I’m in France, in Toulon, visiting my daughter and her family. Summer on the Mediterranean – the heat, the light, the laughter of grandchildren – it all grips me. I feel a rare, quiet happiness. Gratitude for life itself.

We leave the city and drive up into the mountains. The small villages lie scattered like jewels across the landscape. We choose one, walk slowly, stop at a fountain, drink some water. It’s hot. The sun is high. A faint breeze from the sea is the only relief.

We arrive at a café. I ask for more water, we fill our bottles, order a simple lunch: baguettes with Caprice des Dieux. We sit in the shade and look out over the vineyards. In the distance – the northern shore of the Mediterranean. Soon we’ll head back, we begin planning the evening’s dinner. There will be seven of us. Tonight, we’ve booked a table at the Portuguese restaurant.

I wake early after a warm night. Take a cold shower, return to bed. Everyone else is asleep. I want to be alone. I open the Israeli newspaper Haaretz. It reports from Gaza. Death tolls. How many are women, how many are children. Tables. Charts. Numbers. In black and white.

I dig out my own notes. I’ve followed this for a long time. Compiled death counts since 1948. These are not secret numbers – all are official. All are verified. All are stored in open archives, accessible to every European foreign minister, every head of state. Every politician knows.

And still, nothing happens.

I think of the children in Gaza. Their night was even hotter than mine. But they have no cold water. Hardly any water at all. No mattresses, no fans, no electricity grid, no shelter. The heat isn’t just uncomfortable there – it’s life-threatening.

I remember our lunch – bread, cheese, water. And I think of the mother in Gaza. The one who searched for food. Not for herself – for her children. But there was nothing. Not a crumb of bread. Not a drop of clean water.

We both live by the same Mediterranean. I could take a boat to Haifa – but not to Gaza, which is only a few miles away. She, on the other hand – she is not allowed to move at all. I have everything. She has nothing. Everything has been taken from her. And when everything is gone – then death comes. With a bullet, with hunger, with dirty water. If her child gets sick? There is no medicine. The hospital is rubble.

And the world knows.

The international community knows.

Every European leader knows who is responsible. They have the reports, the charts, the UN statements. They know this is not a “complicated conflict.” They know this is a systematic, methodical destruction of a people. An ethnic cleansing. A genocide in real time.

And yet they stay silent.

Why?

Why this silence? Why the endless talk of “balance,” “complexity,” “proportionality”? How many dead children does it take before someone dares to speak the truth? When the Israeli government talks about “cleansing Gaza,” about “erasing” a population – why does no one call it what it is?

Silence is not neutral. Silence is an action. To be silent is to support.

The European governments are not passive bystanders. Their silence, their unwillingness to act, their constant references to diplomatic processes – all of it makes them complicit. They hide behind words while children die of thirst.

This is not 1942. This is not Rwanda in 1994. This is happening now, in Gaza 2025. While you scroll. While you water your plants. While I eat cheese in Provence.

And still, the world pretends it’s not happening.

We are not innocent. Our goodwill, our humanism, our “never again” – what are they worth if we can’t even call a genocide a genocide? We who claim to stand for human rights, international law, global solidarity – we are each falling, one by one, into the shame of comfort.

I look at the children here in Toulon. I hear them laugh. I know that right now, somewhere in Gaza, a child is dying whose laughter never had the chance to begin.

And I ask myself:

How much longer will we stay silent and just watch?

How much longer?

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