificing freedom

The answer is not censorship. It is discernment.

People must learn to slow down, cross‑check, and seek independent sources. They must look for the overlap between credible accounts rather than trusting the first viral post that appears in their feed. They must understand that not everyone online shares Western values—or Western respect for truth.

We must be as gentle as doves and as wise as serpents.

A free society can survive lies. What it cannot survive is naivety.

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Call it what it was: Genocide

The atrocities committed by Hamas on October 7 were shocking not only in scale but in intent. Thousands of terrorists crossed into Israel, murdering families in their homes, burning civilians alive, kidnapping children and the elderly, and targeting entire communities because of who they were. As the world tried to absorb the horror, a difficult but necessary question emerged:  Do Hamas’s actions meet the legal definition of genocide?

The word “genocide” carries enormous weight, and international law defines it with precision. When the events of October 7 are viewed through the lens of the UN Genocide Convention, the picture that  emerges is disturbingly clear:  the attack fits the core elements of genocide.

What the Genocide Convention Says

The 1948 Convention defines genocide as acts committed with the intent to destroy, in whole or in part,
a national, ethnic, racial, or religious group. Jews fall into all three of those categories:
they are a religious group, an ethnic group, and in many contexts a national group.
That alone places them squarely within the Convention’s protected categories.

Targeting Jews as Jews

The October 7 attack was not a military operation. It was a deliberate assault on Jewish civilians: families in their homes, children in their bedrooms, elderly people in wheelchairs, festival‑goers at a music event, and entire kibbutzim that are overwhelmingly Jewish communities. The attackers did not distinguish between combatants and civilians. They sought out Jews specifically, killing them “as such,” which is the exact language of the Genocide Convention.

This isn’t just an interpretive claim. Leading genocide scholars and jurists have already described the attack in these terms.

Leading genocide scholars and jurists have already described the October 7 attack in terms consistent with genocidal intent.

Gregory Stanton, founder of Genocide Watch, stated that “Hamas’s attack was genocidal. They targeted Jews because they were Jews.” Source: Stanton interview with The Jerusalem Post, 12 Oct 2023; Genocide Watch public statement, Oct 2023.

Irwin Cotler, former Canadian Justice Minister and a leading human‑rights jurist, wrote that the atrocities “bear the hallmarks of genocidal intent” and reflect Hamas’s “genocidal antisemitism.” Source: Irwin Cotler, Times of Israel, 15 Oct 2023; Centre for Israel and Jewish Affairs briefing, Oct 2023.

William Schabas, one of the most cited genocide‑law scholars, explained that if the intent to destroy Jews as such—even in part—is established, then the acts of October 7 fall within the legal definition of genocide. Source: William Schabas interview with Haaretz, 20 Oct 2023; Schabas commentary in JusticeInfo, Nov 2023.

David Scheffer, the first U.S. Ambassador‑at‑Large for War Crimes, similarly noted that the deliberate killing of Jewish civilians by Hamas can constitute genocidal acts, provided that the requisite intent to destroy the group is demonstrated. Source: Scheffer interview with PBS NewsHour, 18 Oct 2023; Scheffer analysis in Just Security, Oct 2023.

Yehuda Bauer, one of the most respected Holocaust and genocide scholars alive, was even more direct: “Hamas’s ideology is genocidal, and October 7 was an expression of that ideology.” Source: Bauer interview with Ynet, 22 Oct 2023; Bauer remarks at Hebrew University panel, Nov 2023.

Aharon Barak, former President of Israel’s Supreme Court and a judge at the International Criminal Court, stated that Hamas’s attack was aimed at Jews as Jews, which he described as the essence of genocidal intent. Source: Barak interview with Der Spiegel, 27 Oct 2023; Barak remarks in ICC press briefing, Nov 2023.

These are not political commentators. They are among the most authoritative voices in international law and genocide studies.

Genocidal Acts in Practice

The Genocide Convention lists specific acts that qualify when paired with genocidal intent. Hamas’s actions match several of them: killing members of the group, causing serious bodily and mental harm, and forcibly transferring children through hostage‑taking. International tribunals have repeatedly held that targeting a geographic subset of a protected group — such as Jews in southern Israel — still qualifies as genocide “in part.”

The pattern on October 7 resembles other cases where courts have found genocide, such as Srebrenica in 1995 and ISIS’s attacks on the Yazidis in 2014. In both examples, the perpetrators did not attempt to wipe out the entire group globally — only a part of it. Yet courts still ruled the acts genocidal. The same legal logic applies to Hamas.

Sometimes people mix up being deliberate with intent. 

Under the Genocide Convention, being deliberate is not the same as the legal requirement of intent (specifically genocidal intent, or dolus specialis). The Convention requires a very specific, purpose‑based intent to destroy a protected group — far beyond merely acting deliberately or foreseeably.
 

Why This Matters

Calling something “genocide” is not about rhetoric. It is about accurately naming the crime, understanding the intent behind the violence, recognizing the vulnerability of the targeted group, and clarifying the obligations of the international community. If the October 7 attack meets the definition —  and the evidence strongly suggests it does — then the world has a responsibility to acknowledge it.

A Final Reflection

The Genocide Convention sets a high bar, but Hamas’s actions on October 7 meet its core criteria. The victims were a protected group. They were targeted because of their identity. The acts committed — mass killing, torture, hostage‑taking, and the targeting of children — are explicitly listed as genocidal acts. And Hamas’s own ideology and statements demonstrate intent to destroy Jews, at least in part.

Whether international courts ultimately rule on this is a separate question. But from a legal and moral standpoint, the October 7 massacre fits the definition of genocide far more clearly than many historical cases that have been recognized as such.

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NZFOI Newsletter 202602
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A critical review of Anne Irfan’s “A Short History of Gaza”

Anne Irfan’s A Short History of Gaza is a deeply partisan narrative that prioritizes Palestinian grievance over balanced historical analysis.

Anne Irfan, a lecturer at University College London specializing in race, gender, and postcolonial studies, has built her academic career around Palestinian refugee rights and modern Middle Eastern history. Her latest work, A Short History of Gaza, is positioned as a concise historical account of the region, but it reads more like a polemic than a neutral chronicle. Irfan’s sympathies are clear, and while her research is extensive, her selectivity in presenting facts undermines the book’s credibility as a historical text.

The book traces Gaza’s trajectory from 1948 to the present, emphasizing the displacement of Palestinians and the humanitarian crises that followed. However, Irfan omits critical context that complicates the narrative she promotes. She does not acknowledge that Palestinians never ruled the land they claim: it was governed by the Ottomans, then the British, and later administered under a UN mandate. The UN’s 1947 partition plan recognized the historical claims of both Jews and Arabs and offered statehood to each. The Arab leadership rejected this compromise, choosing war over coexistence—a war they lost. The Nakba, often framed as a catastrophe inflicted solely by Israel, is more accurately the result of this rejection and its consequences.

Further omissions weaken Irfan’s account. She fails to mention that approximately 40% of Palestinian refugees hold citizenship in other countries, and that all Palestinian refugees in the West Bank and Gaza already live in territories they claim as their own. Her coverage of the 2023–2025 Gaza War notably excludes the extensive tunnel network—dubbed the “Gaza Metro”—used by Hamas for military operations. Most troubling is her tendency to recount Israeli-inflicted suffering without acknowledging the provocations or strategic decisions by Arab actors that led to such responses. This lack of causality presents Palestinians as passive victims rather than agents within a complex conflict.

Irfan’s disdain for Palestinian leadership—including the PLO, the Palestinian Authority, and Hamas—is evident, but this does not translate into balanced critique. Instead, it reinforces her activist stance. Like Ilan Pappe, who famously declared he was more concerned with what history should say than what it does, Irfan uses history as a vehicle for advocacy. Her book should be read with scepticism, not as a definitive account but as a reflection of a particular ideological lens. For readers seeking a comprehensive understanding of Gaza, this work offers insight—but only into one side of a multifaceted story.