I first saw it as a boy in a schoolyard in 1965: the coward who grew strong in a group and chose his victim. Sixty years later, I see that same

Photograph Source: The White House – Public Domain

I first saw it as a boy in a schoolyard in 1965: the coward who grew strong in a group and chose his victim. Sixty years later, I see that same pattern—this time in the leaders of Israel, and in the president of the United States.

Tonight I am tired. As always, I end my day by reading the news: Haaretz, DN, Expressen, Dagens ETC. The stories are the same—genocide in Gaza, images of suffering and death. I feel despair, I feel hopelessness. But tonight, I also feel anger.

When I close the computer, an old memory comes back. I am twelve, standing in the schoolyard. A boy older than me—timid when alone, but emboldened by four others—chooses his target. The beating only stops when a teacher intervenes. His strength came not from courage but from fear, and from the pleasure of seeing his victim collapse.

That same dynamic plays out now. Netanyahu is not a strong leader. He is insecure, hungry for control, lacking empathy, dependent on others to hold him up. A coward with too much power. And, like the boy in my schoolyard, he surrounds himself with others just like him—men willing to support ethnic cleansing and genocide.

The coward fears truth. That is why international journalists are barred from Gaza, why local reporters are silenced, even shot at. Recently, the Israeli military bombed a press tent. It was not a mistake. The order came from above. Six journalists were killed that day, six who gave their lives so we might know what is happening. They join the more than 200 journalists already murdered.

Trump’s return has only made Netanyahu bolder. With him came weapons, political cover, and a partner who mirrors him: the same lack of empathy, the same cowardice disguised as strength. Together, they have unleashed one of the world’s most advanced militaries on a people who have nothing with which to defend themselves.

And yet, Gaza does not surrender. Two million people, trapped behind walls and fences, refuse to disappear. They have lost homes, water, schools, and hospitals. But they hold on to something their oppressors lack: dignity.

It is tempting to call this war. The language of soldiers and weapons, casualties and ruins, suggests war. But this is not war. This is genocide. Gaza has become a concentration camp, and the message from Israel is clear: leave or die.

It is always the coward against the brave. And we know who the cowards are.

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