Fifty years ago, Israeli commandos stormed the terminal at Entebbe Airport under the cover of darkness. They engaged in a deadly firefight with Ugandan troops and Palestinian hijackers to rescue over 100 Jewish and Israeli hostages. The daring 1976 raid astonished the world and reshaped modern counterterrorism, but it cost the life of the assault unit’s commander, Lieutenant Colonel Yonatan “Yoni” Netanyahu.

Fast forward to March 2026, and the geopolitical script between Jerusalem and Kampala has flipped entirely. The very soil where Ugandan and Israeli forces once exchanged fire is now the foundation of an emerging alliance aimed squarely at countering the Islamic Republic of Iran.

General Muhoozi Kainerugaba, the chief of Uganda’s armed forces and the son of President Yoweri Museveni, recently shocked the international community with a blunt declaration.

As regional tensions with Iran boiled over into direct military confrontations, Kainerugaba took to social media to draw a definitive line in the sand. He stated that while the world wanted the war in the Middle East to end, any talk of destroying or defeating Israel would bring Uganda into the war on the side of Israel. To physically cement this dramatic pivot, he previously announced that Uganda would erect a statue of Yoni Netanyahu at the exact spot where he fell at Entebbe Airport, framing the monument as a profound gesture designed to strengthen blood relations with Israel.

While some policymakers in Washington and European capitals are quick to dismiss Kainerugaba’s rhetoric as mere social media bluster, doing so overlooks a profound geostrategic realignment occurring in the Global South. This is not just historical poetry or diplomatic hyperbole. It is the public crystallization of Israel’s new “Circle of Partners” framework, a vital evolution of Jerusalem’s traditional defense strategy tailored for an era of multi-front warfare.

For decades, the Israeli defense and intelligence establishments relied heavily on the “Periphery Doctrine.” This strategy involved cultivating quiet but robust ties with non-Arab states to counterbalance a hostile Arab core.

Today, the threat matrix has completely inverted. The Arab core is increasingly allied with Israel, while the primary existential threat is the Iranian regime. Containing and defeating Tehran’s regional ambitions requires strategic depth far beyond the Levant, necessitating a modernized Periphery Doctrine that extends deep into the African continent. Israel recognizes that securing a “Circle of Partners” is no longer optional; it is a tactical imperative.

By cementing ties with Uganda — a Christian-majority, military heavyweight in East Africa — Israel is effectively anchoring a new southern flank. The strategic utility of this partnership becomes undeniable when looking at a map of Iran’s maritime ambitions. Tehran has spent years attempting to weaponize the Red Sea and the Bab el-Mandeb strait, primarily through its funding of Houthi proxies in Yemen, while simultaneously seeking naval footholds in the Horn of Africa. East Africa serves as the geopolitical backdoor to this critical maritime corridor.

Furthermore, as the conflict with Iran expands across multiple domains, an allied Uganda offers Israel unparalleled intelligence-sharing nodes in Sub-Saharan Africa. The Uganda People’s Defense Force possesses deep institutional knowledge of local terror networks and illicit smuggling routes that Iranian proxies frequently exploit. Uganda also provides potential logistical staging grounds that sit safely outside the immediate range of Iran’s conventional ballistic missile umbrella, offering Israel a secure rear base for long-term strategic planning and operational depth.

Equally important is the diplomatic and ideological blow this alliance deals to Tehran. The Iranian regime relies heavily on a manufactured narrative that pits the Global South against a supposedly isolated Israel. At a time when international forums are routinely weaponized to turn Israel into a pariah state, unconditional support from a prominent African Union member shatters Iran’s diplomatic framing. When a leading African military commander publicly volunteers his own forces to defend the Jewish state and honors a fallen Israeli hero on African soil, it signals a shared recognition of the threat posed by radicalism that transcends geography.

In 1976, the raid on Entebbe proved to the world that Israel possessed the operational reach to strike its enemies and defend its citizens anywhere on the globe. In 2026, the emerging Entebbe alliance proves that Israel possesses the diplomatic foresight to build a continental strategic firewall against Iranian hegemony.

Uganda’s willingness to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Israel is a testament to the shifting tides of global alliances. If Tehran continues to escalate its multi-front war, the ayatollahs will rapidly discover that Israel is not fighting alone, and its “Circle of Partners” reaches much further than the Islamic Republic ever anticipated.

Amine Ayoub, a fellow at the Middle East Forum, is a policy analyst and writer based in Morocco. Follow him on X: @amineayoubx.

There’s a line people love to quote — usually attributed to Mark Twain — that “history doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes.” It’s clever, memorable — and almost certainly not something Twain ever said.

The now-famous “rhyming” version seems to have emerged in a 1965 essay by psychoanalyst Theodor Reik, who suggested that while events don’t replay exactly, they follow very familiar patterns with subtle variations. However you phrase it, the idea lingers — because every so often, the present arranges itself in ways that feel so familiar, it’s as if we’re watching history echo in real time.

And right now, that echo is getting harder and harder to ignore. If you’ve been paying even passing attention to the news, you’ll have noticed something unsettling — not just isolated incidents, but a pattern.

Israel is now under daily missile attack from Iran, a regime that has made no secret of its ambitions. Its goal is explicit: to obliterate Israel — and with it, the millions of Jews who live there. The threats are now being matched with action — direct, sustained, and deadly.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, in places that pride themselves on liberal tolerance, something darker is stirring. Antisemitic attacks are rising at a pace not seen in generations. This week in London, three men were caught on camera torching ambulances belonging to Hatzolah, a volunteer emergency organization whose sole purpose is to save lives.

The attackers didn’t care. A shadowy group claiming responsibility didn’t just justify the act — it promised more. “This is only the beginning,” the assailants warned.

And in Los Angeles — a city synonymous with diversity — a lawsuit filed by Madison Atiabi tells an almost unbelievable story. According to court documents, Puka Nacua, who plays for the Los Angeles Rams, allegedly launched into an unprovoked antisemitic outburst on New Year’s Eve.

The lawsuit goes on to allege that later, Nacua physically assaulted her, biting her shoulder with such force that it left a visible imprint. Nacua seems to have form. In December, he apologized after performing a gesture that plays upon antisemitic tropes on a live stream.

Different continents. Different contexts. But it’s the same hatred. And with it comes a powerful sense that we’ve been here before. Not exactly like this — history never replays with perfect symmetry — but the echo is unmistakable. Which brings us to Passover — and to the Haggadah.

Every year at the Seder, we say the familiar words: בְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַיִם — “In every generation, a person is obligated to see themselves as if they personally left Egypt.” We are not being asked to remember. We are being asked to see ourselves as having left Egypt — a seemingly impossible task, given that the Exodus took place over 33 centuries ago.

The answer is that the Exodus was never intended to be a one-off event. It was meant to become a template — a lens through which we interpret history as it unfolds in real time.

Read the Exodus story carefully, and you’ll notice something unsettling: Things get worse before they got better. When Moses first appears, demanding the Israelites’ release, Pharaoh doesn’t just refuse — he escalates.

As conditions deteriorate, the people turn on Moses in frustration: “May God judge you … You have made us loathsome in the eyes of Pharaoh, placing a sword in their hand to kill us.”

And then comes one of the rawest moments in the entire Torah. Moses turns to God and says: “Why have You done evil to this people? Why did You send me?” He had come as the redeemer — and instead, everything had spiraled downward.

If you had been there, watching hope collapse into despair, you would have said — quite reasonably — this isn’t redemption; it’s a disaster. And yet, we know how the story unfolds. What looked like deterioration was in fact the prelude to transformation — the pitch darkness before the first crack of dawn.

Suddenly, the words of the Haggadah don’t feel abstract anymore. They feel current. We are living through a moment when things seem to be getting worse before they get better. Iran, like Pharaoh, is digging in. Even as pressure mounts, there is no sign of retreat — only defiance, and doubling down on aggression.

Beyond the geopolitical arena, there is the resurgence of antisemitism — less a series of isolated incidents and more a gathering wave. It is deeply unsettling for those of us living through it. But that is precisely the point.

The Haggadah does not ask us to relive the Exodus at its triumphant conclusion; it asks us to place ourselves inside the process — to feel the uncertainty, the fear; to stand where Moses stood and ask, “Why is this getting worse?” And then to hold our nerve. Because embedded within the Exodus story is a radical idea: that chaos and distress can be the precursor to the moment when everything finally comes together.

The night is always darkest before dawn — not as a cliché, but as a description of how redemption actually works.

And when it happens, it doesn’t unfold gradually. It happens, as the Torah describes it, כַּחֲצֹת הַלַּיְלָה, at the stroke of midnight, in an instant. One moment, Egypt is the most powerful empire on earth; the next, it is shattered. One moment, the Jewish people are slaves; the next, they are walking out toward freedom. It is a pivot — a complete reversal of reality.

Which means that if we are living through a chapter of that same unfolding story, we may be closer to the turning point than we think. The signs are there: a world order that feels increasingly unstable; an enemy under mounting pressure that still refuses to yield; a surge of hostility that defies reason. But all that will be over in a moment, as the divine will changes it in one stroke.

And so, this year, when we sit at the Seder and say, “In every generation, a person is obligated to see themselves as if they personally left Egypt,” we don’t need to stretch our imagination quite so far. For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like ancient history — it feels immediate.

And one day — soon, and all at once — the shift will come. And when it does, those who held their nerve, who stared into the darkness and still believed in the dawn, will simply nod and say: of course. The Exodus never really ended. It has been unfolding all along — until we finally learn to recognize it while we are still inside the story.

It’s inevitable — the beginning of spring and the scent of magnolias always remind me of Passover.

Growing up, I lived with my parents in a two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a three-story apartment building in Borough Park, Brooklyn. The living room window faced the street. A beautiful magnolia tree grew in front of that window, partially obscuring the houses across the way. In late March or early April, I’d start to notice the buds on the magnolia’s branches morph into a rich velvety green that would grow and grow, and soon unravel into huge blossoms, the color of pink ballet slippers.

There was a fire escape in front of that window, and when I was a teenager I’d sit on the windowsill and swing my feet onto the rusty rungs. It was a good place to imagine, to think, write and stare at that beautiful tree, coming alive.

I’d often try to extend my arm and reach a flower, but since I was afraid of heights and didn’t look down, I could usually only graze it. Once in a while, though, with heart thumping and some wobbly finesse I could manage to stand and quickly snip off several blossoms. The delirious scent of spring in Brooklyn, its air vacuumed fresh and clean was unbelievable — winter was finally gone and spring was here. The large pink flower felt like my very own special bouquet. Excitedly, I would take one or two of the petals, press them between my fingers, desperately trying to extract its perfume and dab it behind my ears, before I placed the flower in a small vase.

Meanwhile, inside the house, my very petite mother would busily iron our crisp, white damask tablecloth until it was smooth as paper. With sturdy fingers she would then unfurl it on our dining room table.

Then, my mother would climb a ladder to reshelve all our dairy and meat dishes in the top cupboard, making sure they were out of sight and out of mind for Passover; she’d cover them with a long layer of aluminum foil just to make sure.

Then, out came the blue bubble Depression-era glass dishes, Bakelite knives, forks and spoons with bright red handles, pots, pans and heavy crystal wine glasses.

Like the magnolia tree outside, all these dishes and silverware felt like welcome guests who we hadn’t seen for a year.

Soon, that beautifully ironed tablecloth was layered with all things Passover — the Seder plate; the Maxwell House Haggadah; the treasured well-worn haggadah from The Home of the Sages of Israel on the Lower East Side; Elijah’s cup, not just for Elijah, but for all the relatives, long gone, who couldn’t be present. And, of course, the bottle of Manichewitz grape wine, matzo and matzo balls the size of tennis balls sloshing around in a bowl of chicken soup; hard-boiled eggs; saltwater; a jar of potent horseradish capable of inducing actual tears; velvet and satin yarmulkes, the inside imprinted with someone’s Bar Mitzvah or wedding date. Finally, aunts and uncles on one side of the table, my cousins and I on the other.

On the table, in addition to the wine, there were blue and green seltzer bottles, delivered by the seltzer man. In those days, it was either water from the faucet or seltzer. My cousins and I would press the siphon into the little bit of wine we were allocated and concoct our own, not so good, drinks. Inevitably, someone would accidentally tip over a glass of wine and those beautiful white damask roses would suddenly be transformed into purple ones.

Soon, the magnolia tree would shed all its blossoms and create a beautiful pink blanket on the ground. My mother would take our dairy and meat dishes down from the top shelves in the cupboard, and Passover, like those blossoms, would once again become a memory.

No longer a teenager, I now live in the suburbs, my house surrounded by grass and trees, but not that magical magnolia.

Sometimes, though, while I’m walking, I’ll see one of those trees. I’ll stop and stare at its blossoms scattered on the grass and remember those Passovers past.

The post In my Passover memories, the magnolia trees of Brooklyn are always in bloom appeared first on The Forward.