Gary Lineker’s fallout once again exposes Western media’s selective moral compass on Palestine

When famed footballer turned pundit Gary Lineker announced his departure from the BBC on Monday following backlash over a pro-Palestinian post on social media, the headlines on the Western media rushed to frame the incident as a question of journalistic ethics and impartiality. 

But scratch beneath the surface, and a deeper, more uncomfortable reality emerges — one that speaks less to Lineker's personal misjudgment than to the selective moral compass of Western media. 

The real question isn't just whether Lineker broke impartiality rules. It's this: would he have faced the same consequences if his post had been critical of Gaza, or dismissive of the Palestinian cause?

The short answer is — almost certainly not. And that disparity reveals more about the ideological fault lines of Western media institutions than any breach of policy ever could.

The controversy began when Lineker, a former England footballer turned high-profile BBC presenter, shared a pro-Palestinian post on X (formerly Twitter) against Israel's ongoing military operations in Gaza. 

The image he shared was widely criticised for including a depiction of a rat, which many argued resembled antisemitic caricatures from historical propaganda — particularly those used by the Nazis in the 1930s and 1940s, such as in the 1940 film Der Ewige Jude (The Eternal Jew), where Jews were portrayed as rats as a symbol of filth and disease to dehumanise them and justify persecution.

Upon realising the unintended implications, Lineker promptly deleted the post and issued a public apology, stating that he did not mean to evoke any such hateful symbolism.

But the damage was already done—or at least, the narrative was already set. 

The image was immediately seized upon by media commentators and political actors who demanded accountability, citing not only the BBC's impartiality guidelines but also invoking the spectre of antisemitism. 

The backlash snowballed, and it became clear that internal pressures were mounting within the BBC. Not long after, Lineker stepped down from his role. 

It was a quiet exit for one of the broadcaster's most recognised voices, a man long celebrated not just for his sports commentary but for his willingness to speak out on social issues ranging from refugee rights to racism in football.

Known during his playing career for his remarkable discipline — he never received a yellow or red card — Lineker nonetheless carried a reputation off the pitch for being outspoken and unafraid to challenge authority.

His post-retirement persona evolved into that of a principled contrarian, often willing to speak out on issues that many in British public life avoid. 

From criticising the UK government's immigration policy and comparing its rhetoric to that of 1930s Germany, to clashing with BBC executives over his vocal support for refugees, Brexit scepticism, and the UK's handling of asylum seekers, Lineker has frequently courted both praise and backlash.

And so, certainly, this wasn't his first brush with controversy — but it was, perhaps, his most revealing.

Because while his post did include imagery that understandably provoked discomfort, the response to it was wildly disproportionate when compared to how other figures are treated when their remarks target Palestinians or frame Gaza as a breeding ground for terrorism. 

That double standard—where some forms of insensitivity are punished swiftly, while others are overlooked or even applauded—lies at the heart of a broader hypocrisy in Western media.

The BBC, as a publicly funded institution, proudly upholds impartiality as its defining editorial principle. Yet time and again, this principle is applied unevenly. When journalists or public figures express empathy with Palestinians—especially in moments of acute suffering and mass civilian casualties—they are swiftly scrutinised. Some face suspension, public backlash, or calls for removal. 

Moreover, in November last year, more than 100 BBC staff publicly accused the broadcaster of giving Israel favourable coverage in its reporting of the war on Gaza and criticised it for lacking "accurate evidence-based journalism." 

In the meantime, when public figures make blanket condemnations of Hamas or label all Palestinian resistance as terrorism, institutional consequences are rare or nonexistent. Commentators who strongly support Israel's right to defend itself, even when their language is inflammatory or dehumanizing toward Palestinians, often continue without reprimand. 

For instance, former UK Prime Minister Boris Johnson has repeatedly labelled Palestinian resistance broadly as terrorism without facing any institutional rebuke from the BBC or similar outlets. Meanwhile, commentators like Piers Morgan and others who have used harsh, inflammatory language towards Palestinians have maintained their platforms without formal reprimand, highlighting the uneven application of impartiality standards.

This stark contrast reveals that such expressions are frequently treated not as partial, but as "reasonable" and "within bounds," exposing a significant imbalance in how impartiality is enforced.

This asymmetry is not incidental. It reflects the political terrain in which Western media operates—a terrain where support for Israel aligns with dominant foreign policy narratives, and where questioning those narratives, particularly from a humanitarian or international law perspective, invites suspicion or censure. 

If Lineker had posted a simplistic condemnation of Hamas, or shared an image depicting Palestinians as aggressors, it is difficult to imagine a similar institutional reaction. In fact, such a post might have been described as "brave" or "principled." The BBC would likely have stayed silent.

To be clear, the issue isn't whether Lineker's post was above reproach. It's that the rules of engagement are so clearly tilted. There is no uniform standard of impartiality, only a hierarchy of acceptable opinion—where voices supporting Palestinians are heavily policed, while those defending or excusing Israeli military actions enjoy far greater freedom. 

This doesn't just affect Lineker or high-profile presenters. It shapes the careers of countless journalists, especially those of Muslim or Middle Eastern backgrounds, who find themselves walking a tightrope between personal conscience and professional survival.

There is an argument to be made that Lineker, with his vast platform, should have been more cautious about what he shared. Symbols, especially in the age of digital virality, carry histories that can't be erased by good intentions. 

But good faith must count for something. He apologised sincerely. He took the post down. The BBC's apparent unwillingness to engage with that context—its rush to distance itself and preserve an abstract sense of neutrality—feels more like institutional self-preservation than a measured commitment to editorial integrity.

What this episode truly exposes is the conditional nature of free speech in the media landscape. Public figures are often encouraged to speak out—on climate change, on racism, on Ukraine—but only as long as their views don't disrupt deeply entrenched geopolitical alignments. Speak out for refugees in the Mediterranean, and you're applauded. Speak out for Palestinians under siege, and you're asked to step aside.

In the end, what happened to Lineker is less about one man's misstep and more about the institutional inability to handle the politics of Palestine with fairness and consistency. The Israel-Palestine conflict remains one of the most perilous minefields in Western media—but it is not evenly dangerous. 

Open support for Israel, even during military escalations that draw global condemnation, remains broadly acceptable. Sympathy for Palestinians, especially if expressed too visually, too emotionally, or without the right caveats, is treated as a threat to objectivity.

Gary Lineker's career didn't end—at least for the time being—with hate speech. It didn't end with a political tirade. It ended with a deleted post, a rat in an image, and an apology that wasn't enough to stop the machinery of outrage. 

It ended because he chose, however imperfectly, to express empathy with those the media too often chooses to ignore. And that, more than any image or policy, is what this story is really about.