On March 28, 2025, a firestorm erupted in the United States over a leaked Signal chat involving high-ranking defense and intelligence officials, including Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth, and an unexpected interloper: a journalist from The Atlantic. The chat allegedly contained operational details about Yemen strikes—timing, targets, even specific weapons like F-18s and drones. Outrage ensued.
Democratic pundits and politicians have called for Hegseth’s resignation, condemning the incident as a national security breach. Yet, as the dust settles, a closer examination suggests this may be less a crime than a colossal embarrassment—one that raises questions of carelessness rather than criminality.
Let’s start with the basics. Was it illegal for these officials to use Signal, an encrypted messaging app, for official communications? The short answer is no—not inherently. Signal isn’t a government-approved platform like SIPRNet for classified exchanges, and Pentagon rules generally bar commercial apps from handling “non-public DoD information” without authorization. Yet, officials across administrations have used it for unclassified coordination, often with tacit approval. The legality hinges not on the app but on what was shared. If the chat was just logistical chatter, it might be a procedural misstep, not a crime. If it included classified battle plans, that’s dicier—but more on that later. For now, the mere existence of a Signal group isn’t the smoking gun critics claim.
Next, the million-dollar question: Was the leaked information top secret, secret, or even classified at all? We don’t know—and that’s the crux of the issue. *The Atlantic* reported specifics—“1415: Strike Drones on Target”—that experts say scream “Secret” or “Top Secret,” given their operational sensitivity. Former Pentagon officials have called it a textbook security breach, arguing that such details could tip off adversaries like the Houthis, endangering troops and missions. Yet the Trump administration insists nothing classified was shared, and Hegseth, as the original classifying authority, could theoretically declassify it on the fly (though there’s no sign he did).
Classification matters, but it’s not the whole story—under the Espionage Act, even unclassified “national defense information” (NDI) can be protected if its disclosure harms the U.S. or benefits a foreign adversary. However, that determination is subjective. In this case, the information was released after the fact, making it difficult to prove any actual harm.
So, is it criminal to expose such information to an unauthorized person—like a journalist accidentally added to the chat? Not necessarily. The Espionage Act (18 U.S.C. § 793) requires intent—willfully sharing NDI with “reason to believe” it could hurt the nation. Penalties are steep—up to 10 years in prison—but accidental leaks rarely meet this bar. Think Jack Teixeira or Chelsea Manning, who deliberately dumped secrets. Here, reports suggest Rep. Michael Waltz added the wrong number, a blunder, not a plot. If true, intent’s absent, and criminal charges crumble. Even if the info was classified, unintentional exposure might violate DoD policy—think reprimands or firings—but it’s not automatically a crime.
For sensitive-but-unclassified data, the risk is even lower: a slap on the wrist, not handcuffs. Gross negligence could theoretically trigger legal heat, but prosecutions for that are vanishingly rare.
This brings us to the heart of the uproar: if it wasn’t intentional, can anyone be charged with revealing state secrets? Probably not. The law’s high bar for intent shields the chat’s participants from espionage rap sheets. No evidence suggests they meant to spill beans to *The Atlantic*. At worst, it’s carelessness—sloppy tradecraft in an era of heightened scrutiny. Critics might argue that negligence this egregious borders on reckless endangerment, especially if it named an undercover CIA officer (as reported).
But without intent, it’s a stretch to call it a crime. Investigations—by Congress, the DoD Inspector General, or the FBI—might probe damage and accountability, but don’t expect indictments.
The Federal Records Act adds fuel to the fire: Signal’s auto-delete feature could skirt transparency laws, heightening perceptions of incompetence or even a cover-up. Yet carelessness isn’t a crime, and there’s no evidence of any deliberate concealment. So why the calls for resignation? Critics cite public trust, but the real drivers are politics and optics. Democrats, who opposed Hegseth’s confirmation from the start, are seizing on any reason to oust him. The irony? If he’s fired, he’d simply be replaced by another Trump appointee they’d equally despise.
In truth, the entire ‘Signal-gate’ uproar is an exercise in distraction and frustrated outrage. What’s really fueling their anger isn’t just this incident—it’s their broader disdain for Trump and Musk. With three years and nine months left in this administration, and no way to change that, they’re left to nitpick, bicker, and vent their fury, hoping to build a platform for the 2026 midterms and the 2028 presidential election.
Let’s not overreact. No troops died. No operation failed (that we know). The journalist didn’t publish until after the strikes, limiting immediate harm. Compare this to Edward Snowden’s mass leaks or Reality Winner’s espionage conviction—this is a fumble, not treason. Hegseth’s defenders argue it’s a partisan pile-on, with Democrats exploiting a mistake to kneecap a Trump loyalist. The furor feels outsized for an unproven breach.
Here’s my take: the legal case is weak. No intent, no clear crime, just a mess of unknowns.
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