Why Solidarity Is Vital to Freeing Imprisoned Human Rights Defenders

Every Aug. 30, the world marks the International Day of the Victims of Enforced Disappearances.

By Mandeep Tiwana, Susan Marx

August 29, 2026

Source: Waging Nonviolence

Delegates raise solidarity fists at the NEA’s 2025 Representative Assembly. (Photo: National Education Association)

Every Aug. 30, the world marks the International Day of the Victims of Enforced Disappearances. Beneath the official statements and solemn commemorations lies a stark, unsettling reality: the practice of making people vanish — and holding them in silence away from the world — remains a favored tactic for powerful regimes seeking to crush dissent. The goal of authoritarian states is to cut dissenters off from the outside world until public attention fades. 

Yet as New York Mayor Zohran Mamdani highlighted during a global leadership summit last month, solidarity is far more than a moral sentiment; when organized effectively, it acts as a concrete strategy to pull those trapped in state-enforced shadows back into the light. 

Six years ago, when CIVICUS, a global alliance dedicated to strengthening citizen action and civil society, launched the Stand As My Witness campaign, we made that exact wager: that the surest way to protect an imprisoned or disappeared defender is public visibility. In practice, that means turning quiet solidarity into loud, coordinated action, sharing their stories, mobilizing petitions, amplifying their voices across borders, and forcing governments to act. The objective is simple: to make their continued detention impossible to ignore.

Since 2020, the campaign has put faces to some 50 detained defenders and helped win freedom for 32 of them. Among them are Loujain al-Hathloul, who stood up for women’s right to drive in Saudi Arabia; Floriane Irangabiye, who set up a radio station to profile the lives of exiled Burundians; and Muhammad Ismail, who spoke out against human rights abuses by security forces in Pakistan. Solidarity works. That is exactly why we cannot stop now. 

Refusing erasure

Authoritarian regimes rely on the quiet assumption that if a prisoner is hidden long enough, the outside world will simply move on. Countering this state-enforced oblivion requires bringing individual names, faces and struggles back into the light.

Khurram Parvez has spent decades ensuring that victims of state-enforced disappearances in Kashmir are not forgotten. For that work, the prominent human rights defender was jailed in November 2021 under India’s draconian anti-terror laws. In exposing how security forces made citizens vanish, Parvez became a target of the same machinery of erasure himself.

In 2023, the U.N. Working Group on Arbitrary Detention declared his imprisonment unlawful. Though an Indian court recently granted him bail after four and a half years without trial, state authorities moved instantly to halt his release. His ongoing ordeal is a reminder that when those who document disappearances are silenced, an entire society loses its voice.

Narges Mohammadi’s story reveals both the power of witness and its fragility. The Iranian Nobel laureate who has spoken out against torture and the death penalty has been repeatedly arrested, re-sentenced and subjected to periods of incommunicado detention — a form of short-term enforced disappearance designed to cut her off entirely from family, legal counsel and the outside world. 

Her ongoing persecution maps almost exactly onto the world’s attention span: when global pressure was high, she was granted temporary relief; when it eased, authorities placed her in punitive isolation and handed her additional sentences. In May, after collapsing in prison following suspected heart attacks, she was released on medical bail, some 45 pounds lighter and barely recognizable. Her cumulative sentence still stands at 44 years. A conditional release is not freedom, and the threat of return — and total isolation — has never lifted.

Buzurgmehr Yorov’s decade behind bars illustrates how states turn the justice system itself into a tool of erasure. Arrested in 2015 after taking on targeted political clients and speaking out against their torture, the Tajik lawyer has faced continuous punishment for refusing to stay silent. Held incommunicado and repeatedly placed in solitary isolation, he has been subjected to secret trials behind closed doors that pushed his sentence out to 2043, when he will be in his 70s. Though the U.N. Working Group on Arbitrary Detention called for his immediate release years ago, Tajikistan continues to keep him in the shadows. Silencing the advocate to bury the abuse is the ultimate act of state-enforced invisibility.

Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya embodies a newer frontier of enforced disappearance: the deliberate targeting of those who keep others alive. Director of the Kamal Adwan Hospital in northern Gaza, he was detained by Israeli forces after refusing to abandon his patients, and he has since been held without charge, cut off from his family and the outside world as his health deteriorates. 

He is not alone. He is one of 14 Gaza doctors whose release Physicians for Human Rights-Israel is now seeking before Israel’s Supreme Court. Amnesty International has warned that his life is in grave danger, the U.N. Working Group on Arbitrary Detention has ruled his detention unlawful, and Médecins Sans Frontières has called for the release of all arbitrarily detained Palestinian healthcare workers. Their vanishing carries its own chilling logic: when the very people who run toward catastrophe to save others can be made to disappear, no one is meant to feel safe.

Breaking the architecture of erasure

Demolishing this system of state-enforced silence cannot be left to traditional diplomacy or closed-door negotiation alone. Protecting the space for dissent requires transforming public solidarity into an active, organized strategy.

At that same forum, Mamdani challenged governments to consider who among today’s vilified activists will be glorified in retrospect once history passes judgment. Parvez, Mohammadi, Yorov and Dr. Abu Safiya are direct answers to that question, alongside dozens of other defenders sitting in cells or secret detention facilities.

And the space to defend them is shrinking at an alarming rate. Through the CIVICUS Monitor, we have tracked a steady global closing of civic freedoms — to the point where a mere three percent of the global population now lives in countries with open civic space. Across 83 countries now classified as “closed” or “repressed,” states rely on a familiar playbook: new laws branding activists as foreign agents, cross-border surveillance, and a news cycle so crowded with crises that political prisoners risk slipping into total obscurity.

Human rights defenders are not a threat to national security. They are often the last line of defense between a society and its own collapse: the journalists, lawyers and organizers who strive to hold power to account when institutions fail. Defending them is not charity; it is self-defense for democracy.

When powerful regimes attempt to bury dissenters in prison, global solidarity becomes a lifeline. Just as worldwide public pressure was instrumental in freeing Nelson Mandela after 27 years of state isolation, public witness remains the most formidable tool we have today. Thirty-two former political prisoners are free because ordinary people chose to speak up when states demanded silence.

As Mamdani noted, it is often in the darkest moments that true light becomes visible. The current darkness around civic freedoms is undeniable. Our ask remains deceptively simple: Learn a name. Say it out loud. Stand as a witness. Let us make sure that Khurram Parvez, Narges Mohammadi, Buzurgmehr Yorov, and Dr. Abu Safiya are not still waiting in the dark when the next anniversary comes.

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This article was originally published by Waging Nonviolence; please consider supporting the original publication, and read the original version at the link above.

Mandeep Tiwana

Mandeep Tiwana is the Secretary General of CIVICUS, and oversees its work on defending civic freedoms and promoting democratic values, while leading organizational engagement at the U.N. headquarters in New York.

Susan Marx

Susan is the Chief Programmmes Officer at CIVICUS, where she stewards global efforts to strengthen civil society, defend civic freedoms and support human rights defenders, women leaders, youth activists and environmental justice movements.

The Mecca Pact Redraws Asia’s Security Map – Analysis

Credit: OpenAI / Ramesh Jaura


August 27, 2026

By Ramesh Jaura

Key Takeaways:

Saudi Arabia, Türkiye, and Pakistan pledged in Mecca that an attack on one would be treated as an attack on all; they are now adding ministerial mechanisms, exercises, and defense-industry ties—but the pact still lacks NATO-style command, definitions, or automatic obligations.

The deal grew from Gulf insecurity after Iran-related strikes and doubts about U.S. guarantees; Washington has welcomed it as burden-sharing, while China, Iran, Egypt, and India each read it through their own interests.

Ambiguity is both deterrent and risk: members do not share the same rivals, nuclear implications are unofficial and unproven, and a crisis involving India, Iran, Yemen, or the Mediterranean could test whether the promise holds.

Saudi Arabia, Türkiye and Pakistan have pledged to treat an attack on one as an attack on all. Egypt is weighing membership, Washington has welcomed the move, Iran wants reassurance, China sees opportunity, and India is watching closely. A new security order may be forming, but its direction is unclear.

The place was chosen with care: Mecca, Islam’s holiest city, where Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan and Pakistani Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif met on 7 August and declared: “Any armed attack against any one of the three States shall be regarded as an attack against them all.”

It was a short sentence with a long shadow.

For Saudi Arabia, it offered protection when American guarantees no longer felt sufficient. For Türkiye, it gave Erdoğan another route to make his country an independent centre of power. For Pakistan, poor but militarily important, it reminded others that Islamabad cannot be ignored.

Together, they bring a rare mix. Saudi Arabia has wealth, energy power and influence across the Arab and Muslim worlds. Türkiye has NATO’s second-largest army and a fast-growing defence industry. Pakistan has a large, battle-tested military—and the only nuclear arsenal held by a Muslim-majority country.

It did not take long for commentators to call the new grouping an “Islamic NATO,” or sometimes a “Sunni NATO.” The description is tempting. It is also misleading.

NATO was built over decades. It has integrated command, military plans, shared procedures and a bureaucracy that works even when leaders disagree. The Mecca pact has none of that yet. It does not define an attack, say who decides one has occurred, or spell out what each member must do.

Would military support be automatic? Could one member decline to fight? Would Türkiye’s obligations under the new pact conflict with its duties as a NATO member? The agreement leaves these questions open.

But dismissing the pact as a ceremonial gesture would now be equally misleading.

Six days after the signing, Türkiye’s Defence Ministry began giving the pact substance. The partners plan political and military mechanisms linking foreign ministers, defence ministers and commanders. They intend to hold exercises on land, sea, air and cyberspace, and to cooperate on drones, artificial intelligence, electronic warfare, military production and technology transfer.

Reuters reported that the three defence industries would also be brought closer together.

The Mecca Agreement is not yet an Islamic NATO. But neither is it merely a piece of paper. It is an alliance being built while the surrounding region burns.Subscribe
A pact born in a frightened region

The agreement emerged, at least in part, from fear.

The United States and Israel attacked Iran on 28 February 2026, triggering a confrontation that crossed borders and sea routes. Iranian missiles and Tehran-aligned armed groups threatened Gulf states, oil facilities and commercial shipping. The Houthis intensified attacks from Yemen. The Strait of Hormuz and Bab el-Mandeb again became places where one strike could raise prices and shake governments.

Soon after the pact was signed, three Pakistanis were killed in a Houthi attack on a vessel in the Bab el-Mandeb Strait. Their deaths underlined a hard truth: conflicts in the Gulf, Red Sea and South Asia can no longer be kept apart.


The immediate danger explains why they signed the agreement. But behind it lies an older anxiety: can the United States still be trusted to protect its partners?

For decades, Gulf monarchies lived under an American security umbrella. US troops, intelligence, weapons and political commitments sustained the regional order. That relationship still matters. Saudi Arabia buys vast quantities of American arms, and no regional combination can easily replace America’s military reach.

But trust has thinned.

The 2019 attacks on Saudi oil facilities Abqaiq and the Khurais oil field exposed how vulnerable the kingdom had become to inexpensive missiles and drones. Washington did not retaliate directly against Iran. Riyadh remembered.

Then came America’s chaotic withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021. Regional governments watched how US forces left. The circumstances were different, but the question travelled beyond Kabul: if American priorities changed, who might be left next?


Washington was turning towards China while its Middle Eastern partners dealt with Iran, proxy forces, missiles, drones and the aftershocks of the Gaza war.

Donald Trump’s return to the White House did not remove uncertainty. His administration has shown it is willing to use enormous force. But that does not mean partners always know when America will act, how far it will go or what they will endure when it does.

Saudi Arabia is not breaking with Washington. It is doing something more careful: ensuring Washington is no longer its only option.

The kingdom has strengthened relations with China, restored diplomatic ties with Iran, kept channels open to Russia and invested heavily in its defence industry. The Mecca pact adds two more layers of protection: Türkiye and Pakistan.

It does not announce the end of American power in the Gulf. It shows that American power is no longer accepted as the only pillar on which security rests.
America applauds—but may not control what follows

Washington’s response has complicated the idea that the pact is an act of rebellion against the United States.

On 16 August, Trump said he was “very happy” that Saudi Arabia, Türkiye and Pakistan had “recently, and finally” signed the agreement. He called it a “big, bold, and important first step” and praised the three governments for becoming better able to defend themselves. Anadolu Agency reported his remarks.


Trump has long argued that America’s allies should spend more and carry more of their own defence burden. From that angle, the Mecca pact is useful. It could allow regional states to handle more of their security without repeatedly calling on Washington.

The arrangement does not immediately threaten America’s position. Türkiye remains in NATO. Saudi Arabia still depends heavily on American weapons, intelligence and logistical support. Pakistan continues to work with Washington on terrorism and regional diplomacy.

For the moment, the United States can welcome the pact as burden-sharing.

But there is a catch.

If the three countries produce weapons together, exchange intelligence and build crisis procedures, they will need less American permission and protection. Greater capability will give them more freedom to make choices Washington may dislike. The pact may not be designed to push America out, but it could help create a region where America is no longer central to every calculation.
What the three partners want

Each of the three countries sees something different in the agreement.

For Saudi Arabia, the attraction is protection—and access.

Pakistan has trained Saudi officers and soldiers for decades. Pakistani troops have served in the kingdom before. The military relationship is not new; the pact gives it a more formal and politically stronger shape.

Türkiye offers something else: a defence industry that can supply weapons more cheaply and often with fewer conditions than Western governments impose. Its drones, missiles, warships, armoured vehicles and electronic-warfare systems have attracted buyers across Europe, Asia, Africa and the Middle East.

Saudi Arabia wants to produce more of its own weapons under Vision 2030. Joint ventures with Turkish and Pakistani companies could help reduce its dependence on expensive Western imports.

For Türkiye, the pact is an opportunity to expand its reach.

Erdoğan does not want Türkiye seen merely as NATO’s difficult southeastern member. He wants it recognised as a power in its own right, with influence from the Black Sea and Mediterranean to the Middle East, the Red Sea, and the Indian Ocean.

Weapons are now an important part of that ambition. Turkish drones have affected the course of several wars. Defence exports bring money, influence and long-term political relationships. The Mecca pact opens a much larger field for all three.


Pakistan’s gains are different but just as important.

Islamabad’s economy remains fragile. Saudi loans and deposits have helped it through crises. Türkiye has supported Pakistan politically, especially over Kashmir, and the two countries have developed close defence ties.

By standing beside the rulers of Saudi Arabia and Türkiye in Mecca, Pakistan sent a message: whatever its economic troubles, it remains a country whose military strength and nuclear weapons give it strategic value.

The agreement also confirms the weight of Pakistan’s military establishment. Field Marshal Asim Munir has been publicly credited with helping to bring it about. In Pakistan, the most important ties with China, Saudi Arabia, Türkiye and the United States are rarely shaped by civilian diplomacy alone.

Yet the three partners do not share the same enemies.

Pakistan’s principal conventional rival is India. Türkiye is preoccupied with Syria, Kurdish armed groups and its disputes involving Greece, Cyprus and Israel. Saudi Arabia is focused on Iran, the Houthis, missile and drone attacks, Red Sea shipping and the security of its oil installations.

Sooner or later, those differences will matter.

Would Türkiye and Saudi Arabia regard an Indian strike on Pakistan as an attack on all three? Would Pakistan be expected to help Türkiye in a clash with Greece, another NATO member? If the Houthis struck Saudi Arabia, would Islamabad and Ankara be required to join a war in Yemen? What if a Saudi–Iranian confrontation escalated?

The pact does not answer.

Ambiguity can deter. An adversary may hesitate if it cannot predict how three countries will respond. But it can also tempt an ally to take risks, expecting support that may not arrive.

Even NATO’s celebrated Article 5 does not automatically send every member to war. It allows each ally to take “such action as it deems necessary.” Political leaders still decide what solidarity means.

The Mecca pact will face the same test. Promises made in a palace are one thing. Keeping them when soldiers may die is another.
The nuclear question no one can avoid

Pakistan’s nuclear weapons hover over every discussion of the agreement.

Has Islamabad quietly placed Saudi Arabia or Türkiye under a nuclear umbrella? Would Pakistan threaten nuclear retaliation if the Saudi state faced an overwhelming attack?


Nothing in the public text says so. Pakistan has announced no nuclear guarantee. No evidence shows it has transferred weapons or control to either partner. Saudi officials insist the agreement is not tied to nuclear ambition or an arms race.

That caution matters. Speculation should not be mistaken for fact.

Saudi Arabia is a non-nuclear member of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty. Türkiye is also an NPT member and already participates in NATO’s nuclear arrangements. Any transfer of nuclear weapons would create an international crisis.

But nuclear deterrence depends as much on uncertainty as on published doctrine.

A country considering a devastating attack on Saudi Arabia must ask whether Pakistan would remain uninvolved if the kingdom’s survival were at stake. The absence of an answer may be part of the deterrent.

It may also make the region less safe.

Israel has an undeclared nuclear arsenal. Iran has advanced nuclear capabilities. Pakistan has tested weapons. Türkiye belongs to a nuclear alliance. American forces are spread across the region. Now a new defence pact enters this crowded landscape with unclear nuclear limits.

There is another source of concern. The Trump administration has pursued a civilian nuclear agreement with Saudi Arabia that reportedly drops safeguards Washington previously demanded, including a categorical Saudi renunciation of uranium enrichment and reprocessing and acceptance of the International Atomic Energy Agency’s Additional Protocol.

Reuters reported that arms-control advocates and members of Congress feared that the proposed terms could weaken non-proliferation standards.

A civil nuclear programme is not a nuclear-weapons programme. But in this region, intentions are viewed through a lens of fear. Iran’s capabilities, Pakistan’s arsenal and weaker safeguards around Saudi nuclear development would inevitably be considered together.

A shield built to make Saudi Arabia feel safer could deepen the nuclear anxieties of everyone around it.
Is Iran the enemy—or a neighbour to be reassured?

Because the three signatories are Sunni-majority countries, the pact has often been described as an alliance against Shia-majority Iran.

The timing strengthens that interpretation. Iran and armed groups aligned with it have attacked Saudi interests. Türkiye cooperates with Tehran in some areas while competing with it in Syria, Iraq, Central Asia and the Caucasus. Pakistan shares a difficult border with Iran and has exchanged cross-border strikes with it.


But the relationship cannot be reduced to an old sectarian divide.

Turkish Foreign Minister Hakan Fidan says the pact identifies no enemy. Pakistan calls it “purely defensive.” Iranian Foreign Ministry spokesman Esmaeil Baghaei initially responded with caution rather than outrage. Iran, he said, need not fear regional self-reliance if it remained inclusive and addressed the real causes of insecurity.

Hard-line voices in Tehran were less forgiving. They asked how Pakistan could join a defence agreement with Saudi Arabia while claiming to be an honest mediator between Iran and the United States. Others warned Riyadh that a written pact would not guarantee its safety.

Erdoğan then demonstrated how the new allies hope to use their position.

On 17 August, Erdoğan urged Trump to return to talks with Iran and offered Türkiye’s help. Ankara said it would keep working with the United States, Iran, Pakistan, Qatar and other mediators. At the same time, Erdoğan praised the Mecca pact as a contribution to regional security—Reuters reported Türkiye’s attempt to combine deterrence with diplomacy.

Pakistan is trying to do the same.

Field Marshal Munir was due in Tehran on 24 August for talks with senior Iranian officials. The agenda was expected to include Pakistan’s efforts to mediate between Washington and Tehran, the Mecca Agreement, the Houthis and the dispute over the Strait of Hormuz. Reuters reported that the planned visit to Washington would pave the way for another round of punishing sanctions against Iran.

Munir’s visit carries special weight. He is not only Pakistan’s most powerful soldier but also a central figure behind the Mecca pact. Iranian officials will want to hear from him directly: is this alliance a shield, a sword or both?

Pakistan has placed itself in a difficult position. It must persuade Saudi Arabia that it is a dependable defence partner while convincing Iran that it has not joined a hostile front. It must keep Washington engaged without becoming an instrument of American pressure.

The pact’s first serious test may therefore come not on a battlefield but in a room in Tehran. Can Pakistan and Türkiye help deter Iran without making dialogue with Iran impossible?
Egypt stands at the door

Türkiye has made clear it does not want the alliance to remain a three-member club. Egypt is the most obvious prospective member.

Cairo is no longer merely observing. Egyptian Foreign Minister Badr Abdelatty says his government is studying membership “very seriously,” though any decision must fit Egypt’s constitution and legal commitments. Chatham House sees the hesitation as political as well as legal. Egypt has long avoided binding military blocs and wants to preserve its role as mediator. Joining could look like taking sides against Iran, Israel, the UAE, Greece, Cyprus or India without giving Cairo clear security gains. For now, Egypt has reason to wait, watch how the pact works in a crisis and keep its options open.


The Gulf states face the same problem. Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates do not always agree on regional priorities. Qatar and its neighbours recently emerged from a bitter blockade. Oman prizes its independence and role as mediator.

The Mecca pact is therefore unlikely to become a military organisation embracing all 57 members of the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation.

A smaller core is more plausible, surrounded by looser arrangements for tasks: protecting Red Sea shipping, sharing intelligence, coordinating missile defence, countering drones, fighting terrorism and producing weapons.

That may sound less dramatic than an Islamic NATO. It could prove more useful.
China: The Power Outside the Pact

China did not sign the Mecca Agreement, and no evidence shows Beijing designed it. Yet its influence is impossible to ignore.

Pakistan’s “all-weather” partnership with China is one of Asia’s deepest military relationships. Beijing supplies aircraft, missiles, air-defence systems and warships, and the two countries jointly produce the JF-17 fighter. In April, Pakistan commissioned the first of eight planned Chinese-designed Hangor-class submarines, four to be built in Pakistan under a technology-transfer deal. According to the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute⁠, China supplied 80 per cent of Pakistan’s major arms imports between 2021 and 2025.

The pact could bring Chinese, Turkish and Western systems into the same network. Türkiye offers drones, missiles, electronic warfare and a growing defence industry. Saudi Arabia brings money but still relies mainly on American and other Western equipment. Making these systems work together will require compatible communications, command procedures, maintenance chains and training.

That helps explain why Türkiye’s Defence Ministry has put joint exercises, production, technology cooperation and “sustainable maintenance and logistics support” at the centre of the deal. Reuters reported⁠ that cooperation will span land, sea, air and cyber operations, with attention to drones, electronic warfare and artificial intelligence. Over time, this could create a military-industrial network that Beijing does not control, but that depends less on the West.

China’s economic presence matters too. The China–Pakistan Economic Corridor links western China to Gwadar on the Arabian Sea. China is also a major buyer of Saudi oil and an investor in the kingdom’s infrastructure, telecommunications and renewable energy. Its mediation of the Saudi–Iranian rapprochement in 2023 showed it can exercise influence in a region long dominated by Washington.

Saudi Arabia does not expect China to replace the United States as its military protector, and Beijing has shown little interest in assuming that burden. But China offers trade, investment, technology and another option. Türkiye’s ties with Beijing are more guarded because of NATO, Europe and differences over Uyghurs. Even so, Erdoğan values relationships that widen Ankara’s room for manoeuvre.


Beijing can stay outside the pact and still benefit. It may gain from a less American-centred region, finance infrastructure and supply weapons without defending the alliance. For India, already facing China’s military partnership with Pakistan, that is hardly reassuring.
India has reason to watch—but not to panic

India’s ties with China have steadied slightly. Talks on the disputed frontier have resumed, but the damage from Galwan remains: troops are still deployed, claims unresolved and mistrust deep.

China’s support for Pakistan adds another layer to India’s concerns.

The China–Pakistan Economic Corridor runs through territory India claims. New Delhi sees it as both an economic project and a breach of sovereignty. Indian planners must still weigh pressure from Pakistan and China at once, even if neither side wants a two-front war.

The Mecca pact could connect this tense South Asian picture to West Asian politics.

Pakistani forces, already heavily supplied by China, may gain access to Turkish technology, Saudi money, shared intelligence and joint planning. Such shifts rarely appear overnight; they gather force slowly.

India’s government has said it is examining the pact’s implications for national security and regional stability and will take the necessary steps to protect Indian interests.

New Delhi is right to seek clarity.

Türkiye has backed Pakistan on Kashmir. The two countries cooperate on warships, exercises, training and aircraft modernisation. Saudi Arabia’s 2025 defence agreement with Pakistan laid the ground for the trilateral pact.

In a future crisis, Pakistan could invoke the Mecca Agreement even if Riyadh and Ankara had no wish to fight India.

Would the pact apply only after an unprovoked attack? Could Islamabad invoke it after a terrorist incident or an exchange across the Line of Control? Who would decide who started the conflict?

India is asking those questions quietly without turning concern into panic.

Saudi Arabia’s ties with India have deepened. The kingdom supplies energy, invests in India and hosts a large Indian community. The two governments cooperate on trade, terrorism, technology, maritime security and defence.

Riyadh has no reason to sacrifice this relationship for Pakistan. Saudi foreign policy has become practical and flexible. It can maintain a defence pact with Islamabad while expanding relations with New Delhi.


India appears to be taking the same approach: deepen Gulf ties, seek assurances, monitor Pakistan’s defence links with Türkiye and China, and strengthen its naval presence in the Arabian Sea.

The Ministry of External Affairs has dismissed reports that India sought an urgent mutual-defence pact with Israel as fabricated. India already has close defence ties with Israel. Turning them into an openly anti-Muslim alignment would damage decades of careful diplomacy across the Arab world.

India’s strength has long been its ability to deal with rivals at the same time: Saudi Arabia and Iran, Israel and the Arab states, the United States and Russia.

The Mecca pact makes that balancing act harder—and more necessary.
A promise waiting to be tested

The agreement does not prove that a new regional order has arrived. Its members may find unity easier to declare than to practise.

But it does show that the old order is fading.

Saudi Arabia, Türkiye and Pakistan are not abandoning old relationships; they are adding new ones. They want choices and no longer want security to depend on a single power whose priorities can shift after an election, war or crisis.

Trump sees burden-sharing. China sees opportunity. Iran wants to know whether the pact targets it. Egypt is weighing membership. India is asking whether Pakistan’s reach has grown.

The pact remains several things at once: a shield, a warning, an arms partnership, a diplomatic tool, and a claim to greater independence.

It could make the three countries safer. It could also spread conflicts across regions.

An India–Pakistan crisis could gain a Middle Eastern dimension. A Saudi–Iranian confrontation could draw in Pakistan and Türkiye. A Turkish dispute in the Mediterranean could test commitments Riyadh and Islamabad never expected to keep.

The stronger the alliance becomes, the more restraint it will need.

Its members must define aggression, set clear consultation procedures, keep politics in control of military decisions and clarify where conventional cooperation ends and the nuclear shadow begins.

Mecca produced a dramatic promise: an attack on one will be treated as an attack on all. Weapons, exercises and political machinery now support it. Its meaning, however, will remain uncertain until someone asks the three countries to keep it.

When that day comes, the question will not be what leaders signed in Mecca, but what they are prepared to sacrifice—and whether their shield makes a frightened region safer or gives it new reasons to fear.

About Ramesh Jaura
Ramesh Jaura is a journalist with 60 years of experience as a freelancer, head of Inter Press Service, and founder-editor of IDN-InDepthNews. His work draws on field reporting and coverage of international conferences and events.
View all posts by Ramesh Jaura →

The Military-Entertainment Complex, Exposed

By Tanya Singh

July 3, 2026

Source: Originally published by Z. Feel free to share widely.

Introduction

In March 2022, cinema-goers across India watched in tense silence as a young Hindu woman sobbed hysterically on screen, recounting graphic atrocities committed by her Muslim neighbours. Outside the theaters, emotions erupted into nationalist chants. Later, Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi publicly praised the film as a courageous act of “truth-telling.” Several Indian states, ruled by the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), even declared it tax-free to make ticketing cheaper, and, in turn, boost viewership numbers 1.

The scene—from the Hindi-language film The Kashmir Files—portrays the exodus of Kashmiri Hindus in the early 1990s, an event deeply shaped by state repression. However, the film presents the violence through a lens where Muslims as a group appear complicit. Through factually bereft emotive storytelling and selective historical framing, the film served to amplify Hindu nationalist sentiments, preying upon already frayed communal ties, and rallying support both domestically and abroad. The Kashmir Files is one example of a strategic political tool that has been employed subtly and not-so subtly, in the almost 12 years since the BJP came to power 2.

Across the world, cinema has been deployed to bolster nationalism, justify violence, and erase resistance, both contemporaneously and over the 20th century. Ministries of ‘information’, state-run studios, military-funded films and cultural boards became the architects of narrative control — determining not just what people saw, but what they could imagine.

This report explores the global intersections of film, power, and propaganda — from Hollywood and the Pentagon, to Europe’s fascist past; from cinematic statecraft, and to the evolving fronts of media warfare playing out across India and Israel. By tracing the transnational flow of money and ideology through film, we reveal how cinema continues to operate as one of the most potent tools in the arsenal of ideological warfare.

How do films turn into state-sponsored propaganda?

Glorifying regimes and reshaping collective memory

European authoritarian regimes—from Nazi Germany to Franco’s Spain—perfected the use of film as a tool of ideological control. In the 1930s and 40s, fascist leaders viewed cinema as a strategic tool of mass persuasion. In fact, Adolf Hitler and Joseph Goebbels (the chief propagandist of the Nazi Party) placed cinema at the heart of Nazi cultural policy. Hitler wrote in detail about the psychological power of the image in Mein Kampf 3:

“The picture, in all its forms, including the film, has better prospects. In a much shorter time, at one stroke I might say, people will understand a pictorial presentation of something which would take them a long and laborious effort of reading to understand”.

Goebbels declared that film should be “an instrument of cultural policy,” and with state backing, directors like Leni Riefenstahl were commissioned to produce glorified spectacles like Triumph of the Will (1935) 4, a cinematic monument to the 1934 Nuremberg Rally that visually deified Hitler 5. Even non-political genres were infused with Nazi ideology: romantic comedies and musicals subtly reinforced Aryan ideals, gender roles, and loyalty to the Reich 6. In this way, film across Europe was weaponized to manufacture national identity and promote mythology.

In fascist Italy, Benito Mussolini launched Italy’s film studio, Cinecittà Studios, in 1937, towards the production of films with Fascist messages. In fact, on the day of its opening, April 21st, Mussolini tried to play on the idea that it was the same day as the founding of ancient Rome 7. He also revitalised the Venice Film Festival to cultivate a national film industry that echoed Rome’s imperial past. Films such as Scipione l’Africano (1937) dramatized ancient Roman conquests, juxtaposing them with Mussolini’s African ambitions 8. Similarly, Spain’s Francisco Franco, under a pseudonym, wrote the screenplay for Raza (1942), a family epic that glorified military virtue, traditional values, and the regime’s divine mission. Raza became Spain’s foundational cinematic myth under Francoism 9.

Parallel to these overtly authoritarian projects, Europe’s colonial powers developed cinematic traditions that sought to justify imperial domination. Films made during the 1930s–50s sought to defend the legitimacy of the empire under the guise of civilising missions. In Britain, Sanders of the River (1935) 10 depicted an English colonial administrator as a wise protector of African ‘tribes’. The film’s African-American lead, Paul Robeson, later disavowed his participation, calling the final product a betrayal of his values and a tool of colonial propaganda.

In apartheid South Africa (1948–1994), the government weaponized film to whitewash racial oppression. Through the South African Information Service, the regime flooded screens with idyllic travelogues and ‘educational’ films like These Are the South Africans (1950s), which peddled the myth of ‘separate development’ as harmonious coexistence. These productions meticulously erased the brutality of apartheid, presenting white rule as benevolent and inevitable, in line with the larger ideals of the ‘civilizing mission’.

In the 1970s the ‘Muldergate’ scandal exposed a covert global propaganda machine where millions were funnelled to pro-apartheid media abroad, including fabricated news outlets and film projects designed to sway foreign audiences 11. Also known as the Information Scandal, Muldergate Scandal involved the apartheid government’s secret misuse of the defence budget funds to manipulate public opinion, both domestically and internationally, through a series of strategic investments and acquisitions in publishing, media relations, amongst others.

At the centre of the scandal was Dr. Connie Mulder, a prominent government minister and leader of the National Party. Alongside Prime Minister John Vorster and intelligence officials, Mulder oversaw a covert propaganda campaign aimed at promoting apartheid. Millions of rand in state funds were secretly funneled into pro-government newspapers, media projects, and even attempts to influence foreign governments. The goal was to counter growing global criticism of apartheid and bolster domestic support for the regime. Here, cinema served dual fronts—domestic indoctrination and international reputation laundering, revealing apartheid’s desperation to control the narrative as resistance grew.

In the 21st century, Europe’s cinema has seen a new wave of nationalist revisionism, especially in countries where far-right politics have resurged. The 2004 German film Downfall sparked debate for “humanising” Adolf Hitler 12, prompting concerns about inadvertent sympathy generation. More recently, films like Styx (2018) and Undine (2020) have been criticised for their national allegories and perceived ambivalence on migration and identity.

In Hungary, Prime Minister Viktor Orbán’s government has launched a well-funded cinematic campaign to glorify national heroes and historic victories 13. Films like Arpad the Conqueror (2022), produced with government grants, depict Magyar conquests — late 9th-10th century invasions and migrations by the Hungarians into Central Europe, leading to the founding of the Kingdom of Hungary — as divine destiny, while reinforcing a civilizational narrative against migrants. In another example, Hungary’s Those Who Remained (2019) 14, an Oscar-nominated film, tells the story of Holocaust survivors, but subtly reframes Hungary as a victim, glossing over Hungarian complicity during WWII.

Europe’s ideological influence on cinema today is more diffused than during the fascist era, but it is no less potent. What binds these diverse national cases – from Riefenstahl to Orbán, from the 1930s to contemporary times – is the use of cinema to shape collective memory: whether through imperial nostalgia, fascist myth-making, or historical revisionism.

Censorship & suppression: silencing dissent

The film can function, not merely as propaganda, but also as a tool for collectivizing memory by the powers that be. In Indonesia, the Suharto regime 15 mandated nationwide screenings of Pengkhianatan G30S/PKI, a state-produced film depicting the 1965 communist coup attempt as a barbaric betrayal, thereby legitimising the regime’s violent anti-leftist purges. Broadcast annually as compulsory viewing until Suharto’s ouster in 1998, it reinforced the dictatorship’s official narrative through repetition and institutional enforcement.

Latin American authoritarian projects, on the other hand, did not operate in isolation; they were often indirectly bolstered by U.S. Cold War interventions – a larger continuation of foreign policy set in stone since the Monroe Doctrine (1823) 16. The CIA and the US State Department, as part of their broader anti-communist campaigns, actively supported cultural initiatives aimed at countering leftist influence, thereby entangling Latin American cinema in a wider geopolitical struggle 17.

In the 1980s, Reagan’s administration ran an Office of Public Diplomacy that, among other things, provided briefing materials and possibly footage to producers to encourage anti-communist storylines (for instance, in 1980s action films featuring Cuban or Soviet antagonists in Central America) 18 . These were indirect methods (unlike the blunt bans and propaganda of local regimes), but contributed to a media atmosphere supportive of right-wing, anti-communist positions.

Censorship was another tool widely employed by the State. Brazil’s 1964–85 military government heavily censored the provocative Cinema Novo movement 19. Filmmakers who critiqued the regime or societal injustice, like Glauber Rocha, faced exile or suppression. Brazil’s resistance film Pra frente, Brasil (1982), which depicted torture during the junta, was censored, and the filmmakers were persecuted. Its suppression maintained the regime’s desired narrative (that there were no abuses) until after the dictatorship. Meanwhile, the Brazilian state’s film agency ‘Embrafilme’ subtly encouraged projects that were nationalistic and non-subversive.

In Argentina, the junta (1976–83) banned films that referred to the “disappeared” or human rights abuses. Instead, they quietly supported movies that glorified Argentine traditions or the military. One infamous propaganda piece was La Patagonia Rebelde (1974), which depicted a 1920s labor uprising being crushed (which the anti-communist regime at the time approved of).

In Chile, Augusto Pinochet’s dictatorship took a different approach: rather than investing in elaborate cinematic propaganda, the regime prioritized the suppression of dissenting voices 20 while producing sparse but strategic newsreels that reframed the 1973 coup as a necessary salvation from Marxist tyranny. Decades later, the release of Pinochet (2012), a documentary sympathetic to the former dictator, reignited public outrage 21 and film as a battleground for historical interpretation.

Hollywood’s military-entertainment complex and right-wing funding

In the United States, Hollywood has long maintained a symbiotic relationship with the national security apparatus – a collaboration often described as the “military-entertainment complex 22.” The U.S. government does not own or operate studios, but exerts influence through military liaisons, technical support, script vetting, and indirect incentives. This setup has enabled American films to double as vessels for pro-military messaging, advancing narratives that align with the Pentagon’s interests.

Since World War II, the U.S. Department of Defence (DoD) has maintained formal liaison offices in Los Angeles to assist filmmakers seeking access to military bases, hardware, and personnel. In return, the Pentagon requires final script approval to ensure “accurate and positive” portrayals of the armed forces 23. This influence is both light-touch and sweeping, ranging from altering lines of dialogue, to reshaping major plot points.

For instance, the producers of Top Gun (1986) accepted extensive Navy input in exchange for access to F-14 Tomcats and an aircraft carrier. Scenes portraying military personnel negatively were removed, and the final product celebrated the Navy as a glamorous, elite force. Navy recruitment surged by 500% in the film’s release year 24. Top Gun: Maverick (2022) followed a similar pattern, with the Pentagon again providing modern jets, aircraft carriers, and script review 25.

This practice extends beyond war films. The Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU), for instance, has worked closely with the Pentagon and the FBI. Iron Man (2008) received Air Force support in exchange for script alterations. A scene in which an F-22 mistakenly fires at Iron Man was removed, as was a joke about military suicide 26. Subsequent films like Captain Marvel (2019), which featured Air Force pilots and branding, were directly used in recruitment campaigns aimed at women 27. Even in WandaVision (2021), the closing credits include a “special thanks” to the DoD. These edits, while subtle, collectively portray U.S. military and intelligence agencies as virtuous, effective, indispensable, while reinforcing both the ‘savior-of-the-world’ narrative, with the ‘center-of-the-world’ narrative – vital tools in the arsenal of the US as a soft power.

The FBI has also shaped Hollywood narratives. During the Red Scare, J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI blacklisted leftist writers and forced script changes in films such as Moon Pilot (1962), where a foolish FBI agent was rewritten as a generic “security officer 28.” Documents released via the Freedom of Information Act show the FBI continued reviewing film and TV scripts into the 2010s, granting or withholding use of its name and seal depending on portrayal 29.

Similarly, the CIA has been involved in Hollywood productions involving espionage. Zero Dark Thirty (2012), which dramatised the manhunt for Osama bin Laden, was made with extensive CIA and DoD briefings. Critics argue the film sanitises the agency’s use of torture, thereby legitimising controversial counterterrorism tactics 30.

The Cold War marked a high point for overt propaganda. The CIA covertly funded films like Animal Farm (1954) and 1984 (1956) — where the storylines were altered to show how coups can overthrow communist regimes — while the USIA (United States Information Agency) distributed American values-themed documentaries across the Global South 31. Although these films were not mainstream theatrical releases, they were crucial in projecting U.S. soft power abroad. Hollywood’s patriotic instinct became entrenched: filmmakers eager for DoD cooperation often internalised the messaging requirements, even without direct interference.

Frustrated by what they perceive as liberal dominance in Hollywood, conservative billionaires and activists started funding their films and documentaries to push nationalist or ultra-patriotic messages. In the 21st century this relationship has become more overt, even as it has grown more complex. Hollywood now receives private funding channelled through offshore vehicles, with investors increasingly seeking to steer films away from what they describe as “liberal narratives” that challenge the cultural authority of the military and the nation-state.

In 2023, Dan Snyder, a billionaire donor and Donald Trump ally, secretly funded, through a shell-production company, a biographical film about Trump’s early years. Although Snyder had assumed that it would be a hagiography of his friend, the finished film portrayed Trump critically 32.

More transparently, outlets like The Daily Wire, backed by right-wing donors, have created an alternative production ecosystem. Their 2023 action film Run Hide Fight, about a high school shooting, promotes armed self-defense and critiques liberal gun control policies. Likewise, political commentator Dinesh D’Souza’s pseudo-documentary 2000 Mules (2022) alleged, without credible evidence, that Democrats committed large-scale voter fraud in the 2020 election. The film was distributed via right-wing media nonprofits and reached millions despite widespread debunking 33.

What’s notable is the migration of such content to major platforms. Amazon briefly hosted 2000 Mules for rental; Run Hide Fight premiered at Venice before being picked up by DailyWire+. This suggests that ideologically driven cinema – once confined to fringe channels – can now penetrate mainstream cultural circuits.

Far from being shaped by organic cultural trends alone, American cinema today is actively curated by a convergence of state and private conservative forces. Scholars argue this has created a “censorship-by-cooperation” model: filmmakers self-censor in exchange for institutional support, while ideologues use funding to build parallel systems.

While the collaboration between Hollywood and the Pentagon never disappeared, what’s new is the scale and openness of these ideological alliances. Recent films like The Terminal List (2022), an Amazon Prime series starring Chris Pratt, portray Navy SEALs and intelligence agents as lone warriors against deep-state conspiracies – part fiction, part recruitment fantasy. It embodies the fusion of action tropes, paranoia, and nationalist valor, echoing the “comeback” of propaganda-style cinema in a more polished, algorithmically distributed form 34.

Films as soft power in India

Soft power is a vital element of both domestic and foreign policy. The film industry is both one of the biggest exports and sources of soft power for India. 35. In 2008, the then Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, in a press address to Indian Foreign Service officers, emphasized that, “The soft power of India in some ways can be a very important instrument of foreign policy. Cultural relations, India’s film industry, Bollywood… I find wherever I go in the Middle East, in Africa, people talk about Indian films” 36. In the post-streaming era, the impact is magnified in some senses. In 2024, for example, Bollywood’s global revenue grossed $130 million 37, after what could be described as a ‘weak’ year for Indian cinema (with an overall 6% drop in YoY revenue and cinema footfalls).

And while authoritarian regimes have long exploited cinema for political control, India under Modi’s BJP has refined this practice into an unprecedented machinery of nationalist mythmaking, where film has become both weapon and battleground in the struggle over national identity 38.

Under Modi’s right-wing Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), Indian cinema has witnessed a pronounced surge of films explicitly aligned with Hindutva – the belief that India fundamentally belongs to Hindus. This shift, particularly visible since Modi’s ascent to power in 2014, has coincided with a broader societal polarisation driven by aggressive nationalism and Islamophobia 39.

Recent big-budget Hindi films increasingly portray Muslims as villains or historical aggressors, while glorifying Hindu warriors and freedom fighters 40, often presenting hagiographical accounts and urban myths as historical fact. Scholars and critics highlight how such portrayals systematically erase or vilify the substantial contributions Muslims have made to India’s diverse history. Films such as Padmaavat (2018), despite protests from historians, vividly depicted a Muslim ruler as brutal and lustful, and the object of his desire was a fictional Hindu queen called Padmavati. This depiction is from a 16th-century epic poem by Malik Muhammad Jayasi, who himself described it as a work of fiction 41.

Journalists have revealed that many recent high-budget films promoting Hindutva narratives are produced or funded by individuals directly affiliated with the BJP and its ideological parent, the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) 42. Swatantra Veer Savarkar (2024), celebrating Hindu nationalist icon Vinayak Damodar Savarkar (the alleged co-conspirator in Mohandas Karamchand ‘Mahatma’ Gandhi’s assassination), is produced by Sandeep Singh, who was also responsible for producing movies such as PM Narendra Modi, Main Atal Hoon (on Atal Bihari Vajpayee, a former Indian Prime Minister and BJP leader) and the upcoming The Pride of Bharat: Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj (on the Hindu ruler who fought the Mughals). Importantly, these films revolve around Hindutva nationalist leaders or icons appropriated by the Indian ‘far right’ 43.

Such films typically valorise Hindu symbols, military might, and India’s historical grandeur, in turn framing secularists, critics, communists, or Pakistanis as antagonists 44. The film Uri: The Surgical Strike (2019), based on India’s military operations against Pakistan, was emblematic of this trend, glorifying nationalist fervour and military prowess while framing critics of aggressive nationalism as anti-national.

Cultural theorist Sayandeb Chowdhury argues these films are consciously designed to deepen communal divides, depicting Muslims as national threats and progressive intellectuals as traitors to India’s Hindu identity45. BJP politicians frequently integrate these films into election campaigns. Modi often references such films during his political rallies, prominently mentioning Article 370 (2024), which endorsed his controversial policy revoking Kashmir’s autonomy, and The Kerala Story (2023) 46, which was widely criticised as Islamophobic propaganda for suggesting Muslim men systematically recruit Hindu women for ISIS.

Overseas, sections of the Indian diaspora have played an increasingly active role in amplifying Hindutva-aligned narratives through culture, particularly cinema, transforming films into instruments of soft power. Organisations such as the Hindu Swayamsevak Sangh (HSS), Vishwa Hindu Parishad of America (VHPA), Overseas Friends of the BJP, and allied community networks have leveraged their cultural legitimacy within diaspora spaces to promote nationalist films as historical truth rather than political interpretation.

The coordinated US-wide screenings of The Kashmir Files in 2022 — organised by the Global Kashmiri Pandit Diaspora across multiple cities — followed by curated “impact screenings,” panel discussions, and outreach to policymakers and media figures, circulate as emotional narratives of grievance and civilisational threat, reinforcing Hindu victimhood while flattening the complexities of Kashmir and communal violence. In this way, diaspora networks function as transmission belts, extending domestic majoritarian politics into global cultural arenas and recasting popular cinema as a transnational vehicle for right-wing nationalist messaging 46.

Israel’s narrative warfare: IDF-backed films and censorship of Palestinian stories.

For decades, the Israeli state (either via the Israel Defence Forces (IDF) or other government-funded film bodies) has actively shaped cinema to legitimize and sanitize state violence, especially regarding the occupation of Palestinian territories.

In 1960, Otto Preminger’s Hollywood epic Exodus (adapted from Leon Uris’s novel) was made with enthusiastic Israeli government support. Israeli officials launched “Operation Exodus” to assist production, seeing the film as a potent Zionist narrative for Western audiences47. Exodus, starring Paul Newman, framed Israel’s founding in heroic terms while marginalizing Palestinian perspectives and the Nakba (the 1948 Palestinian expulsion). A contemporary critic noted the film was “dishonest” and essentially “propaganda designed to be the best promotion Israel ever had 48.”

Reports have revealed that Zionist film executives have lobbied Washington to support an independent Jewish ethnostate 49. In fact, films such as Sword in the Desert (1949) and The Juggler (1953) retell the story of Israel’s ‘War of Independence’ much before Exodus did the same. They’re deliberately engineered to have similar overarching plots – ensemble dramas grouping European Holocaust survivors with American Zionist volunteers.

Another Hollywood film, Cast a Giant Shadow (1966), about a U.S. volunteer in Israel’s 1948 war, similarly relied on IDF cooperation. The Israeli government demanded script approval as a condition for providing troops and tanks, ensuring the portrayal flattered the IDF. Officials even insisted the film not fall into typical Hollywood distortions (they didn’t want one American hero “winning” Israel’s war)50.

Most Israeli films rely on public funding, and the Ministry of Culture (via bodies like the Israeli Film Council and Israel Film Fund) exerts influence through script review and funding conditions 51. Filmmakers (including Palestinian citizens of Israel) who seek grants must undergo content vetting; projects are often required to register as “Israeli” in international festivals and are expected to offer a “positive portrayal of the Israeli state and society.”

This serves as a “soft censorship” mechanism where films critical of Israel’s founding narratives or the IDF may struggle to get funded 52. Indeed, Israeli culture ministers have openly warned arts institutions against hosting works deemed “against the state” or that “disparage” Israeli soldiers.

In late 2024, after a human-rights film festival screened documentaries about the Nakba, officials threatened to pull subsidies, calling the films “incitement” and accusing them of slandering the IDF. Israeli filmmakers admit that if they broach controversial topics like 1948 or alleged war crimes, they won’t get funding. As one documentarian summed up, “In a fascist regime, culture becomes propaganda… Israeli culture is becoming like that.” 53 The current government has further re-instituted a pre-1948 censorship law to pre-screen and block films about historical expulsions until they can be vetted.

Similar to the US, the IDF’s Spokesperson’s Unit has a Film and Video department producing training and “information” films, documentaries, and even TV commercials to promote the army’s image 54. This unit coordinates closely with civilian media: it not only disseminates footage to news outlets but also loans military equipment and provides location access to filmmakers in exchange for favorable portrayal.

The IDF’s cooperation (much like the Pentagon’s in Hollywood) means films can utilize tanks, bases, or soldiers as extras. But (much like in Hollywood), the content must align with the official narrative. For example, in Cast a Giant Shadow, Israel’s military assistance came with the stipulation that the story emphasize the collective effort of Israeli soldiers rather than glorify a single foreign savior 55.

More recently, the IDF has even produced its own documentaries. A stark example is Bearing Witness to the October 7th Massacre (2023), a 47-minute film produced by the IDF Spokesperson’s Unit that compiles raw footage of Hamas’s purported attack on Israeli civilians 56. Israeli authorities held private screenings of this graphic film for journalists, diplomats, and even Hollywood executives “to garner support…and to deflect criticism of Israel’s actions in Gaza” 57.

Portrayal of Palestinians and the occupation in state-supported Israeli films tends to reinforce the official narrative. Often, these works humanize Israeli soldiers and officials, while Palestinians appear only as background threats or “terrorists.” A critique in The New Arab observed that many popular Israeli dramas and spy thrillers on platforms like Netflix are suffused with “human feelings humanizing the roles of soldiers and spies…while ignoring the real reasons behind the events” 58.

The overarching hasbara (public diplomacy) template is to frame Israel’s use of force as righteous self-defense against irrational “evil”, with Palestinians cast as aggressors or obstacles to peace. By omitting context (such as the occupation’s realities or settler violence) and focusing on Israeli protagonists’ moral dilemmas, such films essentially sanitize state violence. This pattern drew sharp criticism from Palestinian advocates, who argue that streaming platforms have become “a haven…to serve Israeli propaganda, while turning a blind eye” to Palestinian suffering 59.

State partnerships with filmmakers extend beyond borders. Israel has leveraged international co-productions and distribution to push its viewpoint. In the United States, pro-Israel narratives cultivated via movies like Exodus profoundly swayed public opinion. David Ben-Gurion, former Prime Minister of Israel, reportedly said that Uris’s novel (and by extension the film) was “not much as literature, but as propaganda, it’s the greatest thing ever written about Israel. 60”

More recently, Israeli creators (often ex-military personnel) have found success abroad with series that double as slick propaganda for streaming platforms. The TV series Fauda (an Israeli production later streamed globally) was criticized for glorifying undercover IDF units hunting “terrorists” in the West Bank, largely erasing the occupation’s context 61.

Similarly, the Netflix miniseries The Spy (2019) celebrated an Israeli agent in 1960s Syria with no mention of Israel’s regional meddling 62, inaccurately presenting him as a patriot defending his nation. Such entertainment, though not directly state-produced, aligns with official narratives and has even been promoted by Israeli diplomacy. (Israeli embassies often host film festivals or Netflix launch events to showcase these productions as cultural achievements. 63)

Observers note that these platforms help export Israel’s messaging: the world is shown Israel’s feared enemies (whether Hamas, Hezbollah, or generic Arab militants) through a lens that emphasizes Israeli heroism and restraint, implicitly, or explicitly, justifying harsh military measures. Digital content has thus become an adjunct to Israel’s propaganda machine, complementing traditional hasbara efforts 64.

An interesting example from more recent times involves a documentary by a joint Palestinian-Israeli team about nonviolent resistance to West Bank home demolitions, No Other Land (2025). When it won an Oscar, Israel’s culture minister Miki Zohar blasted the filmmakers for “amplifying narratives that distort Israel’s image” and called their Academy Award “a sad moment for the world of cinema. 65” He labeled the film’s global recognition a form of “sabotage” against Israel’s reputation, especially amid the then-ongoing war with Hamas. Zohar also bragged that his ministry had recently changed public film funding to “dry up support” for such documentaries, calling the domestic film industry “an industry that builds its career on slandering Israel on the global stage. 66”

Indeed, new guidelines in 2023-24 now prioritize commercial, apolitical films (judged by box-office potential) over “arthouse” projects that tackle sensitive historical or human-rights issues. At the same time, the government boosted funding for films by settlers in the West Bank, effectively subsidizing content that celebrates the settlement enterprise, which films like No Other Land criticize.

Nonetheless, human rights groups and Palestinian advocates continue to challenge Israeli propaganda in film. They point out that even as Israel’s government invests in polished messaging and military-approved movies, reality finds a way through independent films, often forcing difficult conversations abroad.

Conclusion

Films, especially big, popular films, backed by the biggest studios in the world that carry great financial heft and power, are invariably intertwined with capitalist forces that are not eager to threaten the prevailing order. In the current climate of growing global fascism, they serve as soft power arms of the government, legitimizing and paving the way for state-sponsored brutalities, particularly by the army and the police.

The public image of cinema is glamor and art, but peeling back the curtain reveals “a murkier issue of the close relationship between Hollywood and the US government,” or between Bollywood and Hindu nationalist politicians, or between national film industries and foreign benefactors. At times, as we’ve seen, these relationships produce outright propaganda films. At other times they produce entertainment that just happens to reinforce the status quo. The mechanisms of influence range from overt to subtle.

In an age of streaming and international co-productions, propaganda in film is arguably more dangerous than the blunt force days of old. It can fly under the radar, embedded in what looks like an exciting, slick, thriller or historical drama, reaching far wider audiences than a clunky newsreel ever could. The networks behind it (ideologically driven financiers, overseas influencers, domestic censors) remain mostly invisible to the average viewer. As consumers of media, understanding this landscape is vital.

If there is a silver lining, it’s that awareness of these networks can foster critical viewing. Filmmakers with integrity around the world also continue to resist and expose these machinations, often at great personal risk, by making films that contest dominant narratives such as the Latin American filmmakers who championed the revolutionary third cinema movement.

The story of right-wing and authoritarian influence on film is both a cautionary tale and an affirmation of film’s power. Authoritarians wouldn’t obsess over controlling cinema if it wasn’t so effective at shaping and influencing minds, young and old. By shining light on secret funding deals, cross-border propaganda circuits, and narrative trickery, we can perhaps better understand when a film is enriching our perspective or trying to commandeer it.

This article was produced by the Reactionary International research consortium.

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This article was produced by the Reactionary International research consortium.