In a moment that encapsulated the deepening fissures in global diplomacy, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu stepped up to the podium at the United Nations General Assembly on September 26, 2025, only to address a chamber that had been drastically emptied by protest. As his voice echoed through the hall, what should have been a forum for international discourse transformed into a stark symbol of isolation. Seventy-seven national delegations—spanning continents from Africa to Asia, Latin America to the Middle East—either boycotted the session entirely or staged a dramatic walkout mere moments into his 41-minute speech. This unprecedented act of collective defiance was not born in a vacuum; it was a direct rebuke to Israel's protracted military campaign in Gaza, a conflict that has raged for over two years, claiming more than 65,000 Palestinian lives and leaving the densely populated enclave in ruins. The boycott, meticulously cataloged by Israeli officials, underscored a pivotal shift: the once-unwavering support for Israel in certain international circles is eroding under the weight of humanitarian outrage and calls for accountability.
To fully grasp the significance of this event, one must delve into the intricate web of historical grievances, geopolitical maneuvers, and human suffering that precipitated it. The Gaza Strip, a narrow sliver of land along the Mediterranean coast, has long been a tinderbox of tension. Home to over two million Palestinians, it has endured cycles of blockade, uprisings, and warfare since Israel's withdrawal in 2005. The current war, ignited in October 2023 by a devastating Hamas-led assault that killed around 1,200 Israelis and took over 250 hostages, has escalated into what many observers describe as one of the most devastating conflicts in modern history. Israel's response—a relentless aerial bombardment, ground incursions, and a near-total siege—has reduced vast swaths of Gaza to rubble, displaced nearly the entire population, and triggered a famine-like crisis. According to United Nations reports, by mid-2025, the death toll had surpassed 65,000, with tens of thousands more wounded or missing under collapsed buildings. Children, who make up nearly half of Gaza's population, have borne a disproportionate brunt, with pediatricians warning of a "lost generation" amid destroyed schools and hospitals.
This backdrop of devastation has not gone unnoticed on the world stage. The UN General Assembly, convened annually in New York, has repeatedly become a battleground for rhetoric over the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Past sessions saw fiery speeches from Palestinian leaders decrying occupation and from Israeli officials defending self-defense. But the 2025 gathering marked a turning point: the boycott was coordinated, symbolic, and resolute. Israeli diplomats, in a rare public disclosure, named the 77 offending nations, framing the action as a "diplomatic earthquake" that highlighted Israel's "growing isolation." The list, drawn from official attendance records and corroborated by eyewitness accounts, reads like a roll call of the Global South and Arab world, with a smattering of European and Latin American voices joining the chorus.
Let us enumerate these nations, as they represent not just abstentions but a collective moral stand. The roster begins with African powerhouses and extends to island nations and oil-rich Gulf states: Egypt, Suriname, Tuvalu, Turkmenistan, Yemen, Panama, Senegal, Palestine (as an observer state), Sudan, Tunisia, Turkey, Venezuela, Antigua and Barbuda, Belize, Congo, Oman, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Tonga, Uzbekistan, Angola, Barbados, Colombia, Comoros, Dominica, Djibouti, North Macedonia, San Marino, South Africa, Somalia, Algeria, Bangladesh, Brunei Darussalam, Brazil, Chile, Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), Lebanon, Liberia, Eritrea, Chad, Central African Republic, Libya, Mauritania, Jordan, Nicaragua, Madagascar, Niger, Peru, Saint Lucia, Slovenia, Afghanistan, Bahamas, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Botswana, North Korea, Eswatini, Syria, Uganda, Pakistan, Lesotho, Bolivia, Spain, Cuba, Equatorial Guinea, Iran, Kyrgyzstan, Iraq, Mozambique, Myanmar, Ireland, Maldives, Indonesia, Kuwait, Namibia, Malaysia, Guyana, and Kenya. Notably, Egypt appears twice in preliminary tallies, perhaps a clerical echo of its pivotal role as a border neighbor and peace treaty signatory. This compendium, while exhaustive, reveals patterns: a heavy concentration of Muslim-majority countries (over 40 on the list), alongside progressive Latin American republics like Brazil and Colombia, and even unexpected European outliers such as Ireland and Slovenia.
Why did these 77 nations choose such a visible form of protest? At its core, the boycott was a visceral response to the Gaza war's toll. For many, Netanyahu's government embodies an unyielding stance—refusing ceasefires, expanding West Bank settlements, and dismissing international calls for restraint. The speech itself, delivered amid whispers of empty seats, focused on Israel's right to self-defense and vows to "finish the job" against Hamas, the militant group governing Gaza. Netanyahu lambasted the UN as a "house of lies," accusing it of bias against Israel and praising the Abraham Accords as a bulwark against Iranian aggression. Yet, these words fell on a sparse audience, with media coverage fixating not on his defiant tone but on the optics of abandonment. Arab networks like Al Jazeera replayed footage of delegations rising en masse, chairs scraping against the polished floor, as a metaphor for the world's recoiling from Israel's actions.
Consider the perspectives of key boycotters. South Africa, leading the list in alphabetical order but first in moral fervor, has been a vocal champion of Palestinian rights, drawing parallels to its own apartheid struggle. In July 2024, Pretoria hauled Israel before the International Court of Justice (ICJ), alleging genocide in Gaza—a case that by 2025 had amassed damning evidence of systematic destruction. South Africa's UN envoy, speaking post-walkout, declared, "We cannot lend legitimacy to a regime that starves children and bombs hospitals. Our absence is our loudest statement." Similarly, Brazil under President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, a longtime critic of Israeli policies, framed the boycott as an extension of its vote for a UN resolution demanding an immediate ceasefire. Lula, who compared Netanyahu's tactics to the Holocaust in a 2024 interview, mobilized Latin American solidarity, pulling in neighbors like Colombia, Chile, and Bolivia.
In the Arab world, the snub carried existential weight. Saudi Arabia and Qatar, despite their economic ties to the West, boycotted to appease domestic outrage over Gaza's plight. Riyadh, which had flirted with normalization via the Abraham Accords, halted talks in late 2023 amid the war's escalation. Qatar, mediator in hostage negotiations, walked out while hosting Hamas leaders in Doha—a delicate balancing act. Turkey's President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, a firebrand on Palestine, had already severed trade ties with Israel in May 2024; his delegation's exit was preordained. Iran, perennially at odds with Israel, amplified the moment through Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei's social media missive: "The Zionist regime is now the most despised and isolated entity on earth. Even the halls of the UN reject its presence." Khamenei's words, tweeted to millions, resonated across the boycotting bloc, framing the walkout as divine justice.
Not all absences were uniform. Jordan and Egypt, bound by 1979 and 1994 peace treaties respectively, opted for subtlety: their envoys simply did not take seats, avoiding the spectacle of a walkout that might inflame their streets. Pakistan's delegation added a twist—departing the hall but lingering on the sidelines to monitor, a nod to its strategic interest in countering Indian alliances with Israel. Conversely, holdouts like Bahrain and the United Arab Emirates, Abraham Accords signatories, remained seated. Their envoys endured Netanyahu's praise for the pacts, even as coalition hardliners in Jerusalem pushed for West Bank annexation, straining these fragile ties.
Israel's reaction was a blend of defiance and dismay. Foreign Ministry officials, leaking the list to Haaretz and other outlets, portrayed the boycott as a "victory for Hamas propaganda." Netanyahu, undeterred, concluded his address by invoking the biblical prophet Isaiah: "They shall beat their swords into plowshares," a plea for peace laced with irony given the war's ferocity. Behind closed doors, however, the snub stung. Analysts in Tel Aviv noted the absence of all immediate neighbors—Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, Syria—plus heavyweights like Turkey and Saudi Arabia, signaling a collapse in regional diplomacy. One unnamed official lamented to Ynet News, "This isn't just a walkout; it's a funeral procession for Israel's global standing."
To write this episode without losing its gravity, one must expand on the Gaza war's anatomy—a conflict layered with asymmetry, ideology, and tragedy. The October 7, 2023, Hamas attack was a cataclysm: militants breached the Gaza-Israel barrier, rampaging through kibbutzim and a music festival, slaughtering civilians in their homes. Videos of the horrors—beheaded babies, burned families—seared into Israeli consciousness, fueling a national trauma that Netanyahu weaponized for political survival. His government, a coalition of ultranationalists, declared war not just on Hamas but on its ideology, vowing to eradicate the group from Gaza.
What followed was an operation of staggering scale. Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) unleashed over 70,000 tons of bombs in the first month alone, surpassing the tonnage dropped on Dresden in World War II. Gaza's 360 square kilometers—smaller than Detroit—became a kill zone. Neighborhoods like Jabalia and Khan Younis were flattened; hospitals, including Al-Shifa, were raided amid claims of Hamas tunnels beneath. The UN's Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA) documented over 1.9 million displaced by early 2025, crammed into shrinking "safe zones" that proved illusory. Aid convoys were blocked or fired upon, leading to accusations of using starvation as a weapon—a charge Israel rebuts as necessary to prevent Hamas resupply.
Human stories pierce the statistics. Take the case of the Abu al-Qumsan family from Beit Lahia: in November 2023, an airstrike killed 21 members gathered for a meal, including nine children. Or Dr. Ghassan Abu Sitta, a Palestinian surgeon who operated in Gaza's ruins, later testifying at The Hague about amputations without anesthesia. On the Israeli side, the trauma lingers: families of hostages, some still held in 2025, protest weekly in Tel Aviv, demanding deals over military victories. Netanyahu's approval ratings, hovering below 30%, reflect domestic fractures, with reservists refusing service and judicial reform protests morphing into anti-war rallies.
Internationally, the boycott mirrors broader trends. The ICJ's January 2024 provisional ruling ordered Israel to prevent genocidal acts, a directive largely ignored. The International Criminal Court (ICC) issued arrest warrants in May 2024 for Netanyahu and Hamas leader Yahya Sinwar on war crimes—warrants Israel decries as antisemitic. Public opinion has swung: a 2025 Gallup poll showed U.S. support for Israel at 49%, down from 68% in 2023, with young Democrats leading the boycott calls. Pro-Palestine encampments swept U.S. campuses in 2024, echoing the UN walkout's grassroots energy.
Zooming out, the 77-country list illuminates global realignments. Africa's representation—over 30 nations, including Algeria, South Africa, and Nigeria (wait, Kenya is listed, but Nigeria isn't; still, the continent dominates)—stems from post-colonial solidarity with Palestine. The Non-Aligned Movement, revived in spirit, sees this as resisting Western hegemony. Asia's contingents, from Indonesia's 270 million Muslims to North Korea's ideological barbs, blend anti-imperialism with opportunism. Europe's inclusions—Ireland, Spain, Slovenia—signal a post-Brexit assertiveness, with Dublin recognizing Palestine in 2024.
Spain's boycott merits elaboration: Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez, a socialist, has pivoted from Franco-era philo-Semitism to vocal criticism, joining South Africa in the ICJ case. His foreign minister quipped post-walkout, "The empty seats spoke louder than words." Ireland, scarred by partition, views Gaza through The Troubles' lens; Taoiseach Leo Varadkar called the war "ethnic cleansing" in 2024. Slovenia, a Balkan newcomer to the fray, aligns with its EU peers in pushing for a two-state solution.
Latin America's bloc—Brazil, Colombia, Chile, Bolivia, Nicaragua, Venezuela, Peru, Guyana—draws from indigenous rights struggles. Colombia's President Gustavo Petro, a former guerrilla, severed ties with Israel in 2024 over arms sales used in Gaza. Venezuela's Nicolás Maduro, ever the provocateur, labeled Netanyahu a "genocidal maniac." Even smaller states like Antigua and Barbuda and Saint Lucia, vulnerable to climate change, joined to amplify small voices.
The Pacific and Central Asia add exotic flavors: Tuvalu and Tonga, rising-sea atolls, protest Israel's environmental hypocrisy amid Gaza's polluted ruins. Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan, Central Asian hermit kingdoms, rarely engage globally but did so here, perhaps eyeing UN favor. North Korea's inclusion is par for the course—Pyongyang's anti-Zionism dates to the Korean War.
Reactions beyond the hall rippled worldwide. In Tehran, Khamenei's tweet garnered 5 million likes, boosting Iran's soft power. In Ramallah, Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas hailed the boycott as "history's verdict." Hamas, from its Qatari exile, claimed credit, tweeting, "The world sees the truth." U.S. President Kamala Harris, addressing the assembly later, urged restraint but vetoed a Security Council ceasefire resolution— a move that irked even allies.
Israel's countermeasures were swift: Ambassador Danny Danon vowed to "expose the boycotters' hypocrisy," citing their own human rights lapses. Yet, the damage was done. Stockpiles of international aid to Gaza, already meager, faced new hurdles as boycotting nations withheld UN contributions tied to Israeli compliance.
As the 80th UN General Assembly adjourns, the walkout lingers as a harbinger. Will it hasten a ceasefire? Force Netanyahu's coalition to budge? Or entrench positions, prolonging Gaza's agony? The 77 empty chairs suggest the latter, but history's arc, as Netanyahu might quote, bends toward justice—slowly, perhaps, but inexorably.
This event demands deeper contextualization within the Israeli-Palestinian saga, a narrative spanning over a century. The 1948 Nakba, displacing 750,000 Palestinians, set the stage for Gaza's refugee camps. The 1967 Six-Day War occupied the Strip, leading to settlements and the 2005 disengagement that birthed Hamas's electoral win. Blockades since 2007 choked Gaza's economy, fostering militancy. The 2014 Protective Edge war killed 2,200; 2021's Guardian of the Walls, 260. Each cycle radicalized, culminating in 2023's inferno.
Netanyahu's role is pivotal: longest-serving PM, he mastered divide-and-rule, allying with evangelicals while sidelining peace. Corruption trials hang over him, making war a shield. Critics like Benny Gantz, his war-cabinet rival, decry the Gaza quagmire as electoral theater.
Palestinian fractures compound the tragedy: Hamas's theocracy versus Fatah's senescence. Abbas, 89, clings to power; Sinwar, the architect of October 7, embodies resistance's dark turn.
Humanitarian mechanics reveal the war's cruelty. The UN's $2.8 billion 2025 flash appeal for Gaza is 20% funded, hamstrung by Israeli inspections delaying aid. Polio reemerged in 2024; cancer treatments halted. Journalists, with 120 killed, dub Gaza a "graveyard for media."
Economically, Israel's vaunted tech sector wobbles: BDS campaigns, amplified by the boycott, cost billions. Tourism plummets; reservist call-ups gut startups.
Yet, glimmers persist. Grassroots dialogues, like Combatants for Peace, bridge divides. Interfaith initiatives in the U.S. foster empathy. The UN's September 2025 resolution, passing 153-7, demands withdrawal—symbolic, but seismic.
The 77-country boycott, then, is no mere footnote. It's a clarion call, rewriting diplomacy's script. In echoing Isaiah's vision, Netanyahu invoked plowshares; the world, staring at Gaza's craters, demands swords sheathed first. As delegates dispersed into New York's autumn chill, the question hung: Can isolation forge peace, or merely deepen the divide?