The Palestinian cause, supported in Europe by so many fanatical activists and celebrities eager to appear virtuous, is no longer just a political cause. It has become a religion, or rather a surrogate religion, providing its believers with a simplified interpretation of the world divided into executioners and victims.
It is a vague faith that tramples on human reason and prevents us from seeing reality as it is. Charles Roizman, author of "The Masks Fall. Collective Illusions, Forbidden Truths" analyzes this postmodern cult of pain in an article for the French magazine Causeur.
There is no longer innocence. There are only icons. Shaking icons, dimly lit faces on posters, staged tears on television, slogans hastily painted on the damp walls of dead megacities. Innocence is no longer a human quality - it has become a political attribute. A sign of purity. A medal awarded to those who suffer on the right side.
Western man no longer has a god, no homeland, no form. He no longer knows how to love, believe or hate with style. He no longer knows how to wage war, make love or even die with dignity. He only knows how to cry. He cries until he is on his knees. He cries to feel a little human. And since he no longer believes in anything, he needs someone else to believe in. He has found one. He is neither god, nor man, nor hero. He is a silhouette: the Palestinian.
The Palestinian is the Baby Jesus of the postmodern world. The baby Jesus without a manger, without Joseph, without Bethlehem. The baby Jesus, armed with stones, raised to the sound of bombs, fed on the milk of resentment. He is the ideal victim. The one who does not speak. The one who does not think. The one who can be made into a song, a flag, a meme. The Palestinian is not a person: he is a screen. The purity we have lost is projected onto him.
Europe chose him as it chooses its idols - without knowing him. It crowned him as it crowns its saints - to purify itself. He is its soap. He is its confession. He is its silence. We do not discuss the Palestinian question. We communicate with it. We do not criticize it. We believe in it. We do not think it. We feel it. It is a surrogate cult, an emotional host, a ritual without mystery.
The Palestinian has become a mirror of the lost innocence of the West. The problem is that mirrors break. It took centuries to build cathedrals. But it took only a few years to turn Gaza into a secular basilica. It took generations to write the works of Sophocles, Aeschylus, Dante. Today, the death of just one child is enough to set candlelight marches. And every candle is a stone thrown against Israel.
The new god of Europe does not speak. He does not think. He bleeds. And that is all that is asked of him. He is no longer a man: he is an image. A mask of pain. A sacrificial icon. A body that suffers in our place. But innocence is a weapon. And behind every innocent there is always a guilty one. Israel was chosen for this role. He is the convenient executioner. The useful criminal. The sacred unclean. We no longer say: Jew. We say: Zionist. We no longer say: Protocols. We say: colonies. We no longer talk about impure blood. We talk about apartheid. But the music is the same. And the drum, this time, beats to the rhythm of charity concerts.
This is how a religion was rediscovered. A religion of images. A religion without God, without forgiveness, without heaven. A religion of gentle hatred, of decorative violence, of staged death. A religion of keffiyeh-clad mannequins and weeping journalists. A religion where a dead child is more valuable than a living child because it serves. And in this religion, sin is a nuance. It is blasphemy to say that a martyr can lie.
It is a crime to dare to think that war is war, not Passion. The modern world no longer knows what tragedy is. It confuses pain with justice, emotion with truth. It believes that crying is understanding. That being moved is an action. It confuses death with a music video, battle with a tweet, suffering with catharsis. But reality does not pray. It bleeds without mass. It bombs without music. It kills without long takes. It is made of bodies, screams, concrete and fire. It is made of strategies, confessions, lies and tricks. And in reality, children are not angels. Sometimes they are shields. Weapons. Apologies. This is not a war for freedom. This is a war of convictions. This is not a war for independence. This is a war of obliteration.
But Europe looks elsewhere. It looks at tears, not hands. It looks at coffins, not weapons. It looks at faces, not poems. And in this great theater of the world, it plays its part. That of the tearful old lady who vaguely remembers that she was once a queen.