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For Josh Shapiro, a run for governor borne of Jewish identity and political ambition

(JTA) — On the day before he was set to be sworn in as Pennsylvania’s governor, Josh Shapiro had somewhere important to be: the Jewish community center in the state capital of Harrisburg.

Shapiro and his family spent Monday volunteering at the Alexander Grass Campus for Jewish Life, which was hosting a Martin Luther King Day celebration for the region. 

It was an erev-inauguration stop that made sense for Shapiro, elected in November over a Republican whose campaign was continually mired in antisemitism allegations. From his stint as Pennsylvania’s attorney general to his gubernatorial campaign ads to his victory speech, Shapiro has long woven his Jewish identity into his politics — making him an archetype for a new breed of Jewish politician.

“They seem above politics because they exude pride,” said Scott Lasensky, a professor of American Jewish studies at the University of Maryland, about Shapiro and other Jewish politicians who demonstrate comfort with their identity. “It offers a much-needed respite from the reactive, defense posture that has seized the community.”

As Shapiro is sworn in Tuesday on a stack of three Hebrew Bibles — including the one that was on the bimah when a gunman massacred 11 Jewish worshipers in a Pittsburgh synagogue in 2018 — the novelty becomes reality: A Jewish day school grad and dad is now one of the most influential elected officials in the United States.

“You’ve heard me quote my scripture before, that no one is required to complete the task, but neither are we free to refrain from it, meaning each of us has a responsibility to get off the sidelines, to get in the game and to do our part,” Shapiro said in his victory speech in November, referring to the famous passage in Pirkei Avot, the compilation of ethical teachings excerpted from early Jewish writings.

It’s a speech that Shapiro’s friends, teachers and associates could have envisioned decades ago. In interviews with the Jewish Telegraphic Agency, nearly a dozen of them said Shapiro, 49, has openly melded Jewishness and activism since his early teens, practicing a politics of bringing together disparate communities with his Jewish identity at the core.

“He gets done what he needs to get done, what he wants to get done,” said Robin Schatz, the director of government affairs at the Jewish Federations of Greater Philadelphia. “And it is always in that framework of Jewish values.”

Schatz contrasted Shapiro’s openness about his Jewish identity with one of his Jewish predecessors as governor, Ed Rendell, for whom Schatz worked when Rendell was mayor of Philadelphia.

“Josh shows up for us just by being so proudly Jewish and that is really something because Rendell, who I worked for and who I love, I mean, he never hid his Jewishness, but he didn’t wear it on his sleeve,” she said.

Perhaps Shapiro’s most direct antecedent is Joe Lieberman, the Orthodox former Connecticut senator who was Al Gore’s vice presidential running mate in 2000. Lieberman, the first Jew on a major-party presidential ticket, recalled being ridiculed and questioned by Jewish groups for expressing his faith at campaign events.

That hasn’t happened for Shapiro, who is part of a relatively younger generation including congresspersons Elaine Luria of Virginia and Becca Balint of Vermont who express unabashed Jewish identities when campaigning among the broader public. Luria and two others just left Congress: Andy Levin of Michigan, who was defeated in last year’s primary after redistricting, and Ted Deutch, a Florida Democrat who last year made the transition this year to leading the American Jewish Committee. None of them wears a kippah on the campaign trail or strictly observes Shabbat, as Lieberman did, but all infuse Jewishness in their public comments and personas.

What separates Shapiro is his outsized success in a competitive race in a swing state — a record that has insiders bandying about his name as a potential presidential candidate one day.

Shapiro’s political orientation was apparent early on. Fresh out of his bar mitzvah, a 13-year-old Shapiro looked forward to his chats with Mark Aronchick, who was a leader with Josh’s parents, Steven and Judi, in the movement for Soviet Jewry in the Philadelphia area. 

Shapiro centered his bar mitzvah on a letter-writing campaign to free a refusenik, a Jew whose intended emigration was blocked by the USSR’s cruel bureaucracy, and he liked to ask Aronchick about the movement, about organizing activism. But then the conversations took a turn Aronchick didn’t expect. Josh wanted to know about running a big city.

“I had been the chief lawyer for the city of Philadelphia in the early 80s,” recalled Aronchick, who became a mentor to Shapiro. “He was fascinated when we talked about that.”

In an interview last year with the Forward, after a campaign event with union organizers, Shapiro said he understood organizing as an effective tool when he was 6 and he joined his parents in campaigning for the release of Jews in the Soviet Union. (The refusenik who was the focus of Shapiro’s bar mitzvah activism, made it out in time to attend Shapiro’s bar mitzvah, which earned Shapiro Philadelphia news coverage.) Shapiro’s parents “set a very good example for me to live a life of faith and service,” he said. 

From left: Then-Democratic candidate for U.S. Senator John Fetterman, former President Barack Obama, Josh Shapiro and President Joe Biden at a rally at the Liacouras Center in Philadelphia, Nov. 5, 2022. (Mark Makela/Getty Images)

Sharon Levin taught Shapiro government at Akiba Hebrew Academy (now called Jack M. Barrack Hebrew Academy) and said he stood apart at an age when boys interested in politics tend to flex their intellectual muscles through outspoken opinions and grandstanding. 

“This was a pretty difficult group of kids, I don’t mean problematic, but kids who like to argue, to debate every point,” she said. “And Josh believes in cooperation, I think of him in those days as a team-builder.”

Todd Eisenberg, now a Montgomery County judge, recalled playing basketball with Shapiro for the high school team. 

“He was the point guard so he was always the leader of everything,” Eisenberg said. “And he would always try to get everybody involved and make everybody feel like they’re a part of the process.”

Eisenberg was impressed by Shapiro’s leadership but not surprised — Shapiro had been pulling together kids from across the playground since first grade, when they first met. 

“You know how kids are in cliques or they’re picking on other kids, he was never like that,” he said. “He was always nice to everybody involved in everything.”

In high school, Eisenberg said, Shapiro organized a chapter of Students Against Drunk Driving. “I remember him standing up for everybody and being a part of everything,” he said.

Shapiro ran for student president and lost, to classmate Ami Eden (who is now CEO of the Jewish Telegraphic Agency’s parent company, 70 Faces Media). Shapiro has for decades told people it was the only race he lost.

Levin, his government teacher at Akiba, said Shapiro had a realistic assessment of his skills and what he needed to do to succeed. He went to the University of Rochester, qualifying for the Division III basketball team, but soon realized that excellence on the Akiba court was mediocrity in an NCAA setting, she recalled.

“So he said, ‘my fallback from school was government,’ and he was the first sophomore ever to be student president at the University of Rochester,” she said. “I knocked on every door,” Shapiro recalled to Philadelphia Magazine in 2007. 

From Rochester, he moved to a series of legislative aide positions in the 1990s on Capitol Hill, working for Pennsylvania Rep. Joe Hoeffel and New Jersey Sen. Robert Torricelli. His bosses remember a guy in his early 20s who was soon supervising staffers, and his colleagues recall not minding. Shapiro was pleasant, they say, but clearly on a track for greater things.

“No one ever worked for me who was as bright and focused, with such steely determination,” Torricelli told The Philadelphia Inquirer last year.

By the time he was 31, in 2004, Shapiro was running for his first elected position as a Pennsylvania state representative. He ran against Jon Fox, a Jewish Republican who had been a congressman. Shapiro impressed people in the district with his lowkey straightforwardness, said Betsy Sheerr, a Jewish lay leader and a Democrat who was friendly with both candidates, and that provided a contrast with Fox, who would shift his positions depending on the listener.

“We used to joke that John Fox was multiple choice, you know that one day he was pro-choice and the next day he wasn’t,” Sheerr recalled. “With Josh, there never has been any confusion about where he stands on things.”

Within two years, Shapiro rose to statewide prominence when he brokered a deal to break a deadlock in the state house, where Democrats had a one-seat majority. Under Shapiro’s plan, Democrats would back a moderate Republican, Denny O’Brien, to keep the scandal-plagued incumbent speaker, Republican John Perzel, from reelection. As soon as he got the job, O’Brien named Shapiro deputy speaker.

Shapiro’s backers cite the now-legendary episode as a sign of Shapiro’s leadership; his detractors say it is a signal of his self-promotion and gamesmanship. In 2008, Shapiro turned on a one-time mentor, Democratic state Rep. Bill DeWeese, saying he should step down from the party leadership because of corruption investigations. (DeWeese and Perzel both ended up serving time in prison.) 

Schatz said Shapiro remained sensitive to the issues affecting the Jewish community, helping expand Medicare assistance for the elderly, instituting Holocaust education and targeting terrorist-backing countries like Iran for sanctions.

A moderate Democrat, he also stood out for breaking with the establishment. Aronchick recalled Shapiro in 2004 seeking the endorsement of Howard Dean, the former Vermont governor who was then a standard bearer for progressives. 

“Josh is a consensus builder,” he said. “Others might think, ‘Do I look too progressive?’ It wasn’t a thought on Josh’s mind.”

In 2008, Shapiro was among just a handful of establishment Democrats who endorsed Barack Obama for president in a state that Hillary Clinton won in the primaries. Shapiro defended Obama when his former pastor Jeremiah Wright, came under fire for antisemitic comments. 

Obama did well enough in the state, Shapiro told JTA at the time, that he believed he would do well nationally. “I think that demonstrates that the hype that Senator Obama had a problem with the Jewish community was just that — it was hype. It was not reality.” He would be proved right.

The Democratic machine killed off the “deputy speaker” title in 2009, leading the Philadelphia Jewish Exponent to muse, “The Once-Lofty Shapiro; Has He Been Brought Down a Few Pegs?” 

But Matt Handel, a onetime Republican activist who left the party after Donald Trump was elected president, said that while Shapiro made enemies in the statehouse, he never let it get to him.

“He can be angry about things, you know, he can find them offensive. But if you watch him speak, he maintains control of what he says and how he responds,” said Handel, who interacted with Shapiro when Handel chaired the Pennsylvania Jewish Coalition, a statewide advocacy body. 

Shapiro soon was looking elsewhere: He ran for and won a spot on the three-member Montgomery County Board of Commissioners, where he was elected chairman, effectively the mayor of the populous and prosperous suburban Philadelphia area.

Levin, his high school teacher, recalled a call Shapiro made when he was considering a run for the U.S. Senate. 

“What he said was, if, if I end up going to Washington, I’m gonna do a Biden, you know, back and forth on the train, because it’s so important for my kids to remain at the school where I went to school.” A while later he called back. 

He said, “You know, I’m not a legislator. I’m an executive.” (Levin remains close to Shapiro and his family; last fall, she ran into Shapiro and his daughter Sophia, who led student outreach during his campaign, at an airport in San Antonio. “Look who I saw!” she said in an email, photos of hugs attached.)

In 2016, Shapiro was elected Pennsylvania attorney general. He led battles against Trump’s efforts to limit entry to the United States of people from a number of Muslim-majority countries, and to keep Trump acolytes from overturning his 2020 loss in the state. He also led a widely publicized investigation of child abuse in the Roman Catholic church. 

Shapiro’s gubernatorial campaign launch last April was an ad in which he declared, “I make it home Friday nights for Sabbath dinner,” while the camera closed on challahs. (It also stars his four kids and his wife, Lori, whom he refers to as his “high school sweetheart.”) 

Josh Shapiro embraces his wife, Lori Shapiro, on stage after giving a victory speech to supporters at the Greater Philadelphia Expo Center in Oaks, Penn., Nov. 8 2022. (Mark Makela/Getty Images)

Shapiro’s ultimate victory was especially sweet to many Jews because he defeated a Republican, Doug Mastriano, who had centered Shapiro’s Jewishness, but not in a positive way. Mastriano had allied with an outspoken antisemite, Andrew Torba, the founder of the far-right social media site, Gab, paying for promotion on Gab and accepting a donation from Torba. (Mastriano renounced antisemitism, but pointedly, not Torba.) Mastriano also mocked the Jewish school Shapiro attended and where he sends his four children.

It is a source of delight to Shapiro and his backers that his open Jewish identity did not alienate Pennsylvanians; indeed, he fared well in the conservative center of the state, a fact that his campaign boasted about in an email sent to the media a week after the election, when most campaigns are wrapping up business.

“Josh Shapiro won Beaver, Berks, Cumberland, and Luzerne counties — significantly outperforming Joe Biden’s margins in 2020 and flipping those counties blue,” the campaign said, attaching a chart showing the flips. “From the very beginning of his campaign, Josh vowed to go everywhere. That meant campaigning heavily where other Democrats don’t often win and investing in communities across the state.”

Jill Zipin, a longtime Shapiro backer who leads Democratic Jewish Outreach Pennsylvania, said Mastriano’s Christian nationalism did not play well in a state that was founded on religious freedoms. “Pennsylvania was founded on religious pluralism, it was founded by Quakers,” she said. “Anyone of any religious stripe was welcome.”

Mastriano’s team, toward the end of the campaign, appeared to notice the resonance Shapiro’s beliefs had among Pennsylvanians. His surrogates pivoted to claiming Shapiro was not a genuine Jew, with one consultant saying Shapiro’s defense of abortion rights made him inauthentic, and Mastriano’s wife claiming she and her husband loved Israel more than Jews did.

The moves may have backfired, said Schatz. Shapiro’s Jewish expression, she said, “was a way of actually relating to religious conservatives. They say that ‘maybe he doesn’t follow our religion, but because he does have a belief, he’s a religious person.’”

In a sign of his polish with Pennsylvanians, Shapiro’s margin of victory was substantially wider than that of John Fetterman, the Democrat elected to the state’s open Senate spot.

“While we won this race — and by the way, we won it pretty convincingly — I want you to know, the job is not done, the task is not complete,” Shapiro said during his victory speech, prompting 15 seconds of cheers and applause.

Shapiro has stayed largely out of the public eye since his election, instead focusing on putting together a transition team and preparing for his inauguration on Tuesday. He did not respond to JTA’s requests for an interview.

That transition team bears signs of Shapiro’s long and deep Jewish ties. Marcel Groen, a retired attorney on the economic development advisory committee, first met the new governor because he attended synagogue with Shapiro’s father. He became a mentor to the inchoate politician, who several years ago recruited Groen’s mother, a Holocaust survivor, to speak to incarcerated teens. 

During the encounter, which Groen and Shapiro did not make public at the time, the teens went from standoffish to hugging 93-year-old Sipora Groen after hearing her story. (Sipora died in 2017.) It was, Groen said, typical of Shapiro’s approach to changing hearts and minds: “Josh realized that’s how you reach kids who got in trouble and who needed to understand life in a different manner,” he recalled.

Shapiro’s plans for his inauguration are laced with Jewish significance. In addition to the Tanakh from the Tree of Life synagogue, his swearing-in will reportedly take place on a Bible used by a Jewish soldier from Pennsylvania in World War II.

But asked by CNN’s Dana Bash after the election if he wanted to make history as America’s first Jewish president, Shapiro demurred.

“I have an ambition to get a little bit of sleep, to reintroduce myself to my kids, and then to serve the good people of Pennsylvania as their governor,” he said.

—
The post For Josh Shapiro, a run for governor borne of Jewish identity and political ambition appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.

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Shabbos Kestenbaum: The New Encampments

The “People’s University” encampment, established by Students for Justice in Palestine, on the campus of Smith College in April 2024. Photo: Screenshot

The encampments have returned. At Smith and Occidental Colleges, the ugliest form of campus bigotry since the 2024 Tentifada is back.

The 2023-2024 academic year saw an unprecedented wave of antisemitic incidents on American college campuses. Infamously, anti-Israel “encampments” — also known as the Tentifada — took over at least 80 campuses during this period. These pro-Hamas zones were designed to make Jewish students feel unsafe. Sadly, they’re here once again.

At Occidental College in Los Angeles, students set up the “Rafah to Jenin Liberated Zone.” Organizers recently called it the longest-lasting encampment since 2024. The radicals were handing out “No Zionists” pins and red inverted triangle stickers, a symbol Hamas uses to mark targets.

In 2024, Occidental settled a Title VI complaint filed by the Anti-Defamation League (ADL) and Brandeis Center, agreeing to implement sweeping reforms to address antisemitism. The agreement explicitly states that “no Zionist” litmus tests may constitute discrimination against Jewish or Israeli students.

At Smith College in Massachusetts, radicals occupied Chapin Lawn and renamed it “the People’s University.” They demanded divestment from Israel and called for a critical race theory curriculum. The president and chairwoman of the Board of Trustees agreed to sit down with the ringleaders. Despite this concession, the coordinators pledged to continue disrupting campus.

The Smith College jihad pajama party disbanded only after the college’s administration agreed to enter into sustained negotiations with the anti-Israel rule-breakers. The radicals openly stated that they will continue to disrupt campus life to demand divestment and threatened that “if the institution won’t give it to us, we will make it.”

Allowing these terror-supporting encampments to fester is a losing strategy for college administrators. It causes real damage, both physical and institutional, at the schools that fail to immediately disband them. Many colleges are now under investigation for failing to protect their students during the spring 2024 semester.

One of the most destructive tentifadas occurred at Columbia University. Pro-Hamas radicals seized the Butler library in May 2024, disrupted final exams, and targeted Jewish students. They besieged Hamilton Hall, smashed open the doors with hammers, injured security personnel, and barricaded themselves inside. Jewish faculty lost access to campus. Jewish students alleged structural antisemitism in a lawsuit. Ultimately, Columbia canceled in-person classes and commencement ceremonies for the remainder of the school year.

Across the United States, campus agitators vandalized property with swastikas and terrorist propaganda and defaced war memorials and statues of American heroes. They smashed and occupied buildings and poured cement into sewage systems. Jewish students faced violent threats and were blocked from getting to class. In some cases, physical violence resulted in the hospitalization of Jewish students. Due to the severity of the campus disruptions, many classes and graduation ceremonies were canceled across the country.

The Tentifada caused an estimated $3 million in property damage at the City College of New York, millions in damage at Cal Poly Humboldt, and $29 million across the University of California system, including new security measures, law enforcement, and the destruction of campus spaces. These incidents are just a small portion of the damage that was done by pro-Hamas radicals on American campuses during the 2023-2024 academic year.

The Tentifada was a dark chapter for American universities. Pro-Hamas campus radicals are now trying to start a new chapter of destruction and disorder. Administrators must not let them. The response should be immediate: disband the encampments, impose disciplinary proceedings, expel participants, and refer criminal conduct for prosecution. American universities exist to educate students, not to host pro-Hamas block parties.

Shabbos Kestenbaum is a political commentator at PragerU and a former lead plaintiff in a civil rights lawsuit against Harvard University.

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The Special Importance of Memory in Judaism

The entrance gate of a Jewish cemetery in Gauting, Starnberg, Upper Bavaria, Bavaria, Germany, on Nov. 8, 2020, is a wrought iron gate adorned with a Star of David. It stands between two stone pillars, leading into a tree-lined cemetery with gravestones and a pathway visible in the background. Photo by Michael Nguyen/NurPhoto via Reuters Connect

A few weeks ago, I conducted the funeral of Ron Plotkin, former owner of Monster.com and once a leading philanthropist in Los Angeles. In recent years, his life changed drastically — from prominence and influence to obscurity and hardship.

I knew Ron at his height and stayed in touch as others drifted away. By the time he died, there were no resources left — not even enough for a burial. We arranged for him to be laid to rest through charitable means at the Jewish cemetery in Commerce, California.

Sadly, we struggled to find 10 men to attend Ron’s funeral so Kaddish could be recited. A group from my synagogue agreed to come, but there were only nine of us. We stood in the blazing sun, waiting for a minyan.

Suddenly, a 10th man appeared: Shalom Raichik — originally from Los Angeles, now living in Baltimore — was at the cemetery just at that moment and agreed to join us.

After I recited Kaddish for Ron, Shalom asked if we could gather at another nearby grave to say Kaddish again, along with a memorial prayer.

“Who is it?” I asked. Shalom’s answer sent a chill through all of us. It is a story I cannot put out of my mind — a story about reclaiming someone who had disappeared from history.

We often think of death as a single, final event. But Jewish tradition introduces a powerful idea: a person can die twice. The first death is physical. The second is when they are forgotten — when no one remembers their name, or visits their grave, or even knows they existed.

The man we said Kaddish for that day is marked as “Ploni ben Avraham” — the Jewish equivalent of John Doe. We don’t know his name.

His story is tragic yet extraordinary: He survived the Holocaust, came to America alone, had no money and no family, and lived quietly in New York in obscurity.

At some point, he sought the help of Dr. Maurice Frey, a dentist and fellow refugee who had escaped Europe during the war. Dr. Frey was known for caring for penniless Holocaust survivors and treated this man without charge.

The patient, wanting to keep his dignity, insisted on giving something in return and arranged to donate his body to medical science, requesting his skull be given to Dr. Frey for educational use.

Years later, long after the encounter had been forgotten, a small package arrived containing the man’s skull. Dr. Frey tried to transfer it to the NYU School of Dentistry, but when they declined to take it, he kept it.

After his death, Dr. Frey’s widow moved to California, bringing the skull with her. There, she sought its disposal according to Jewish law and was directed to Chabad, who helped arrange a proper burial in 2021. Though only a skull remained, they honored the survivor and fulfilled the obligation to respect even the smallest remnant of a Jewish life.

Still, something was missing: There was no name, no marker, and no memory. Visitors to the cemetery unknowingly walked over his grave. A man who had survived the worst horrors was, even in death, being trampled, not by malice but by ignorance.

Finally, a small group decided to act, and this past January, they placed a modest stone, simply acknowledging that Ploni ben Avraham had existed and was not forgotten. And a few weeks ago, someone finally said Kaddish for him at his grave.

At Ron Plotkin’s funeral, having just buried a man once surrounded by success and admirers, but who died nearly alone, and then walking over to the grave of Ploni ben Avraham, I was struck by how fragile life and legacy can be.

Ron had a name and achievements, and was once celebrated, but at the end, there were barely 10 people at his funeral. Ploni ben Avraham had no name or notable achievements, and no family to remember him — yet, by chance, both were remembered on the same day. Their second death was averted.

At the end of Sefer Vayikra, in Parshat Bechukotai, the Torah presents consequences for the Jewish people’s fidelity or disregard for their responsibilities. It seems like a strict formula of reward and punishment: Follow God’s laws and you’ll receive blessings; abandon them, and hardship will follow.

And yet, within this passage, there is a quieter message. After the warnings and descriptions of suffering, the Torah offers a redemptive promise (Lev. 26:42): “I will remember My covenant,” says God.

That is the turning point. Even if everything falls apart — even if the people are scattered and shattered — God says: I will remember, I will always remember.

God teaches us that memory is the foundation of meaning. In Jewish thought, remembering is not merely recalling; it is restoring. When God says, “I will remember,” it is an active commitment: No matter how far we fall, we are never erased.

That is why we say Kaddish — not for the dead, but because memory sustains identity. It ensures a person’s life continues to echo in this world. We mark graves, tell stories, and cling to names — because the greatest tragedy is being forgotten.

That is why we tell stories about the dead, and that is why we refuse to let people disappear after they’re gone. Because the ultimate curse is not suffering, or even death. It is oblivion. And the ultimate redemption is not just survival. It is being remembered.

When we remember someone, we return them to the narrative. We restore their place in the story of our people. Ploni ben Avraham had no land, no family, and no possessions. He didn’t even leave a name. But we still remember him, and that is his redemption.

That day in the cemetery, I was reminded that in the end, what matters is not how loudly a person’s life is celebrated at its peak, but whether it is remembered after they are gone. And sometimes, in the most unexpected ways, we are invited to be part of that remembering.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California.

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The BBC Tried to Blame Israel — but Exposed Hezbollah Instead

Men carry Hezbollah flags while riding on two wheelers, at the entrance of Beirut’s southern suburbs, in Lebanon, Nov. 27, 2024. Photo: REUTERS/Thaier Al-Sudani

It is well established that Hezbollah has not only turned southern Lebanon into a base for terrorism targeting Israel but also embedded itself deep within Beirut’s civilian suburbs.

Yet when the BBC reports from those same areas, it appears determined to obscure that reality.

That may not be surprising. As HonestReporting previously documented, Hezbollah tightly controls access and information available to foreign journalists. What reporters see — and therefore what international audiences are shown — is often filtered through Hezbollah’s interests.

When a Sky News crew reported from Lebanon earlier this year, journalists openly acknowledged the restrictions imposed on them. Hezbollah limited where they could go and what they could film following Israeli airstrikes, likely to conceal evidence of terrorist activity.

So, when BBC reporters arrive in Lebanon two months later and somehow fail to find evidence of Hezbollah’s presence, it is hardly coincidental.

The “BBC traces how 10 minutes of Israeli bombing brought devastation to Lebanon” investigation attempts to portray Israel as deliberately targeting Lebanese civilians. But the report itself repeatedly undermines that narrative.

The very case study the BBC highlights gives the game away.

In Beirut’s Hay el Sellom suburb, a BBC journalist interviews Mohammed, whose son Abbas was killed in an Israeli airstrike on an apartment building in April 2026.

Mohammed claims that, had he known Hezbollah operatives were nearby, he would have left. But that admission directly undermines the BBC’s broader framing. It reinforces the reality that Israel’s operations are linked to Hezbollah’s presence, not random or indiscriminate attacks against civilians.

Another interviewee claims Israel is bombing Lebanon in an attempt to “take over” the country. Yet the report’s own details point to something else entirely: a campaign directed at Hezbollah infrastructure and operatives in an effort to restore security along Israel’s northern border.

According to the IDF, the April 8 strikes that reportedly killed Abbas also targeted more than 250 Hezbollah terrorists.

Ironically, while touring the suburb, the BBC journalist also filmed martyr posters of Ali Mohammed Ghulam Dahini, reportedly killed in the same strikes — corroborating Israeli media reports identifying him as a Hezbollah operative.

Yet the BBC still avoids acknowledging the obvious implication: these strikes were targeting Hezbollah personnel embedded within civilian areas.

Civilian deaths in war are tragic. But tragedy alone does not determine intent.

Under the laws of armed conflict, counterterrorism operations require assessing proportionality — weighing anticipated military advantage against potential civilian harm. In each example highlighted by the BBC, evidence of Hezbollah’s presence at the strike locations is difficult to ignore.

The report itself notes that Mohammed expressed support for Hezbollah in Arabic-language interviews, praising the group for “defending Lebanon.” But Lebanon would not require “defending” from repeated wars had Hezbollah not transformed civilian neighborhoods into military infrastructure.

The BBC acknowledges that Mohammed gave pro-Hezbollah views when speaking to local media. Yet Mohammed presents himself differently to international English-speaking audiences. That discrepancy raises an obvious question: why?

The answer may lie even closer to home.

Investigative journalist David Collier revealed that Mohammed’s son, Abbas Khair al-Din, was himself affiliated with Hezbollah, citing martyr posters and Hezbollah imagery at his grave.

Had the BBC acknowledged these Hezbollah ties, its central framing — that Israel was recklessly targeting civilians — would have become far more difficult to sustain.

This is not the first time the BBC has minimized or erased Hezbollah’s presence in Lebanon.

By omitting Hezbollah’s systematic use of civilian infrastructure, the outlet constructs a narrative in which responsibility falls almost exclusively on Israel while Hezbollah’s role fades into the background.

Most remarkably, despite the evidence presented throughout the report, the BBC still repeats Hezbollah’s denial that it embeds itself among civilians.

The contradiction is striking: the BBC’s own reporting repeatedly points to Hezbollah activity within civilian areas, yet the outlet still amplifies Hezbollah’s denials with minimal scrutiny.

Not all Lebanese civilians support Hezbollah. But the BBC’s inability — or unwillingness — to feature meaningful Lebanese criticism of the terrorist organization reveals how selective the report truly is.

Hezbollah has effectively held Lebanon hostage, exploiting civilians while dragging the country into repeated cycles of conflict.

There is genuine dissent within Lebanon. Many Lebanese are exhausted by Hezbollah’s dominance and want a future free from perpetual war. Yet those voices are almost entirely absent from the BBC’s report.

The BBC intended its report to portray Israel as conducting a campaign against Lebanese civilians.

Instead, it inadvertently documented something else entirely: Hezbollah’s deep entrenchment within civilian infrastructure.

The report repeatedly presents evidence of Hezbollah activity, Hezbollah support, and Hezbollah-linked individuals in the very locations Israel targeted — while simultaneously attempting to deny or downplay the implications.

When media outlets obscure Hezbollah’s use of civilian areas, they do more than distort the story. They sanitize the conditions Hezbollah itself created.

And in this case, the BBC’s own reporting ultimately undermines the narrative it set out to build.

The author is a contributor to HonestReporting, a Jerusalem-based media watchdog with a focus on antisemitism and anti-Israel bias — where a version of this article first appeared.

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