France is standing before a mirror—and it no longer recognizes its own reflection

Once the cradle of the enlightenment, of Diderot, Voltaire, and Simone Veil, it now tiptoes through a moral fog. 

The president of the French Republic, Emmanuel Macron, a man of high intelligence and political finesse, speaks the language of balance—but in the process, risks erasing the line between justice and appeasement.

In his response to the ongoing crisis in Israel and Gaza, Macron has chosen ambiguity. 

He calls for restraint. He condemns violence. He speaks of humanitarian concern. 

And yet, behind this neutral vocabulary lies a troubling truth: France is no longer able to stand unflinchingly with a fellow democracy under attack—not because it disagrees with the facts, but because it fears its own reaction.

This fear has a name. Call it the Houellebecq problem.

Michel Houellebecq, the novelist of decline, gave voice to a France that suspects its future may already be lost. He warned of a society folding in on itself—paralyzed by guilt, confused by multiculturalism, unable to defend its values without offending those who reject them.

This is not the France of de Gaulle, who stood alone against fascism. Nor is it the France of Mitterrand, who stared terror in the face with moral clarity. This is a post-modern France, suspended between post-colonial guilt and demographic anxiety—afraid of the street, of the banlieues, of the possibility that the Republic itself could fracture if it speaks too loudly.

When Charlie Hebdo was attacked in 2015, France declared: “Je suis Charlie.” But what remains of that cry today? Caution. Equivocation. The obsessive fear of offending. A republic hostage to its own fractures.

So Macron calculates. He distances himself from Israel—not because it is wrong, but because solidarity has become dangerous. Because to support Israel too clearly is to risk unrest at home, protests in the suburbs, accusations of Islamophobia, or worse.

But in doing so, he sends a chilling message: that truth must now be calibrated to calm the streets. That morality must bend to demography. That France can no longer lead with courage, only with caution.

This is not just about Israel. This is about France’s soul.

If the Republic cannot defend its principles abroad, how long before it cannot defend them at home? If France avoids clarity for fear of backlash, how long before it avoids democracy itself for fear of instability?

France today is not Houellebecq’s dystopia—not yet. But it is circling the edge.

It still has a choice. It can choose to remember its role in history: the France of freedom, of Camus, of resistance—not silence.

It can choose to speak, clearly and firmly, in defense of civilization.

Or it can continue its retreat—until even its silence is no longer enough.