A prominent Palestinian militia leader in Gaza who opposed Hamas has been killed.
Yasser Abu Shabab headed the so-called Popular Forces group, which has dozens of fighters and operates in Israeli-controlled territory near the southern city of Rafah.
The Popular Forces said in a statement that Abu Shabab was shot while attempting to resolve a dispute between members of the Abu Seneima family. It dismissed as misleading reports that he was killed by Hamas, which had accused him of collaborating with Israel.
An earlier statement from Abu Shabab's Bedouin tribe, the Tarabin, said he had been killed at the hands of the resistance, and accused him of betraying the Palestinian people.
Other sources said his death was the result of an internal power struggle.
A Hamas statement said the fate that befell Abu Shabab was the inevitable fate of all who betray their people and homeland and are content to be tools in the hands of the occupation [Israel], without claiming involvement in his killing.
Israel's Army Radio cited a security source as saying that Abu Shabab had died of his wounds after being evacuated to Soroka hospital in the southern Israeli city of Beersheba. But the hospital denied that he died under their care.
The statement from the Popular Forces pledged to continue on Abu Shabab's path until the last terrorist is eliminated from the soil of Gaza and a bright and secure future is built for our people, who believe in peace.
In June, Israel's Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu confirmed that Israel was arming Palestinian clans in Gaza that he said were opposed to Hamas. It came after Israeli media reported that he had authorised the supply of weapons to the Popular Forces. However, the militia denied that it was being armed by Israel.
The Popular Forces have been accused of looting humanitarian aid trucks sent into Gaza during the war, which the militia has also denied. Reports in Israel have suggested that two of its members have previous links to the Islamic State group (IS).
Since the ceasefire between Israel and Hamas began almost eight weeks ago, Abu Shabab had reportedly been one of several anti-Hamas militia leaders jostling for position in the second phase of US President Donald Trump's Gaza peace plan. It would involve setting up an interim government, deploying an international stabilisation force, the withdrawal of Israeli troops, and the disarmament of Hamas.
Under the first phase, Hamas agreed to return all 48 living and dead hostages it was still holding in exchange for the release of hundreds of Palestinian prisoners and detainees in Israeli jails, as well as a partial Israeli withdrawal and a surge in humanitarian aid.
The body of one dead Israeli hostage is yet to be returned. Israel's government has previously said it would not join talks on the second phase until Hamas has returned all the hostages. However, Trump said on Wednesday that the second phase was going to happen pretty soon.
The war in Gaza was triggered by the Hamas-led attack on southern Israel on 7 October 2023, in which about 1,200 people were killed and 251 others were taken hostage. More than 70,120 people have been killed in Israeli attacks in Gaza since then, according to the territory's Hamas-run health ministry.
![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)
