The battle after Entebbe

I was born on July 4. For most people, the date evokes American independence. For me, it has come to carry another meaning. On July 4, 1976, while the United States celebrated its bicentennial, the rescued hostages of Operation Entebbe landed safely back in Israel. Two nations marked freedom on the same day, each in its own way. Fifty years later, that coincidence still has something to teach us.

The 50th anniversary of Operation Entebbe invites us to look beyond one of the most daring hostage rescue missions in modern history and to reflect on the enduring questions it raised: the responsibility of a state toward its citizens, the limits of action against terrorism, and the challenge of defending not only military decisions but also their legitimacy before the world.

After terrorists from the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP), together with members of the German far-left group Revolutionäre Zellen, hijacked Air France Flight 139 and diverted it to Uganda, where dictator Idi Amin welcomed and supported them, Israel made a decision that would reshape the history of counterterrorism. An elite force flew more than 4,000 kilometers (some 2,485 miles) to Entebbe, rescued 102 hostages, and eliminated the hijackers. The operation came at a cost: three hostages were killed during the rescue, and Dora Bloch, who was hospitalized in Kampala, was later murdered by agents of Idi Amin’s regime. The only Israeli soldier killed was Lt.-Col. Yonatan Netanyahu, commander of the assault force, whose leadership became a lasting symbol of courage and commitment under extreme risk.

Entebbe was more than an extraordinary military success. It was a political and moral declaration that the lives of citizens cannot be diminished by distance, diplomatic complexity, or operational difficulty. In moments of crisis, a state is defined by how it acts — and by what it is willing to risk rather than stand aside.

Yet there is one part of Entebbe that history tends to overlook. The operation did not end at the airport.

Five days later, it resumed at the United Nations.

Uganda, backed by African states and the Non-Aligned Movement, accused Israel of aggression before the UN Security Council. Secretary-General Kurt Waldheim described the operation as a serious violation of the sovereignty of a UN member state. The Soviet Union and China condemned what they called “Zionist aggression.” For four days, the battlefield shifted from the runway to the diplomatic chamber. Military success was followed immediately by a struggle over legitimacy, interpretation, and public opinion.

Israel prevailed there as well. The proposed resolution condemning the operation was withdrawn. As Israel’s ambassador at the time, Chaim Herzog, later observed, “The Security Council was convened to condemn Israel. Israel was not condemned and, for that reason, was vindicated.”

Entebbe’s legacy did not end with the operation itself. It demonstrated that military success does not necessarily end a conflict. More often, it marks the beginning of another battle—for legitimacy, public opinion, and historical memory.

That lesson became even more relevant after Hamas’s terrorist attack on October 7, 2023. Israel’s military response — including hostage rescue operations in Gaza — has unfolded under relentless international scrutiny.

At that time, Brazil held the rotating presidency of the UN Security Council and introduced a draft resolution condemning Hamas’s terrorist attacks, calling for the immediate release of the hostages, and urging humanitarian pauses in Gaza. Although the resolution received the support of 12 council members, it was vetoed by the United States, which argued that the text failed to affirm Israel’s right to self-defense. Yet, even as Israel’s military campaign was still in its early stages, the Security Council again became the arena where the legitimacy and limits of Israel’s response were being debated. The actors were different. The pattern was strikingly familiar.

The battle for legitimacy that followed Entebbe never ended. Since October 7, it has become faster, broader, and more influential than ever before. It now unfolds across television studios, newsrooms, international institutions, university campuses, and social media platforms, where perceptions are often formed long before facts are fully established.

Having followed and analyzed the international coverage of Israel and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict for years, I have watched this transformation unfold in real time. Inaccurate information, selective framing, and editorial omissions are no longer merely collateral effects of war. They have become instruments of it.

Their consequences extend far beyond public debate. The aftermath of Hamas’s October 7 attack brought a dramatic surge in antisemitic incidents across Europe, North America, and Latin America. Synagogues have been vandalized. Jewish students have faced intimidation on university campuses. Jews have been assaulted — and, in some cases, murdered — simply because they were Jewish. Narrative distortion does not remain confined to the screen. It shapes attitudes, legitimizes hatred, and can ultimately cost lives.

Confronting that distortion requires a different kind of courage than the one displayed at Entebbe, but it demands the same refusal to accept inaction when the consequences of silence are already evident.

This July 4, I celebrate another birthday. The coincidence of dates still reminds me that every generation is called to defend freedom in different ways. One generation was called to fly to Entebbe. Ours has been called to confront Hamas, Iran, and the network of proxies that continue to threaten Israel’s existence. And for those of us who work in journalism, research, and public discourse, it also means defending historical truth against distortion. The arenas are different. The responsibility is the same.

Fifty years after Entebbe, its greatest legacy is not only the courage to rescue lives, but the resolve to defend the truth and legitimacy of those actions long after the operation ends.