Deconstructing the language of war in Gaza
In the dense urban landscapes of Gaza, where homes, schools, hospitals and humanitarian offices blend into the same war-ravaged blocks, a chilling narrative has taken root: the justification of civilian deaths through the term 'human shields.' It is a phrase that, with calculated frequency, surfaces in military briefings and international news coverage — offered up as explanation, defense or even absolution for airstrikes that leave families buried beneath the rubble.
But what does it mean to accuse an entire population of serving as human shields, and who benefits from this framing?
This terminology has become a central rhetorical device in the ongoing war in Gaza. Israel, backed by several Western allies, repeatedly claims that Hamas embeds itself within civilian infrastructure, using hospitals, schools and densely populated areas as cover. These claims are used to justify strikes that result in high civilian casualties and the destruction of critical infrastructure, including the deaths of aid workers and UN personnel.
Yet, to critically assess this narrative, we must examine not only its implications but its very foundations.
International humanitarian law prohibits the use of civilians as human shields. It also mandates that all warring parties distinguish between combatants and noncombatants and take every possible precaution to avoid harming civilians. But the invocation of 'human shields' creates a dangerous legal gray zone — one that permits the reclassification of civilian-heavy areas as legitimate military targets, even in the absence of transparent evidence.
In effect, the accusation of 'human shields' becomes a post hoc shield for military action, not a verified truth
Hani Hazaimeh
This ambiguity is often exploited. When a missile strikes a refugee camp, or when a humanitarian convoy is targeted, the fallback explanation is often a vague claim of militant presence in the vicinity. Rarely are these claims independently verified and often they are retroactively provided. In effect, the accusation becomes a post hoc shield for military action, not a verified truth.
This language erodes accountability. It transforms war crimes into tactical necessity and leaves civilians in Gaza with no safe haven — not even within the walls of a UN school or beneath the tents of an aid organization.
Labeling civilians as human shields does more than justify their deaths — it dehumanizes them. It subtly shifts blame from the aggressor to the victim, implying that civilian suffering is not only inevitable but strategic. This framing creates a moral detachment, desensitizing the world to scenes of bloodied children and shattered homes.
It also reinforces a false dichotomy: that the people of Gaza are either combatants or collaborators, shields or threats. This dichotomy ignores the basic truth that the majority of Gaza's population are children, mothers, elders and aid workers — people who have nowhere to flee and nothing to shield but their families.
Nowhere is the cost of this language more tragically evident than in the rising death toll among aid workers. The UN Relief and Works Agency, Doctors Without Borders and other humanitarian organizations have seen their staff killed while delivering food, administering medical care or sheltering refugees. These are not military operations. They are lifelines.
Yet when these convoys or compounds are hit, the same justification often resurfaces: alleged militant proximity. This deflects outrage and inhibits meaningful investigations. More importantly, it contributes to the breakdown of humanitarian corridors and the paralysis of relief operations — leaving an already besieged population even more vulnerable.
Nowhere is the cost of this language more tragically evident than in the rising death toll among aid workers
Hani Hazaimeh
Words matter. They shape public opinion, influence international policy and determine whether tragedies are investigated or ignored. The language used to describe the war in Gaza must reflect the reality on the ground — not political agendas or military talking points.
The international media must rigorously interrogate claims of human shields being used and resist the urge to parrot official narratives without evidence. Human rights organizations must push for independent investigations into all strikes that result in civilian deaths, particularly those targeting or affecting aid agencies.
Governments and international bodies must hold all parties accountable to the standards of international law — not selectively or symbolically, but consistently and transparently.
And most of all, we must remember that beneath the euphemisms and geopolitical calculus are real people — families that grieve, children who fear and communities that endure trauma that no terminology can justify.
The people of Gaza are not shields. They are human beings. And their suffering should not be rationalized — it should be stopped.
• Hani Hazaimeh is a senior editor based in Amman. X: @hanihazaimeh
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Al Arabiya
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Five years after one of the largest non-nuclear explosions in history devastated Beirut's port and surrounding neighborhoods, victims' families and survivors are still fighting for justice as a long-stalled investigation slowly resumes under Lebanon's new government. In an apartment near the Lebanese capital's ravaged port, Paul and Tracy Naggear cradle their two young children born from a determination to keep living after losing everything that mattered most. Their three-year-old daughter Alexandra was among the more than 200 people killed when thousands of tons of ammonium nitrate exploded on August 4, 2020. Half a decade later, the Naggears' grief remains as raw as their anger over a stalled investigation that has yielded no answers, accountability, norjustice for their daughter. 'Our lives were destroyed on the fourth of August when my daughter Alexandra passed away,' Paul Naggear said during an exclusive interview with Al Arabiya English. 'Everything was destroyed, our apartment, our neighborhoods, our future. This is as tragic and traumatizing as you can imagine.' The couple's home on one of Beirut's main thoroughfares bore the full force of the blast that devastated much of the Lebanese capital. On that summer day, the Naggears found themselves among hundreds of thousands of residents living unknowingly in the shadow of a ticking time bomb, the improperly stored ammonium nitrate that had sat in a port warehouse for years. 'My wife and I decided on the day of our daughter's passing that we would continue living. We made the choice to live and to fight for her justice,' Naggear explained. The couple has since welcomed two sons, Axel and Rafael, who 'saved us, definitely, to some extent, and allow us to continue on this path.' But their determination to rebuild their lives has been shadowed by a maddening lack of answers about what caused the explosion that shattered their world. 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His wife Tracy, who suffered three broken ribs, three broken vertebrae, and a severe head injury, 'had to walk for a very long time until she found a vehicle that took her to the hospital in a very, very bad condition.' In addition to the suffering, the family for four years watched as the investigative judge responsible for the case was systematically obstructed, due to what he described as government harassment. Though Naggear noted that 'the situation now, since earlier this year, has been better,' the fundamental questions about their daughter's death – and the deaths of more than 200 others – remain unanswered. Resuming an investigation Judge Tarek Bitar resumed his investigation into the incident in January after being forced to suspend it in 2021 due to intense political pressure. His renewed probe comes as Lebanon attempts to rebuild credibility under President Joseph Aoun and reformist Prime Minister Nawaf Salam, both of whom have pledged to uphold judicial independence. 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The militant group's opposition effectively brought the investigation to a halt for over two years. On April 11, two former top security officials appeared before Bitar for the first time since the investigation's resumption. 'Nothing has happened' Yaarob Sakher, a now retired Lebanese army brigadier, anxiously awaited the investigation into the explosion by the state but expresses disappointment, saying that Hezbollah's interference prevented any meaningful results. 'They blocked the investigation and nothing happened until now,' he said. For Geha, the scope of inaction extends far beyond the courtroom. 'Nobody went to jail. There's yet to be a court investigation. There has not been a trial. No victim compensation, bodies and debris and remains were continued to be identified months later.' The explosion was particularly devastating because of its scope and the prior knowledge of officials. 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But this grassroots response couldn't compensate for institutional failures. 'That short lived elation could only be short lived, because people cannot fix a country. You need structures,' Geha explained. In addition to what was happening, international aid largely failed to materialize due to lack of trust in Lebanese government institutions. 'The aid didn't come in, and rightfully so, because government institutions couldn't be trusted,' she said. 'The government institutions entrusted with that process of organizing the aid failed, but there was a caretaker government that bulls****ed their way month after month.' Even the volunteer cleanup efforts later proved problematic. 'We realized later that actually, we shouldn't have been cleaning the debris, and that there's asbestos everywhere,' recalled, saying that it 'hurtthe eyes of the young people that were carrying broomsticks.'. Lasting trauma, continuing crisis The explosion occurred against the backdrop of Lebanon's ongoing economic collapse and followed massive anti-government protests in 2019. Rather than spurring meaningful reform, the blast's aftermath saw conditions worsen, culminating in another devastating war with Israel in 2023. 'That early elation then turned to frustration, emigration and increased tensions in the country, because it's a country of misery, of a million refugees that can't work. You have refugee camps that are armed. You have people with school dropouts. You have drug addiction, narcotic state, all on top of the initial elation turned into just horrible,' Geha said. Despite the new government's promises, Geha remains skeptical about prospects for justice. When asked what she hoped to see in the next five years, she called for 'a public trial, a proper process of indictment, a traditional investigation that wins people's hearts and minds. 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