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Israel and US go for regime change in Iran, with leaders few trust
TEL AVIV, Israel — We were woken just after 8 a.m. by a siren, followed within minutes by the notification that there were in fact no incoming missiles. It appeared the government had decided to use the alert system as a kind of national alarm clock, to let the country know that the war had begun. For the second time in nine months, Israel had attacked Iran. This time it was in coordination with the United States.
Within the hour we had already been sent to the shelter by an actual missile alert. By midday, we would make that trip five times. The country, as far as one can tell from the stairwells and the WhatsApp groups, is stoic. Irritated, tired, but stoic. This is absurd, people say, but they lace up their shoes and head downstairs anyway. Or to the reinforced safe rooms that the lucky few have.
The arguments for this round of conflict are not, on the surface, overwhelming. After the 12-day war in June, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu declared that Iran’s nuclear and ballistic missile programs had been set back for many years, that the major threat to Israel’s existence had been removed. President Donald Trump, after American B-2 bombers joined on the final day, spoke repeatedly of the nuclear threat being “obliterated” at Fordo, Natanz and Isfahan. He bristled at intelligence assessments suggesting otherwise.
There has been little public evidence that Iran rebuilt that threat in the interim. Netanyahu said around midday Saturday in a recorded radio address that Iran’s new capabilities were being placed underground. Trump, meanwhile, demanded that Iran forswear nuclear weapons; but Tehran has long said it does not seek them, even as it enriched uranium to levels with no civilian justification. No one believes them. But they have been saying it.
In the shelter, I had time to contemplate all this with the same cast of neighbors I got to know rather well in June.
The divorced lawyer and her boyfriend. The mathematics divorcee with her enormous dog, which takes up the space of two folding chairs. The sweet elderly couple who sit holding hands, as if the room were a train platform and they might be separated. The religious French family from upstairs preparing to celebrate a son’s 18th birthday; the mother, improbably, in her finest dress at 9 in the morning. Everyone bleary-eyed. Everyone attempting humor. Some trepidation, but not much.
At one point a commotion erupted. Someone had noticed that a shop in the building had installed an air-conditioning unit in such a way that it partially blocked the emergency exit from the underground shelter. The prospect of being herded underground because of missiles while potentially trapped was not exactly welcome. My wife calmly announced she would deal with the management company first thing Sunday morning. I know her. She will.
It is in rooms like that that the big questions feel both distant and unavoidable. Why now? If the programs were truly crippled in June, what has changed? One possible answer lies not in centrifuges but in politics.
Trump had boxed himself in last month when he told Iranian protesters that “help is on its way.” Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, took him at his word and were killed by the regime’s goons. Trump took heat for having encouraged them and then done nothing. He looked ridiculous, and — to paraphrase The Godfather — a man in his position cannot afford to look ridiculous.
In the interim, the U.S. steadily built up an armada in the region. Ships and planes accumulated in a way that was slow, but deliberate and ultimately overwhelming. It began to look like the kind of force that was not likely to go unused.
The more reasonable argument for assuming the risks of war — casualties, disruption in the oil markets, escalation and so on — is regime change. That idea has a grim history. It rarely works as intended. It is unpredictable, destabilizing, morally fraught. The record in the Middle East is not encouraging. The legal right to do it is debatable at best.
But there are exceptions, and the Islamic Republic, in its 47 years, has made a compelling case for being one.
Its internal repression is ferocious. Protesters are shot or imprisoned in numbers that make gradual reform a fantasy. Short of a palace coup, the Iranian people have little chance of dislodging their rulers on their own.
Moreover, Iran has destabilized the region for decades through proxy militias trying to spread jihadism: Hezbollah in Lebanon, the Houthis in Yemen, Shiite militias in Iraq, Palestinian Islamic Jihad and Hamas. Hezbollah helped prop up Bashar al-Assad’s regime in Syria. Hamas’s Oct. 7 attack ignited a war that left tens of thousands dead in Gaza and over a thousand murdered in Israel. Not every evil in the region can be laid at Iran’s door, but a significant share can, and much of it has victimized fellow Muslims.
There is a wide consensus in Israel that the Iranian regime is a menace. Many Israelis believe that if it fell, it would be good for Israel and good for the Iranian people. They harbor a romantic notion that a democratic Iran would become a partner, even an ally, and that ordinary Iranians would thank Israel for helping to bring about that outcome. Whether that is naive is another matter, but the distinction between regime and people is real in the Israeli mind.
And in what was perhaps the only surprise of the day — for the attack itself was widely telegraphed — Trump set regime change as the true aim of the operation in his comments announcing the strikes. In his characteristic rambling, self-congratulatory style, he urged Iranians to take over their government — and catalogued the crimes of the regime, going all the way back to the 1979-80 hostage crisis at the U.S. embassy in Tehran.
This from a man whose National Security Strategy, released in December, downplayed democracy promotion, and who has shown little affection for liberal norms at home or abroad. Many assumed he wanted only some agreement he could spin as a win — yet he instead seems intent on transforming Iran.
Might regime change actually work? Without a ground invasion — which is neither contemplated nor remotely plausible — the odds seem low. Authoritarian systems are designed precisely to absorb shocks. Enough of the regime would have to be symbolically and practically shattered — key figures eliminated, command centers wrecked, the aura of invulnerability broken — that mass protests resume at a scale the authorities cannot contain.
The calculation appears to be that sustained external pressure, combined with visible regime weakness, could tip internal dynamics. A military already stretched by external attack might find itself unable, or unwilling, to suppress millions in the streets. What follows would not be a popular revolution in the romantic sense but something closer to a palace coup: factions within the system deciding survival requires abandoning the clerical leadership.
Trump’s rhetoric suggested precisely this. His call for the Revolutionary Guard to stand down, coupled with promises of amnesty, is an attempt to split the regime from within, to persuade those with guns that their future lies in defecting rather than fighting. It could work — because that is how hated the regime actually is.
It would have been better for any such action to have gotten the green light from the United Nations Security Council. But — even beyond Trump’s disrespect for the organization — that body is paralyzed by the veto power of Russia, Iran’s sometimes ally.
Moreover, all of this would be easier to deal with if the leaderships in Israel and the U.S. were trusted at anywhere near a normal level. But we are dealing with Trump and Netanyahu.
Trump, it need hardly even be said, has made dishonesty a kind of performance art. He is the most determined dissembler to ever hold the American presidency, as far as I can tell. It has become something of a joke, in America and across the world. In a moment like this, it is not a joke. So in a crisis that could reshape the region, there is no reliable way to know if his claims are true.
Something even worse can be said of Netanyahu, who is on trial for bribery and trailing badly in the polls ahead of elections that must be held by October and could come sooner. It is axiomatic for many Israelis that he would do anything to cling to power, including starting another war.
So these two men, each viewed by large portions of their publics as self-interested and manipulative, now preside over a conflict that could be ruinous.
And yet there is another astonishing layer. Trump, who has damaged the standing of the U.S., abandoned Ukraine, expressed admiration for Russian President Vladimir Putin and rattled NATO with talk of seizing Greenland from Denmark, may be on the verge of a historic achievement. If the Iranian regime were to fall with American assistance, it would rank among the most consequential geopolitical events of the past half-century, perhaps second only to the collapse of Soviet communism. Oddly, I am old enough to have witnessed that as well, as a correspondent for the Associated Press.
Back in the shelter, there is a massive improvement relative to June: Wi-Fi has been installed, thanks to my tireless wife. The dog is still panting, the elderly couple still holds hands, the air-conditioning unit still blocks the exit, the French mother is now checking her phone between sirens.
It is possible to feel two contradictory things at once. This might be a reckless, perhaps even insane action launched by unworthy leaders. And it might, just possibly, change everything for the better.
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Atlanta movie exec who complained of ‘nasty Jews’ is running for Congress
Ryan Millsap, a prominent film and real estate executive in Atlanta who made antisemitic and racist comments in private text messages, is now running for a congressional seat in rural Georgia.
ProPublica and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution reported two years ago that Millsap had sent the offensive texts to a girlfriend.
“Just had a meeting with one of the most nasty Jews I’ve ever encountered,” Millsap wrote in a 2019 text message viewed by the Forward. John Da Grosa Smith, Millsap’s former attorney, filed the text messages in Fulton County Superior Court in Georgia in 2024.
The news outlets also reported that Smith said in court documents that Millsap had allegedly made derogatory comments about Jews while they worked together, including referring to his Jewish colleagues as “the Jew crew” and calling one of them “a greedy Israelite.”
ProPublica and the AJC reported that during arbitration with Smith, Millsap said the comments Smith had described represented “locker room talk.”
Millsap apologized for the offensive text messages in a 2024 statement to the news outlets, saying “comments which I never intended to share publicly have come to light, and people I care about and who put their trust in me have been hurt.”
He also spoke directly at the time to the racist and antisemitic remarks.
“I want to extend my sincere apologies to my dear friends, colleagues and associates in both the black and Jewish communities for any and all pain my words have caused,” his statement continued. “My sincere hope is that the bonds and friendships that we have forged speak far louder than some flippant, careless remarks.”
Millsap is running in the Republican primary for the open seat in Georgia’s 10th Congressional District, which stretches from the far outskirts of Atlanta to the South Carolina border and includes the college town of Athens. The district is outside of the major Jewish population centers in Georgia and had fewer than 7,000 Jewish adults, according to the American Jewish Population Project.
The election is on May 19 and Millsap is running against a popular state lawmaker Houston Gaines in what is expected to be a competitive race.
Gaines called Millsap’s reported text messages “disqualifying.”
“Antisemitism has no place in this country, and as a Christian, I’ll always stand firmly against it,” Gaines said in a statement to the Forward.
Millsap did not respond to a request for comment about the text messages or whether he has conducted any outreach to the local Jewish community as part of his campaign.
In an interview last month with the Washington Reporter, Millsap said that negative interactions with local protesters had pushed him into politics. Millsap’s studio controlled land adjacent to the construction site for Cop City, a planned police training ground near Atlanta, and both sites were targeted by activists.
“They tried to ruin my reputation,” Millsap said in the interview. “Leftist journalists at ProPublica were enlisted to write hit pieces on me, call me a racist, antisemite, anything they could do to hurt my life and put me in a bad political position, because obviously DeKalb County is mostly black Democrats.”
Millsap’s Blackhall Group, whose studio produced movies including “Venom,” “Blockers,” and “Loki,” purchased the property in a county forest near the future Cop City site in 2021. Millsap said activists violently attacked construction workers on his property, burned a pickup truck and left threatening messages in 2022.
He has referred to the demonstrators as “antifa” and made his dispute with them a cornerstone of his campaign.
Antisemitism does not seem to be a major issue in the congressional race, in which Millsap and Gaines have focused on immigration and election security. The seat is considered a safe Republican district and the winner of the GOP primary is expected to win the general election.
According to the text messages filed in court and reviewed by the Forward, Millsap and his then-girlfriend, Christy Hockmeyer, complained about Jews and Black people on several occasions. “F—king Black people,” Millsap wrote in one message reported by ProPublica and AJC after Hockmeyer complained about a Black driver whose car she hit.
Hockmeyer also apologized for her role in the text message conversations with Millsap. “Those comments do not reflect who I am and I disavow racism and antisemitism as a whole,” she wrote in a statement to ProPublica and the AJC.
The ProPublica and AJC article noted that Millsap had built close ties with the Black and Jewish communities in Atlanta after relocating to the city from California and seeking to become active in its robust film industry. He had also been applauded for embracing workplace diversity.
His apology received a mixed response from those he had worked with in Atlanta.
Smith, Millsap’s former attorney, filed the text messages in a lawsuit after the two became embroiled in a heated legal dispute. An arbitrator found that Smith had violated his contract with Millsap when the two were working together and ordered him to pay $3.7 million for breach of contract and breach of fiduciary duty.
Millsap said in his 2024 apology that Smith had “violated the most basic and fundamental principle of attorney client privilege and released private text messages between myself and a former romantic partner.”
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A new book explores the vibrancy of pre-war Warsaw
The Last Woman of Warsaw
Judy Batalion
Dutton, 336 pages, $30
Don’t be misled by the title of this debut novel by Judy Batalion, nor by her previous book, The Light of Days, about the role of Polish-Jewish women in the anti-Nazi resistance.
Though the specter of the Holocaust looms over The Last Woman of Warsaw, the novel is not really Holocaust fiction. It does not portray a final female survivor of that embattled city. Its subject is instead the odd-couple friendship of two young Jewish women embroiled in the artistic and political ferment of pre-World War II Warsaw.
For Batalion, recreating the atmosphere and quotidian life of this cosmopolitan city, which once elicited comparisons to Paris, was a major aim. “In our contemporary minds, historical Warsaw conjures images of gray and death,” she writes in a lengthy author’s note. But that shouldn’t negate its more vibrant past. “Long before Vegas,” Batalion writes, “Warsaw was the capital of neons, its night skyline dotted with glittering cocktail glasses and chefs carrying platters of roasts. Much of this artistic production was Jewish.”
Even this brief excerpt shows that Batalion isn’t much of a prose stylist. But awkward locutions and diction mistakes aside — including the repeated use of “cache” when she means “cachet” — Batalion generally succeeds in immersing readers in Warsaw’s lively urban bustle and heated street politics. Here, skating on the edge of catastrophe, Polish Jews of varying ideologies and backgrounds face off against antisemitic persecution and violence.
Batalion’s handling of the historical backdrop is defter than her fledgling fictional technique. The narrative of The Last Woman of Warsaw is a plodding and repetitive affair that ultimately turns on an improbable coincidence.
The plot involves the sudden disappearance of a photography professor with communist ties and the halting efforts of the novel’s two protagonists to find and free her. The pair, whose initial antagonism mellows into friendship, are Fanny Zelshinsky, an upper-middle-class Warsaw University student, and Zosia Dror, who hails from a religious shtetl family. Her adopted surname references the Labor Zionist group that now claims her loyalty. Despite their differences, the two women have in common a desire to shake off the past and forge new lives. They also share an attraction to a single man, Abram, who can’t seem to decide between them.
When the story begins, Fanny is engaged to the perfectly nice, highly suitable Simon Brodasz, whom she’s known since her teenage years. Her mother is pushing the match. But Fanny is not in love and dreads the loss of freedom marriage entails. Her true passion is photography – in particular, fashion photography, to which she brings an idiosyncratic, modernist flair.
Zosia’s passion is political activism, and she aspires to a more prominent leadership role in Dror. Like Fanny, she is at odds with her mother, who is urging her to return to the shtetl for the festivities preceding her sister’s wedding.
What brings these women together is the arrest of the famous photographer Wanda Petrovsky, to whom both are connected. Wanda is one of Fanny’s professors, and Fanny needs her help to enter a potentially career-making exhibition. Wanda also happens to be a political activist, a leader of Zosia’s Zionist group, and Zosia hopes she’ll provide her with a visa for Palestine.
As Batalion’s narrative alternates between their perspectives, the antisemitic fervor in Warsaw mounts. Polish right-wing groups have started terrorizing Jews. Police invade clubs where Jewish comedians are mocking antisemitism. At Warsaw University, where Jewish students already have been subject to admissions quotas, the humiliation of being consigned to a “Jew bench” in class comes as a humiliating shock to Fanny.
Zosia, by contrast, has seen far worse. She and her family were victims of one of the murderous pogroms that periodically roiled the Polish countryside. She has been traumatized by the burning of her home, her father’s injuries and the refusal of her neighbors to offer refuge from the catastrophe.
In late 1930s Warsaw, Polish Jews are fighting back – with protests, hunger strikes and more. But what will any of this accomplish? Will Wanda attain her freedom, with or without the help of her protegees? Will Zosia and Fanny successfully defy their families and find meaningful lives? Which woman will Abram ultimately choose? And will any of this matter as both Poland and Polish Jewry hover on the brink of destruction?
Batalion answers these questions in an epilogue describing the fate of both women and of Fanny’s photographs, which eventually take a political turn, and in her author’s note. In the note, she reveals that all four of her own grandparents “spent their young adulthoods in interwar Warsaw.” That heritage helps account for her own passion: “to memorialize Warsaw’s golden age of creativity and the Jewish art and culture that, along with six million lives, was also decimated in the Holocaust.” A worthy endeavor, however clumsily executed.
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Mahmoud Khalil’s anti-Zionist case to Jews shows the case for skepticism
Mahmoud Khalil wants to reassure the Jewish community. In an extensive new interview with the Forward, the pro-Palestinian protest leader recognized “a Jewish connection” to Israel, and promised that a free Palestine would include safety and security for Jewish residents.
And yet I read the interview and felt a sense of alarm.
Not because Khalil seems insincere. I believe he means much of what he says. But rather because his attempts to instill confidence fall short in ways that illuminate exactly why so many Jews remain afraid and skeptical of the anti-Zionist movement.
Serious causes for serious concerns
Khalil describes himself as a pragmatist. In his activism, however, he envisions a utopia.
He is adamant that a two-state solution preserving a Jewish majority in Israel is a nonstarter. He argues, instead, for a democratic country — or multiple countries — across Israel, the West Bank and Gaza, with equal rights for all and the right of return for Palestinian refugees.
“I know it might sound like a very ideal utopia,” he told the Forward‘s Arno Rosenfeld, “but this is what we should aspire for.”
Khalil is concerned that Jewish fear is an obstacle to Palestinian liberation, and suggests that this fear is misplaced. “People think that we want to drive all Jews to the sea,” he said. “We don’t believe that.”
But history has long shown that Jewish safety without Jewish autonomy often proves conditional. In the ideal that Khalil advances, Israel would lose the self-determination that leads so many Jews to view it as a safe haven. My late grandfather, who was deported to a Siberian gulag by the Soviets from Lithuania — where about 90% of his fellow Jews were murdered by the Nazis — put it simply: Israel was a place where he felt his fate was in his own hands.
Nor is apprehension of anti-Zionism misplaced. Report after report has cataloged persistent harassment of Jews, threats of violence against Zionists, and invocations of antisemitic tropes within anti-Zionist movements. Yes, there are moderates, many of whom are driven by a commitment to a better future for Palestinians. But there are also extremists, and scenes on campuses and city streets around the world have shown that their tactics often prevail.
Adding to Jews’ sense of alarm are decades of violence within Israel — including the Second Intifada and Hamas’ Oct. 7, 2023 attack — and globally, including recent violence against American Jewish institutions. Jews are not scared because we misunderstand the aims of the anti-Zionist movement. We are scared for good reason.
Political abstractions
A genuine effort at reassurance would engage with that truth. Instead, Khalil dances around it, suggesting that the thing we’re worried about doesn’t actually exist. He says, for example, that the pro-Palestinian campus movement did a good job of keeping antisemitism at bay. It did not.
Even when it comes to the well-established facts of Hamas’ Oct. 7 massacre, he demurs: “I wouldn’t rule out that Hamas targeted civilians,” he said, “but I wouldn’t confirm it either.”
When referencing the excesses of pro-Palestinian campus protests, Khalil retreated into vague language. “There were maybe some bad actors,” he said. His denunciations of antisemitism remained safely generic: “some anti-Zionist actions may touch on antisemitism that we absolutely oppose.”
Who, exactly, is “we” here?
Political movements are not abstractions. They consist of real people doing real things. When excesses are common enough, they become characteristic. This is something I’ve long argued about the Israeli right as well. We cannot dismiss settler violence or anti-Palestinian abuses as fringe when they keep escalating and enjoy support from those in power.
It’s easy to say you oppose antisemitism or suffering by Palestinians, or that a utopian future is possible if we all look past our fear. It’s much harder to look within your political coalition and call out the specific negative acts your allies have committed — or acknowledge their very real consequences.
Denial and Oct. 7
Circle back to Khalil’s alarming equivocation about Oct. 7.
He frames the killings as civilians being “caught up” in violence, not targeted by it. Notice the evasive grammar: Khalil says “there were crimes committed” and Hamas has “a responsibility,” rather than “Hamas committed crimes.”
Khalil does explicitly say that he thinks Hamas is “not up to the Palestinian aspiration for liberation” and that he “doesn’t believe in political Islam.” But for someone so attuned to the language of liberation and justice, he is remarkably comfortable with passive voice when it comes to Hamas carrying out horrific murders on Oct. 7.
As I’ve previously written, the evidentiary record is overwhelming. Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, organizations critical of Israel, independently concluded that Hamas deliberately and systematically targeted civilians. In one intercepted call, a Hamas terrorist bragged to his parents, “Look how many I killed with my own hands! Your son killed Jews!”
Neutrality on established facts is no different than denialism. If you are trying to reassure Jews but can’t acknowledge that Hamas killed Jews as such, any reassurance you have to offer will ring hollow.
A practical peace
Khalil says he is opposed to any violence against civilians but cannot dictate what Palestinians who experience Israeli human rights abuses should do. He says he understands why Palestinians turn to resistance, even violence, in the face of oppression.
But if you say you understand why decades of oppression push Palestinians toward resistance, then you should also understand why decades of terrorism push Israelis toward aggressive security measures, including ones that harm Palestinian civilians. If every act is merely a justified reaction to a prior act, we will end up in a world in which it’s too easy to argue that all violence is legitimate, rather than none of it.
The deep culture of mutual suspicion that this painful history has bred may be the biggest obstacle to Khalil’s utopian vision.
I share Khalil’s aspirations for peace. But Israelis, even most liberals, leftists and the millions who have protested the right-wing government, say they won’t accept a one-state solution. One 2025 poll by The Institute for National Security Studies, an independent think tank affiliated with Tel Aviv University, found that only 4% of all Israelis, and 1% of Israeli Jews, prefer a one-state solution with equal rights. Palestinians, too, are skeptical of a single state with equal rights.
At the same time, many Israelis oppose a two-state solution. So do many Palestinians. The people who live in the region hold complicated and often contradictory ideas of the path forward, and Khalil does not necessarily speak on their behalf.
Any anti-Zionist looking to reassure Jews needs to, at minimum, acknowledge that Hamas killed civilians deliberately, because they were Jews; condemn specific instances of antisemitism rather than just the concept in the abstract; and ask why Jews are scared right now, rather than telling us we shouldn’t be.
Yet Khalil’s reticence to be honest about his own movement’s flaws is a mirror of our own. Supporters of Israel have long been reluctant to name the failures of the Israeli right and to reckon with how settlements and the occupation harm Palestinians.
Khalil recounts being born in the Palestinian refugee camp Khan Eshieh in Syria, and raised on stories of his grandparents’ expulsion from a village near Tiberias. He was shot by an Israeli soldier when he was just 16. His effort to nevertheless engage with Israeli perspectives, like by reading Ari Shavit, is admirable. Jews should similarly listen to Palestinian perspectives and sit with Palestinian stories, including Khalil’s and those of Palestinians living today in the West Bank and Gaza.
The only way for any of us to build a durable political movement is to be exactingly honest about the ways in which we have, so far, failed, and to ask others with open ears: Why are you so scared?
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