UNESCO has just handed the Levant a cultural Molotov cocktail. By placing Sebastia in the occupied West Bank and five Lebanese castles on its endangered heritage list, the UN's cultural agency has not merely catalogued at-risk ruins, it has weaponized them. The emergency listings, approved Friday in Busan despite Israeli objections, do more than flag destruction; they elevate these sites into diplomatic flashpoints where history itself is now a battleground. For a region where land, memory, and sovereignty have long been contested, this move risks turning ancient stones into leverage in a war that has already erased entire cities. And for South Asia, watching from the edges of the Muslim world, the question is unavoidable: when cultural heritage becomes a proxy in a shooting war, who decides what survives, and who gets to mourn the losses?
Why the world should care about stones that bleed history
This isn't just about archaeology. The six sites, one in the West Bank, five in Lebanon, are not relics; they are active fault lines in a conflict that has already redefined regional power. Sebastia, a hilltop layered with 3,000 years of rule from the Iron Age to Ottoman times, sits on land Israel plans to expropriate for a national park that would exclude Palestinians. The five Lebanese castles, including Beaufort, seized by Israel in May during its war with Hezbollah, are not just medieval ruins; they are strategic vantage points that have changed hands in every regional war since 1978. By listing them as endangered, UNESCO has given the international community a new vocabulary to describe what's happening: not collateral damage, but deliberate erasure. The agency's emergency procedure, usually reserved for sites facing imminent collapse, has been repurposed to name a cultural war. And that war is being fought with bulldozers, shells, and now, UNESCO resolutions. The stakes are higher than preservation. They are about who controls the narrative of the past, and who gets to decide which past survives into the future.
For global powers, this is a test of whether culture can still act as a neutral ground in a region where neutrality is a luxury. The United States, Israel's closest ally, has long accused UNESCO of bias, Israel left the agency in 2019 over similar listings. But this time, the listings were approved by a committee vote in Busan, with no veto power in sight. The message is clear: even in a polarized world, the international community will use cultural heritage as a tool to challenge unilateral actions. For Europe, already grappling with how to balance support for Israel with condemnation of its occupation policies, these listings offer a way to signal disapproval without breaking ranks. For China, which has invested heavily in cultural diplomacy across the Middle East, the move presents an opportunity to position itself as a defender of heritage, even if its own record on Uyghur sites tells a different story. And for South Asia, still recovering from the scars of Partition and the 2002 Gujarat riots, the question is not just academic. When history becomes a weapon, who protects the storytellers?
The fault lines beneath the ruins: a timeline of who fought over what, and when
The story of these six sites is a story of layered conflicts, each building on the last. Sebastia, known in ancient texts as Samaria, was the capital of the biblical Kingdom of Israel in the 9th century BCE. It was destroyed by the Assyrians, rebuilt under Herod the Great, and later became a Christian pilgrimage site after tradition held that John the Baptist's head was buried there. But its modern history is not one of piety, it's one of land grabs. In 2012, Palestinian officials first petitioned UNESCO to list Sebastia as a World Heritage Site, arguing that Israel's plan to expropriate 200 hectares for a national park would sever the site from its Palestinian context. That plan included a fence, entry fees, and a road restricted to Israelis, effectively bypassing the Palestinian-run tourism economy that had grown around the ruins. By 2026, with the emergency listing finally secured, the site is no longer just a ruin under threat, it is a symbol of a decades-long struggle over who owns the past.
In Lebanon, the five castles tell a similar story. Beaufort Castle, a Crusader fortress perched above the Litani River, has been contested since the 12th century. It fell to Mamluks, Ottomans, and French, and was seized by Israel in 1982 during its invasion of Lebanon. After Israel withdrew in 2000, the Lebanese government restored the castle and opened it to tourists. But in May 2026, during the latest round of fighting with Hezbollah, Israeli forces retook Beaufort, claiming Hezbollah had turned it into a military post with tunnels beneath. Lebanon denies this, insisting the castles have served only tourism since 2000. Yet Shamaa Castle, one of the five listed, was destroyed by Israeli bombardment, according to Lebanon's culture ministry. The dispute over the castles is not just about ruins, it's about the right to narrate history. Israel argues that the listings erase Jewish connections to the land; Lebanon and Palestine say the listings are an attempt to protect what remains before it's too late. The irony is that both sides are using the same tool, the weaponization of heritage, to justify their claims. The last time a similar dynamic played out in the region was during the 2001 destruction of the Bamiyan Buddhas by the Taliban, which was framed as an attack on idolatry but was also a deliberate erasure of a shared past. The difference now is that UNESCO, not a militant group, is holding the match.
What UNESCO did, and why Israel fought back
On Friday, at a UNESCO committee meeting in Busan, South Korea, member states voted to place Sebastia and the five Lebanese castles on both the World Heritage List and the List of World Heritage in Danger simultaneously. The emergency procedure, usually reserved for sites facing imminent physical collapse, was invoked to protect them from what UNESCO described as the "toll of ongoing conflicts in the region." The listings were approved despite a campaign by Israel's foreign ministry to have them rejected. Israel's foreign minister argued that the West Bank listing sought to erase "the Jewish connection to this land," framing the move as an attempt to delegitimize Israel's historical claims. But the Palestinian delegate countered that the residents of Sebastia have protected the site "despite occupation, restrictions" and repeated attempts to sever their ties to it. The Lebanese delegate, meanwhile, insisted that the castles had served only tourism since Israeli troops withdrew in 2000, and that Israeli bombardment had already destroyed Shamaa Castle. Israel disputes this, alleging Hezbollah had militarized the sites. The dispute reflects a deeper rift between Israel and UNESCO, which Israel left in 2019, accusing the agency of bias and now attending meetings only as an observer. The listings, then, are not just about preservation, they are a rejection of Israel's narrative of exclusivity over the past, and a reassertion of the idea that heritage belongs to all who claim it.
The emergency procedure itself is a statement. UNESCO's rules allow for simultaneous listing and danger classification when a site is under "serious and specific danger," including armed conflict. But the agency has never before used this mechanism for six sites at once, nor for locations that are not physically collapsing but are under existential threat from political decisions. The move signals that UNESCO is no longer willing to wait for ruins to crumble before acting. It is also a challenge to Israel's claim that it is the sole guardian of Jewish heritage in the region. Sebastia, after all, is not just a Palestinian site, it is a site with layers of Jewish, Christian, and Islamic history. By listing it, UNESCO is asserting that heritage is not a zero-sum game. But Israel's objection reveals the stakes: if heritage is shared, then sovereignty over land cannot be absolute. And that is a threat to a state that has long framed its historical claims as non-negotiable.
Global and regional reactions: from Washington to Tehran, who stood where
The fallout from the UNESCO listings has already begun. The United States, Israel's closest ally, has not yet issued a formal response, but its absence from the Busan meeting speaks volumes. Washington has long accused UNESCO of anti-Israel bias, and the Biden administration has not reversed its predecessor's decision to withdraw funding from the agency in 2018 over similar listings. But this time, the listings were approved by a committee that includes European, African, and Asian states, none of which are likely to side with Israel on this issue. The European Union, for instance, has been vocal about the need to protect cultural heritage in conflict zones, from Palmyra in Syria to the Old City of Jerusalem. France, a former colonial power in Lebanon, has a particular interest in the Lebanese castles, having restored several of them in the 1970s. Meanwhile, Russia, which has its own fraught relationship with UNESCO over the annexation of Crimea, may see this as an opportunity to position itself as a defender of cultural sovereignty, even if its own actions in Ukraine tell a different story.
In the Middle East, reactions have been predictable but revealing. Lebanon's government welcomed the listings, calling them a "victory for Lebanese sovereignty and cultural resistance." Hezbollah, which has long framed its fight with Israel as a defense of Lebanese soil, has used the castles' seizure to rally support, framing it as an attack on national heritage. In Palestine, the Palestinian Authority hailed the Sebastia listing as a "diplomatic breakthrough," though it remains unclear how this will translate into tangible protection on the ground. Jordan, which shares historical ties to Sebastia through its role as custodian of Islamic and Christian holy sites in Jerusalem, has not yet commented publicly, but its silence may speak to the delicate balance it must maintain between solidarity with Palestine and its own interests in preserving regional stability. Iran, meanwhile, has framed the listings as evidence of Israel's "cultural vandalism," a narrative that aligns with its broader strategy of positioning itself as the defender of Islamic heritage against Western and Israeli aggression. The irony, of course, is that Iran's own actions in Syria and Iraq, where it has funded the restoration of Shia shrines while ignoring Sunni sites, suggest a selective approach to cultural preservation. But in the court of public opinion, the UNESCO listings give Tehran a new talking point: if Israel is erasing the past, Iran is preserving it.
The most notable absence from the global reaction has been China. Beijing has invested heavily in cultural diplomacy across the Middle East, from restoring mosques in Iraq to funding archaeological projects in Egypt. But on this issue, China has stayed quiet. Its silence may reflect a desire to avoid alienating either Israel or the Arab world, both of which are key to its Belt and Road Initiative. Alternatively, it may be a recognition that cultural heritage is a double-edged sword in a region where history is already a battleground. Either way, the lack of a Chinese response underscores the complexity of the issue: in a world where soft power is increasingly measured in ancient stones, no one wants to pick a side.
GFN Editorial: For South Asian readers, the UNESCO listings are a reminder that cultural heritage is not just a relic of the past, it is a living battleground in the present. The decision to list Sebastia and the Lebanese castles as endangered sites forces Islamabad to confront a uncomfortable truth: when history becomes a weapon, neutrality is not an option. Pakistan, which has long positioned itself as a defender of Palestinian rights and a critic of Israeli occupation, now faces a dilemma. Will it use its voice in international forums to amplify these listings, or will it tread carefully to avoid alienating its own allies in the Muslim world who may see this as a distraction from more pressing geopolitical battles? The listings also raise a question for India, which has its own fraught relationship with heritage in contested regions, from Kashmir to the Babri Masjid dispute. If UNESCO is willing to weaponize culture in the Levant, could it do the same in South Asia? The answer may lie not in the ruins themselves, but in who controls the narrative of their survival.
South Asia's stake: from Lahore to Dhaka, the question of who owns the past
The UNESCO emergency listings are not just a Middle Eastern drama, they are a South Asian one, too. For Pakistan, the Sebastia listing is a mirror held up to its own struggles with heritage in a contested land. The country has long framed its support for Palestine as a moral duty, but the UNESCO move forces Islamabad to ask: what does it mean to defend Palestinian heritage when your own historical sites are under threat? The 2015 destruction of theBuddhas of Swat by Taliban-linked militants, and the 2022 fire at the historic Wazir Khan Mosque in Lahore, are reminders that Pakistan's heritage is not immune to erasure. The Sebastia listing, then, is not just about Palestine, it is about the fragility of history in a region where land, memory, and identity are constantly renegotiated. For India, the listings are a reminder of its own battles over heritage, from the 2019 revocation of Article 370 in Kashmir to the 2010 demolition of the Babri Masque. New Delhi has long argued that its actions in Kashmir are about national sovereignty, not cultural erasure. But the UNESCO listings challenge that narrative, forcing India to confront the question: if heritage can be weaponized in the Levant, why not in South Asia? The answer may lie in the fact that UNESCO's emergency procedure was invoked not for physical collapse, but for political decisions, exactly the kind of decisions that India has made in Kashmir and that Pakistan has made in Gilgit-Baltistan.
For Bangladesh, the listings are a reminder of the 1971 war, when Pakistani forces systematically destroyed Hindu temples and Buddhist monasteries in an attempt to erase the cultural identity of what would become Bangladesh. The memory of that erasure is still raw, and the UNESCO move forces Dhaka to ask: if heritage can be weaponized in the Levant, what prevents it from happening again in South Asia? The answer may lie in the fact that UNESCO's listings are not just about preservation, they are about power. And in South Asia, where power is often measured in land and guns, culture is the first casualty. The GFN editorial desk notes that the listings also raise a question for South Asian Muslims, who make up the majority of the region's population. If heritage is being weaponized in the Levant, what does that mean for the mosques, shrines, and madrasas of South Asia? The answer may lie in the fact that the UNESCO move is not just about stones, it is about who gets to tell the story of those stones. And in a region where history is often written by the victors, the listings are a rare moment where the losers get to speak.
GFN Ground Context: Pakistan has faced a similar crossroads before. In 2019, when India revoked Article 370 and annexed Kashmir, Islamabad's response was largely diplomatic, with Prime Minister Imran Khan framing the move as an attack on Muslim heritage. But the UNESCO listings force Pakistan to confront a different kind of threat: one where the past itself is under siege. The listings also highlight the role of Saudi Arabia and the UAE in funding heritage restoration projects across the Muslim world, from the Prophet's Mosque in Medina to the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem. For Pakistan, which has long relied on Gulf funding for its own cultural projects, the listings raise a question: if heritage is now a geopolitical tool, who controls the purse strings? The answer may determine not just which ruins survive, but which narratives do.
What happens next: will the stones survive the storm?
The most likely outcome is that the UNESCO listings will become a new front in the cultural war over the Levant. Israel is unlikely to reverse its expropriation plans for Sebastia, nor will it withdraw from Beaufort Castle. Instead, the listings may embolden both sides to double down on their narratives. For Israel, the move will be seen as another attempt to delegitimize its historical claims, and it may respond by accelerating its own heritage projects, such as the 2023 announcement of a "Jewish Heritage Trail" in the West Bank, which Palestinians argue is an attempt to Judaize the land. For Palestine and Lebanon, the listings may become a rallying cry, with both governments using them to pressure international courts to intervene. The International Court of Justice, which is already considering a case brought by South Africa accusing Israel of genocide, may be asked to weigh in on the heritage listings as well. But the ICJ's rulings are not enforceable, and Israel has long ignored its decisions. The real question, then, is whether the UNESCO listings will lead to tangible protection on the ground, or whether they will become just another piece of paper in a region where paper has never stopped a bullet.
Analysts expect the listings to intensify diplomatic tensions between Israel and UNESCO, with Israel likely to step up its campaign against the agency's perceived bias. The United States may be forced to take a side, either by restoring funding to UNESCO or by increasing pressure on the agency to reverse its decisions. For Europe, the listings present an opportunity to reassert its role as a defender of cultural heritage, but it will have to navigate the delicate balance between supporting Israel and condemning its occupation policies. In the Middle East, the listings may embolden Iran and its allies to frame the issue as part of a broader struggle against Western and Israeli aggression. But Iran's own record on cultural preservation, particularly in Syria, where it has funded the restoration of Shia shrines while ignoring Sunni sites, suggests that its motives may not be entirely pure.
The most immediate risk is that the listings will become a pretext for further violence. Hezbollah has already framed the seizure of Beaufort Castle as an attack on Lebanese sovereignty, and Israel may respond by escalating its military operations in southern Lebanon. In the West Bank, the expropriation plans for Sebastia may accelerate, with Israel using the UNESCO listing as a reason to tighten control over the site. The listings, then, may not protect the ruins, they may hasten their destruction. The only way to prevent that outcome is for the international community to treat the listings not as an endpoint, but as a starting point for a new kind of cultural diplomacy, one that goes beyond resolutions and into the realm of enforcement. But in a region where enforcement has never been a strength, that may be a bridge too far.
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Key Takeaways
- UNESCO's emergency listings are not just about preservation, they are about power. By placing Sebastia and the Lebanese castles on the endangered heritage list, the UN's cultural agency has weaponized history, turning ancient ruins into diplomatic flashpoints and challenging Israel's narrative of exclusivity over the past.
- For South Asia, the listings force a reckoning with its own fragile heritage. From Pakistan's struggles with Taliban-linked destruction in Swat to India's battles over Kashmir and the Babri Masjid, the region's history is under constant threat, and the UNESCO move raises a question: if heritage can be weaponized in the Levant, could it happen in South Asia?
- The listings may embolden both sides to double down on their narratives, risking further violence. Israel is unlikely to reverse its expropriation plans or withdraw from Beaufort Castle, and Palestine and Lebanon may use the listings to pressure international courts. But without enforceable action, the stones may not survive the storm.
