A United Nations expert has issued a compelling directive to various multinational companies, demanding they cease doing business with Israel. Francesca Albanese presented her findings to the UN Human Rights Council, highlighting concerns that failure to act could implicate them in war crimes committed in Gaza and the occupied West Bank. She characterized the current situation as an "economy of genocide," where conflicts serve as unregulated testing grounds for advanced weaponry and technology.
Israel has dismissed her claims as "groundless," asserting these allegations will soon be forgotten. While UN experts operate independently, they are appointed by the organization to offer insights on human rights issues. Albanese, an outspoken international lawyer from Italy, reiterated her assertion that Israel is perpetrating one of the "cruellest genocides in modern history."
In her report, Albanese identified several corporations she believes are profiting from, and thereby complicit in, war crimes in Gaza. This list notably includes arms manufacturers like Lockheed Martin for their weapon sales, and technology giants like Alphabet, IBM, Microsoft, and Amazon, which provide technology facilitating the tracking of Palestinians. Further, companies such as Caterpillar, Hyundai, and Volvo are mentioned for supplying machinery used in demolishing homes and communities affected by bombings.
Financial institutions are not exempt either - Albanese charges banks like BNP Paribas and Barclays with aiding Israel by underwriting its treasury bonds during the ongoing conflict. The BBC reached out to the named corporations for their responses. Lockheed Martin emphasized that foreign military sales are government-led transactions, while Volvo disputed Albanese's views, citing a commitment to human rights and limitations in controlling product usage post-sale.
Albanese is advocating for an immediate cessation of business ties with Israel, stressing that corporations are benefiting financially and inadvertently enabling ongoing conflict. UN reports hold no binding legal authority, but they do draw notable attention. Albanese's focus on economic relations aims to echo the past global rejection of apartheid South Africa, which faced widespread condemnation that ultimately led to disinvestment and an end to its regime.
The hope is to raise public awareness among consumers who can potentially adjust their purchasing decisions based on the findings. The enterprises identified face the grave concern of being labeled as complicit in genocide, a severe legal claim contingent upon judicial determination. The International Court of Justice is currently deliberating a case against Israel on this charge, presented by South Africa.
While Israel has voiced resistance to Albanese’s assertions, claiming self-defense against Hamas rather than genocide, her report received endorsement from several African, Asian, and Arab nations. These countries expressed their agreement with the disinvestment plea and acknowledged ongoing genocide. Conversely, European nations have also condemned Israel for withholding aid to Gaza, reiterating its obligation as an occupying force.
The United States, a key ally of Israel, had distanced itself from the UN Human Rights Council under President Trump's administration. The U.S. response to Albanese's report has been to denounce her actions as an unjust campaign against the global economy, leaving doubts about further U.S. engagement with her findings. Nonetheless, as major American corporations named in the report observe international sentiments, they may reconsider their business relations with Israel moving forward.
![Caterers, Countless Lives: Detroit Chef's Food Feeds Lebanon's War‑Torn Families","description":"In the suburbs of Dearborn Heights, a 47‑year‑old Lebanese chef turns her catering profits into lifelines for over a million displaced from Lebanon, illustrating how U.S. diaspora communities bridge crises from afar.","summary":"When war in southern Lebanon breaks out, hundreds of thousands flee to neighboring Israel and the United States. Amid rising costs, Mirvet Makki—Detroit‑based caterer—sets aside a portion of her earnings each week to sponsor families back home. Her culinary endeavor, which serves soured couscous stews and savory kibbeh, becomes a quiet lifeline for a nation in economic crisis. The problem mirrors a larger diaspora trend: U.S. Lebanese communities fund relief, rally politically, and keep cultural bonds alive, even as they watch conflict unfold from afar.","image":"https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1588097834006-0edc6c69d944?auto=format&fit=crop&w=640&q=80","text":"<p>In the Detroit suburb of Dearborn Heights, 47‑year‑old Mirvet Makki punches kitchen knives and pushes trays of fragrant Lebanese dishes, the same dishes that stir memories of her childhood village in Bint Jbeil. When the devastating war between Israel and Hezbollah dragged thousands of civilians into tent cities, a wave of refugees hit Lebanon’s southern coast—and the Lebanese diaspora in America felt a pull they could not ignore.</p><p>Every week, Makki allocates a slice of her catering profits to families in Lebanon devastated by aerial bombardments and land mines. She says the money is not a charitable donation in the truest sense. Rather, it is a trans‑national family budget trickle that keeps aunts and cousins fed while they await a return that may never happen. The funds travel across borders to a people whose homes have been reduced to rubble.</p><p>Lebanon’s displacement crisis has reached a scale previously thought unlikely: more than one million of the 6‑million‑strong population—roughly one in six—have fled their homes. The economic damage is brutal and the currency has weakened to the point that the U.S. dollar circulates in many rural markets. Food cost, fuel availability, and basic utilities have all collapsed, leaving communities hungry and desperate.</p><p>“I was thinking, ‘What can I do for other people?’” Makki says. “So I used my business.” She maintains a strict budget, limiting personal overhead to spare enough money for her sisters, nephews, and a small handful of friends who live in the most affected regions.</p><p>Many Lebanese Americans—some of them in the U.S. since the late 1800s—have become the de facto financial lifeline for Lebanon. According to the last census, roughly 625,000 Lebanese‑American residents live in the United States now, though many estimates claim the number could be as high as 1.4 million. Secretary‑General António Guterres shook hands with families in South Lebanon while speaking in Nairobi, underscoring how diaspora remittances are crucial to the country's survival.</p><p>Christians, Sunni and Shiite Muslims, and smaller Druze communities in Lebanon face distinct hardships, but their U.S. cousins unite over common concerns. When the U.S. voted to provide war aid to Israel, a wave of Lebanese Americans gathered around the “uncommitted movement” to protest, and the community also rallied to condemn a Michigan synagogue shooting. These political coalitions share a single aim: to be the voice and the hand for those who cannot lift themselves.</p><p>“When they see suffering in Lebanon, people’s immediate reaction … is for the community to come together, raise funds, raise money, and try to help everybody as much as they can,” says Akram Khater, director of Lebanese Diaspora Studies at North Carolina State University. “Most rely on one another – they are not looking to Washington for the furniture to rebuild.”</p><p>In February, Makki visited her homeland. She saw how the price of living had skyrocketed: a car rental that once cost $200 would now be a luxury. She felt the loss firsthand in a small roadside food stall that had dwindled to a single dish. That trip cemented her determination to channel her income back to Lebanon.</p><p>Some Americans are moving beyond bank transfers; they meet with families on video calls and, when possible, travel to Lebanon themselves to deliver goods or give a hands‑on hand. Nadia Bryant, a 37‑year‑old mother of Troy, Michigan, sends money to her sisters in temporary housing after their village of Ayta ash‑Shab was invaded. “They donated in direct form to orphans,” she says. “They do not even ask to put the money toward their own betterment.”</p><p>While the U.S. still cannot process immigrant visas for Lebanese nationals due to congressional stand‑by, many families despair. Attoui, a Detroit‑based fundraiser, has urged her relatives to immigrate. They are unwilling. “I have all my aunts and my cousins over there,” Attoui says. “So if you could bring [people] here, that would be a relief.”</p><p>Despite the personal losses and cultural distance, the Lebanese diaspora in the U.S. remains fiercely alive. They keep the poise of their homeland, raise money, and stand together in protest. As the war stretches on, the warmth of a pot of stew and the generosity of a family’s earnings become a quiet, daily rebellion against impossible hunger.</p>](/m/d1/2a/d12a9a3593712ff0281d85ddca1a552c8f027c57cb44d7ac67e0241a3bd37d9d/o.webp)
