Europe’s Silence as Gaza Burns

Demonstration for Palestina in New Zealand, Photo by Mark McGuire (CC BY 3.0 NZ)

As the war in Gaza grinds through its second year, with over 50,000 Palestinians reportedly killed and much of the strip reduced to rubble, one question echoes louder than the sounds of missiles: Where is Europe?

The conflict, triggered by Hamas’s brutal October 7, 2023 assault on Israel, has evolved into one of the deadliest and most destructive wars of the 21st century. Israel’s military response—framed as an existential fight to destroy Hamas—has devastated Gaza’s civilian population and infrastructure. Hospitals have been flattened, aid convoys blocked, and nearly the entire population displaced.

Yes, Hamas bears responsibility for initiating a horrific attack. But what followed has gone far beyond a war on a militant group. It is now a humanitarian collapse playing out in slow motion, with no end in sight.

And yet, Europe remains largely on the sidelines—divided, hesitant, and unwilling to act.

The reasons are complex. Germany, burdened by historical guilt, defends Israel’s right to self-defense almost without qualification. France calls for humanitarian pauses, but stops short of condemning the scale of Israel’s response. Other countries prefer silence, paralyzed by fear of domestic unrest or political fallout.

Meanwhile, thousands of European citizens march, calling for a ceasefire. Their governments issue statements but do little to stop arms exports or pressure allies. Aid is pledged but blocked at the border. Diplomacy is outsourced to Washington or buried under other priorities—Ukraine, energy, elections.

This war did not begin in 2023. It is the latest, bloodiest eruption of a long-neglected conflict rooted in occupation, blockade, and political failure on all sides. But today, European inaction is not neutral. It is a choice—one that carries moral and political consequences.

If Europe wants to be taken seriously as a defender of international law, human rights, and peace, it must act like it. That means holding all parties accountable, supporting serious diplomacy, and helping to end the unbearable suffering of civilians—before Gaza becomes a permanent symbol of the world’s indifference.

Rethinking China: Charting a Smarter Course for America - Thomas Friedman’s Vision

In a wide-ranging conversation on The Ezra Klein Show, journalist and columnist Thomas Friedman presents a compelling critique of America's current stance toward China. His argument is not a defense of China’s authoritarianism or human rights record, but a plea for the United States to adopt a rational, forward-looking strategy based on reality rather than fear, ideology, or outdated assumptions.

Friedman is deeply concerned with what he calls the “Washington consensus” on China — a bipartisan posture of automatic hostility that leaves no room for nuance or engagement. Since the COVID-19 pandemic, he notes, the aperture through which Americans view China has narrowed dramatically. Personal, business, and academic exchanges have collapsed, while rhetoric in Washington has hardened. In such a climate, understanding China has become nearly impossible, and policymaking has grown reactive and shortsighted.

Rather than clinging to a Cold War-era mentality or seeing China solely as a thief of Western ideas, Friedman urges Americans to recognize China’s genuine innovation and industrial might. Drawing from his travels, he describes an ecosystem of high-tech factories, AI-driven design labs, and state-backed R&D campuses like Huawei’s, where rapid iteration and scale are possible in ways largely unseen in the West. He illustrates this with China's dominance in electric vehicles, batteries, solar panels, and robotics — all parts of what he calls the new "industrial ecosystem" of the 21st century.

Yet America, he warns, is fighting the wrong war. Tariffs, political posturing, and cultural battles — exemplified by Trump-era tactics — fail to build the capabilities the U.S. needs to compete. Friedman mocks these approaches as unserious, arguing that the right question isn’t how to weaken China, but how to strengthen America. That means investing in research, building supply chains, leveraging alliances, and fostering domestic innovation — not isolationism.

Friedman also views the relationship through a planetary lens. He identifies three global existential challenges — AI governance, climate change, and geopolitical instability — which require collaboration between the U.S. and China, the only two powers capable of steering outcomes. In his view, “interdependence is no longer a choice; it is our condition.”

Ultimately, Friedman’s message is clear: America must stop projecting ideology and start dealing with the world as it is. Instead of fearing China's rise, the U.S. should treat it as a mirror — a reminder of what seriousness, strategic focus, and investment in the future actually look like. Whether Washington listens or doubles down on its current path may well define the century.

The Consumer, the Voter, and the Algorithm

What happens when political actors learn how to hack human nature

The Consumer, the Voter, and the Algorithm.

Why do so many people distrust science in an era built on reason, data, and expertise? Why has the promise of liberal freedom given rise to anxiety, alienation, and backlash? And how did the same technologies that sell us sneakers begin to shape our beliefs, our votes, and our view of reality?

The answer lies in something both obvious and uncomfortable: we are far more predictable than we like to admit.

In The Consuming Instinct, behavioral scientist Gad Saad argues that much of what we do—what we eat, buy, desire, and fear—is not simply a product of culture, but of biology. Our craving for fat and sugar, our attraction to beauty and power, our urge to belong and to signal status—these are not modern inventions, but ancient instincts shaped by natural selection.

Liberal democracies, with their emphasis on individual freedom and market choice, gave these instincts room to express themselves. In Saad’s view, the market doesn’t manipulate our desires; it mirrors them. Advertising succeeds not because it tricks us, but because it resonates with who we are at a deep, evolved level.

But in the digital era, something changed. Our consumer behavior—tracked, analyzed, and monetized—was no longer confined to the marketplace. It became a tool for reshaping our political behavior. Social media platforms, powered by algorithms and fed by behavioral data, began to function not just as communication tools, but as persuasion machines.

What began as targeted advertising became something more insidious: targeted influence. Political campaigns, ideological groups, and opportunistic actors began using the same psychological insights that sell fast food and fashion to sell narratives, conspiracies, and candidates.

As journalist Carole Cadwalladr revealed in her investigation into Cambridge Analytica and the Brexit and Trump campaigns, this wasn't simply marketing—it was a new form of psychological warfare. Her chilling conclusion: “It’s a coup.” Not with tanks or guns, but with microtargeted ads, emotion-driven content, and digital manipulation that preys on instinct, not reason.

The irony is that the very scientific insights into human nature—insights developed to better understand behavior—are now being used to bypass deliberation altogether. Emotional triggers, identity cues, and tribal language are deployed to provoke rather than persuade, to reinforce rather than challenge.

Gad Saad has long warned that science faces resistance when it challenges ideological narratives. In earlier decades, this resistance came from progressive academic circles uncomfortable with evolutionary explanations for behavior. But today, the rejection of science comes just as often from populist and authoritarian movements that deny climate change, discredit vaccines, or undermine epidemiological expertise. What unites both is not a disagreement over facts, but an unwillingness to accept them when they contradict belief or identity.

In this climate, science becomes political not because it has changed, but because our tolerance for inconvenient truths has collapsed. We no longer debate findings; we attack their implications. We no longer confront our biases; we feed them through curated information streams. And the more we do so, the more manipulable we become—not despite our nature, but because of it.

Suppressing or ignoring scientific insights into behavior does not protect us—it exposes us. The less we understand about what drives us, the easier it becomes for others to use that knowledge for their own ends. The algorithm doesn’t care whether it serves commerce or politics; it simply optimizes for engagement. And that engagement, more often than not, rewards the content that taps into our fears, our vanity, our need to belong.

We need more than fact-checking and better media literacy. We need a cultural reckoning with who we really are: instinctive, emotional, social, vulnerable to manipulation—and yet capable of reflection. Liberal societies can only endure if they are built on an honest view of the human animal. Science must be free to follow the evidence, and politics must learn humility in the face of our evolutionary limits.

The Consuming Instinct is not a celebration of consumerism, nor a rejection of progress. It is, interpreted in the current times, a warning: if we fail to understand what drives us, others will not hesitate to exploit it. And when they do, the result isn’t just a distorted marketplace. It’s a distorted democracy.

In the age of the algorithm, the consumer and the voter have become one. And the truth is no longer something we seek—it’s something we're fed.

Sowing Order, Reaping Chaos: The Paradox of Power in a Fractured World

Reflecting on what we can learn from Beatrice de Graaf

January 6 United States Capitol attack (2021).

In the late 20th century, political theorist Francis Fukuyama declared the "end of history"—a moment in which liberal democracy, seemingly victorious, would spread as the final form of human governance. Yet as we look around the world today, that prediction feels not only premature but ironically inverted. The liberal world order has not triumphed, but fractured. The very systems designed to create stability now seem to generate disorder. In this light, the adapted proverb "wie orde zaait, zal chaos oogsten"—“who sows order, will reap chaos”—captures a central paradox of our time: efforts to impose or preserve rigid concepts of order can inadvertently provoke resistance, fragmentation, and ultimately, chaos.

Historian Beatrice de Graaf, in recent interviews on the Dutch TV program Buitenhof, offers a moral-historical perspective to understand this shift. Drawing on the work of Johan Huizinga and Augustine, she reminds us that real order cannot be achieved through force, spectacle, or domination, but through the cultivation of virtues—justice, wisdom, temperance, and courage. These cardinal values, once central to both governance and citizenship, have been eroded in an age increasingly driven by short-term gain, spectacle politics, and polarizing narratives.

The rise of Donald Trump exemplifies this turn. As De Graaf recounts from her visit to the U.S., even academics fear their own students, practicing “anticipatory obedience” in the face of an aggressive ideological wave. Trump's public alignment with ultra-masculine fighting events and right-wing influencers is not random behavior, but the embodiment of a worldview—a form of symbolic politics that celebrates strength, vengeance, and tribal loyalty over deliberation, law, or empathy. This is not simply populism or eccentricity. As De Graaf warns, it is an emerging world vision, one that trades liberal ideals for a blend of post-liberalism, religious nationalism, and even transhumanist techno-fatalism.

Still, it would be too easy to scapegoat the U.S. or lay blame solely at the feet of political strongmen. Europe, too, has been naïve. The post-Cold War order assumed the universality of liberal democracy, often overlooking the ways in which global inequalities, economic exploitation, and cultural arrogance undermined the legitimacy of that very order. As De Graaf notes, liberalism in its complacency allowed illiberal forces to grow within its own system—something thinkers like Patrick Deneen have critically pointed out from within the West.

But the answer is not to abandon liberal values—it is to rediscover and reinvest in them. Europe may have been slow to respond, but it is not powerless. Recent coalitions, such as the German political realignment and the EU’s increasing investments in defense and diplomacy, suggest a recognition that order must be both principled and strategic. Europe can assert its values—not by mimicking authoritarianism, but by combining resilience with responsibility.

One must also challenge the idea that investing in defense necessarily leads to war. As De Graaf notes, deterrence paired with strong diplomacy can stabilize rather than escalate. The history of the 20th century offers cautionary tales of arms races, but it also offers models of peace built on moral clarity and institutional cooperation. The real danger is not military preparedness, but moral emptiness.

The metaphor of “sowing order and reaping chaos” becomes especially potent when the desire for control overrides justice or when systems of governance are treated as ends in themselves, rather than as tools for human flourishing. When order is enforced without legitimacy, when voices are silenced rather than heard, when complexity is flattened into slogans—then chaos grows in the cracks.

There is still a choice. As Huizinga and Augustine argued during the collapse of their own eras, we are not merely witnesses to history—we are its makers. Augustine put it simply: “We are the times.” And as such, we are responsible not only for naming the crisis but for shaping the response.

The antidote to chaos is not control, but character. Not the assertion of power for its own sake, but the cultivation of a moral order grounded in dignity, empathy, and collective responsibility. That is the challenge of our age—and the hope that still remains.

April 2, 2025: The End of an Era of Free Trade - A Defining Moment in History

Donald Trump.

This week, on April 2nd, 2025, the world witnessed a dramatic shift in international relations and economic policy. In a bold and controversial move, U.S. President Donald Trump launched a global trade war. Announcing sweeping tariffs on all products from nearly all countries—excluding Russia, Belarus, and North Korea—Trump declared the day “Liberation Day,” framing the action as a reclaiming of American economic sovereignty.

The move effectively signals the end of an era: the long-standing push toward globalisation that shaped the 21st century economy. For decades, countries leaned into interdependence, open trade, and integrated supply chains. That model was upended with the stroke of a pen.

China was quick to respond with heavy countermeasures, imposing high tariffs on all American imports and halting the export of rare-earth minerals—an area where the U.S. is particularly vulnerable. These minerals are vital to a wide array of high-tech industries, from electric vehicles to defense systems.

Unsurprisingly, stock markets around the world reacted sharply. Major indices plummeted amid fears of a prolonged economic conflict, supply shortages, and a potential global recession.

As the dust begins to settle, one question echoes from boardrooms to kitchen tables across the globe: What does this mean for the future? Only time will tell, but April 2nd, 2025 will be remembered as a turning point—a day when the world’s economic order took a sharp and completely uncertain turn.

Augustine of Hippo: The Philosopher of Virtue and Society

Saint Augustinus, by Christofel van Sichem II (from the archives of the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam).

Saint Augustine of Hippo (354–430 AD) was one of the most influential Christian theologians and philosophers of late antiquity. Born in Thagaste (modern-day Algeria), he was raised by a Christian mother and a pagan father. As a young man, he pursued a career in rhetoric and was drawn to various philosophical and religious movements before encountering Plato and Plotinus, whose ideas deeply influenced him.

After years of spiritual struggle, he converted to Christianity in 386 AD, inspired by Saint Ambrose in Milan. He later returned to North Africa, where he became Bishop of Hippo, dedicating his life to theological writing and defending Christian doctrine. His most famous works, Confessions and The City of God, shaped Western thought for centuries, addressing sin, grace, and the purpose of human existence.

Augustine’s philosophy of virtues was deeply rooted in the tradition of Plato and his follower Plotinus, whom he reinterpreted through a Christian lens. He emphasized four cardinal virtues—prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance—as the foundation of a righteous life. These virtues, along with faith, hope, and charity, became the moral pillars of Western society, promoting ethical governance and social harmony.

For Augustine, virtue was not merely a human achievement but a path to divine truth. He believed that only through the love of God and the pursuit of wisdom could individuals and societies attain peace and justice. His vision laid the groundwork for medieval philosophy and influenced thinkers from Thomas Aquinas to modern ethicists.

In today’s world, marked by division and moral uncertainty, Augustine’s call for wisdom, justice, and love feels more urgent than ever. Perhaps now, more than ever, we should reflect on his ideas and strive for a society built on the virtues he so passionately defended.

The End of Innocence

The café around the corner smelled of coffee and warmth, but an unshakable sense of unease clung to the air. At one table, a group of five was sitting, their hushed voices blending with the background hum. Their expressions were tense, their gestures sharp—whatever they were discussing, it was serious.

Trump had upended everything over the last two months. The dark-haired man gripped his coffee cup tightly, his voice low but urgent. Was he talking about Ukraine? About how America had turned its back, leaving Europe exposed? About how Trump and Putin were negotiating over Ukraine’s future while Zelensky wasn’t even at the table? The very idea was chilling—Putin playing Trump like a pawn, reshaping borders without resistance.

The red-haired woman frowned, shaking her head. Maybe she was thinking about what happens when Russia decides to push further—when there’s no one left to stand up for Ukraine, or for Europe as a whole.

One of the others, a man with tired eyes, spoke with quiet fury. Was he talking about Gaza? About how Israel had shattered the ceasefire, resuming its full-scale bombardment of Palestinians. About how Trump had called it the "new Riviera," as if the suffering, the destruction, the lives lost, were just inconvenient details in a grander vision? Were Palestinians simply expected to vanish, erased under the weight of war and indifference?

The woman next to him pressed her lips together. Perhaps she was thinking of a world where entire nations—Greenland, Canada—could be claimed like chess pieces in some billionaire’s game, their fates decided in smoke-filled rooms, far from the people who live there.

And then there was Musk. The unelected shadow behind the throne. No one wanted a Tesla anymore—it had become a symbol of betrayal. Tariffs, mass firings, entire government agencies dissolving overnight… what was left of order?

And now Europe was rearming. Governments scrambling to boost military spending, factories shifting production overnight, politicians no longer speaking of peace but of deterrence, of readiness. The old world was slipping away, replaced by something colder, something harsher. Was war inevitable? Would they be called upon to fight?

For a moment, no one spoke. Perhaps someone had asked the question they all feared—what happens next? The dark-haired man stared at his empty cup.

I finished my coffee and glanced at them one last time. They were just five young people in a café, but their worry for the future was clear. It’s obvious—the time of innocence is over.

A snapshot of life in 2024 (from Vernet-les-Bains, Pyrenees, France)

A snapshot of life in 2024 (from Vernet-les-Bains, Pyrenees, France).

On this terrace in Vernet-les-Bains (Pyrenees, France), next to the Saturday market, people gather for their morning coffee. It’s mid-November 2024, and the crisp mountain air carries the quiet hum of voices. Conversations flow easily, meandering between the personal and the political, the local and the global.

Some discuss the daily challenges of life: the relentless rise in the cost of living, the strain of making ends meet, or the recent health struggles of a friend or family member. Others delve into broader concerns, sharing stories of the torrential rains that battered Valencia, leaving behind tales of destruction and worry. Climate change looms over their words like a shadow, its presence undeniable and unnerving.

Inevitably, talk turns to the ongoing wars—Ukraine, Gaza—conflicts that feel both distant and uncomfortably close. How, some wonder aloud, can such violence persist in a world that seems to have learned so little from history? There's a sense of helplessness in their questions, mingled with frustration at leaders who seem disconnected from the struggles of ordinary people. Also the topic “President Macron” comes by. He was once a figure of promise for some, but is now met with shrugs and sharp critiques; his policies, many feel, have left rural communities like theirs behind.

Yet, amidst these weighty topics, a lighter subject emerges, offering a sense of relief. Someone suggests heading into the mountains next Saturday to hunt wild boars. The idea sparks smiles and nods, a collective agreement to momentarily escape the complexities of modern life. The thought of trekking through the cool, pine-scented forests, rifles slung over shoulders, feels grounding. It’s a return to a simpler, more primal connection with nature—and perhaps, to each other.

Here, on this terrace in Vernet-les-Bains, the world’s troubles blend with its small joys, creating a snapshot of life in 2024: full of worry, but not without hope.