March 24, 2025, The Atlantic dropped a bombshell that rippled through political, media, and national security circles: Jeffrey Goldberg, the magazine’s editor-in-chief, claimed he had been inadvertently added to a Signal group chat where senior Trump administration officials, including National Security Adviser Michael Waltz, discussed sensitive military plans for airstrikes against Houthi rebels in Yemen. The story, published under the provocative title “The Trump Administration Accidentally Texted Me Its War Plans,” painted a picture of reckless incompetence—a breach so egregious that it seemed almost too absurd to be true.
Yet, as the White House acknowledged the authenticity of the chat, the narrative shifted from a potential hoax to a confirmed incident. But here’s the twist: the real threat to national security wasn’t the use of Signal, an encrypted messaging app, or even the accidental inclusion of Goldberg in the chat. The true danger emerged only when The Atlantic chose to publish the claim, thrusting a private misstep into the public eye and amplifying its consequences.
Contrast this with the unresolved mystery of the ICE raid leakers—those anonymous figures who, at various points in recent years, have tipped off communities or media about impending Immigration and Customs Enforcement operations. Despite investigations, their identities remain shrouded, and the leaks themselves rarely escalate beyond localized disruptions. The Goldberg-Waltz incident, however, stands apart. Unlike the ICE leaks, which fester in ambiguity, this 'leak' only became a leak in the truest sense when Goldberg and The Atlantic decided to broadcast it to the world.
The story begins on March 11, 2025, when Goldberg received a connection request on Signal from an account identified as “Michael Waltz.” Signal, known for its end-to-end encryption and popularity among privacy-conscious users, including journalists, seemed an odd but not implausible choice for a national security adviser reaching out to a prominent editor. Goldberg, cautious but curious, accepted the request, suspecting it might be a ruse. Two days later, on March 13, he was added to a group chat labeled “Houthi PC small group,” populated by what appeared to be top Trump administration officials: Vice President JD Vance, Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth, Secretary of State Marco Rubio, and Waltz himself, among others. Over the next few days, the chat buzzed with discussions about impending military strikes on Yemen—details that included targets, weapons systems, and timing.
Goldberg’s initial reaction was disbelief. “I assume that I’m being hoaxed,” he later told NPR, suspecting a foreign intelligence operation or a prank meant to entrap him. But as the chatter continued, culminating in Hegseth’s March 15 message outlining strike specifics—details that aligned with real-time reports of U.S. airstrikes in Yemen—Goldberg realized he had stumbled into something genuine. He exited the chat and, rather than keeping it under wraps, penned a detailed account for The Atlantic, published on March 24. The White House, caught off guard, confirmed the chat’s authenticity through National Security Council spokesman Brian Hughes, who called it “an authentic message chain” and said they were “reviewing how an inadvertent number was added.”
The administration downplayed the incident’s severity, with Hughes asserting that “the ongoing success of the Houthi operation demonstrates that there were no threats to troops or national security.” President Trump, when pressed, distanced himself, saying, “I don’t know anything about it,” and dismissing The Atlantic as a publication he wasn’t fond of. But the damage was done—not by the chat itself, but by its exposure.
The ICE Raid Leakers: A Silent Contrast
To understand the unique nature of the Goldberg-Waltz 'leak,' consider the ICE raid leakers. Over the years, reports of planned ICE operations have surfaced—sometimes through community activists, sometimes via media outlets—disrupting enforcement actions and sparking political debate. In 2019, for instance, ahead of a widely publicized ICE raid targeting undocumented immigrants in major cities, leaks prompted warnings from advocacy groups, leading to protests and heightened vigilance. Yet, despite the Department of Homeland Security’s efforts, the leakers’ identities remain unknown, and the incidents, while disruptive, rarely escalate into national security crises.
Why? Because these leaks typically stay contained—circulating within affected communities or niche media without the amplifying power of a major publication’s imprimatur. The leakers don’t step forward to claim credit, and the government, while frustrated, can often adjust its plans quietly. The Goldberg-Waltz case, however, flipped this script. Here, the 'leak' wasn’t a deliberate act of whistleblowing or sabotage by an insider. It was an accident—a clerical error, perhaps Waltz mistaking “JG” (Goldberg’s Signal initials) for someone else, like U.S. Trade Representative Jamieson Greer. The chat’s existence posed no immediate threat while it remained private. No adversary had intercepted it; no troops were endangered by its contents being quietly shared among the wrong participants. The threat only materialized when Goldberg chose to publish.
Signal: A Red Herring in the Threat Narrative
Much of the ensuing outrage focused on the use of Signal, a non-government-sanctioned app, for sensitive discussions. Critics, including Democratic lawmakers like Rep. Jim Himes and Sen. Mark Warner, argued that transmitting classified information over an unsecure platform violated protocol and potentially the Espionage Act. Security experts, like former British Army officer Hamish de Bretton-Gordon, warned that Signal’s vulnerabilities could be exploited by adversaries like Russia or China. These concerns are valid in a vacuum—government policy mandates secure, classified systems for operational planning, and Signal, despite its encryption, doesn’t meet that standard.
But this technological critique misses the forest for the trees. Signal’s encryption ensured the chat remained secure from outside eyes until Goldberg’s article broke the seal. There’s no evidence that adversaries accessed the thread during its active use from March 13 to March 15, when the strikes began. The app’s auto-delete feature, which some flagged as a violation of federal record-keeping laws, further minimized the risk of prolonged exposure. The real breach wasn’t technological; it was human—and it was compounded by the decision to publicize it. Had Goldberg lurked silently or reported the error discreetly to the administration, the chat’s contents would have remained a footnote, not a headline. The app didn’t leak the plans; The Atlantic did.
Goldberg’s decision to publish transformed a private mistake into a public crisis. His article didn’t just reveal the chat’s existence—it detailed its participants, quoted snippets of their dialogue, and framed the incident as a “shocking recklessness” emblematic of the Trump administration’s dysfunction. This wasn’t a leak in the traditional sense, where a whistleblower exposes wrongdoing to right a wrong. It was an opportunistic scoop, leveraging an accidental inclusion to score a journalistic coup. The consequences were immediate and far-reaching.
First, it alerted adversaries to a potential vulnerability. If Russia, Iran, or the Houthis hadn’t known about the chat before, they did now—complete with a roadmap of who was involved and what they discussed. While Goldberg withheld the most sensitive operational details, his descriptions (e.g., Hegseth’s mention of targets and timing) provided enough context to fuel speculation and counterintelligence efforts. Second, it eroded trust among allies. European leaders, already skittish about Trump’s “America First” stance, now had evidence of casual disdain—Hegseth’s “loathing of European free-loading” and Vance’s reluctance to “bail Europe out again”—aired publicly, potentially chilling intelligence-sharing. Third, it handed domestic critics a cudgel, with Democrats like Hakeem Jeffries and Chuck Schumer calling for investigations, amplifying the political fallout.
None of this would have happened if the chat had stayed under wraps. The ICE raid leakers, by contrast, operate in shadows, their leaks dissipating without a megaphone. Goldberg’s article gave the Waltz incident a megaphone, a spotlight, and a permanent record—ironically, the very thing Signal’s ephemerality aimed to prevent.
The White House’s defense—that the Houthi operation succeeded despite the chat—holds weight. The strikes proceeded on March 15, achieving their objectives with no reported compromise of troop safety. The chat’s accidental guest didn’t derail the mission while it was active. The threat emerged post-publication, when the world learned of the administration’s laxity. This exposure risks long-term damage: adversaries probing for similar weaknesses, allies hesitating to collaborate, and a domestic populace questioning competence. It’s a slow bleed, not an immediate wound—but a bleed nonetheless.
Goldberg’s ethical stance—“I am going to be responsible here and not disclose the things that I read and saw”—rings hollow when the act of publishing inherently magnified the breach. He could have alerted authorities quietly, preserving security while still holding power to account later. Instead, he chose spectacle, and the nation paid the price.
The Jeffrey Goldberg-Mike Waltz 'leak' wasn’t a leak until The Atlantic made it one.
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