Silence Is Permission

On July 2, 2026, Turkish Foreign Minister Hakan Fidan described Israel as a "burden that humanity can no longer bear." To be fair, this was not an explicit call for genocide. But it came uncomfortably close. One does not speak about a nation or a people as a "burden humanity can no longer bear" without invoking some of the darkest chapters of modern history. Israeli Foreign Minister Gideon Sa'ar immediately recognized the danger, calling the remarks "clear incitement to genocide" and warning that they amounted to a call for Israel’s destruction.

There are many ways to respond. One could ask how the United States can continue discussing the potential sale of F-35 fighter aircraft – the most advanced military aircraft in the world – to a country whose senior leadership regularly toys with rhetoric questioning the legitimacy of an American ally. One could also ask how the international community would react if an Israeli foreign minister referred to another nation as a burden that humanity could no longer bear. The backlash would be immediate. There would be diplomatic protests, editorials, demands for apologies, and likely much more. Yet that is not what interests me most.

What interests me is the silence. As best as I can determine, only Germany issued a clear public condemnation. German Foreign Minister Johann Wadephul reportedly called the remarks "utterly inappropriate" and reaffirmed Israel’s right to defend itself. Not the United States. Not the United Kingdom. Not France. Not Canada. Not the broader international community. Nobody else seemed compelled to say publicly that describing a country as a "burden humanity can no longer bear" might be crossing a dangerous line. 

The media response was similarly muted. Commentary condemning Fidan’s remarks appeared in the Jerusalem Post, the Times of Israel, the Jewish Chronicle, and a few other pro-Israel publications. But where were the major editorial boards? Where were the New York Times, Washington Post, Wall Street Journal, Financial Times, and Guardian? The people who sounded the alarm were largely the people one would expect to sound the alarm. Everyone else largely moved on. 

Many explanations have been offered. Some point to realpolitik. Turkey is a NATO member and an important regional player. Others point to the ongoing war in Gaza and argue that criticism of Turkish rhetoric has been overshadowed by larger debates about the conflict. Still others see a double standard, arguing that language considered unacceptable when directed at other groups is often tolerated when directed at Israel. Perhaps all of these explanations contain some truth. But they miss the larger point.

Words matter. In missile defense, the fire control system does not wait until the missile is overhead. It identifies the threat while there is sufficient to respond. Societies need similar early warning systems. Dehumanizing language is often the first indication that something dangerous is emerging. The statement itself may not be violence. It may not even be a direct threat. But it creates the intellectual and moral conditions that make future threats easier to justify.

History teaches this lesson repeatedly. At the risk of sounding trite, Hitler was dismissed by many as a crank, a loudmouth, and a political clown. By the time the world understood where his rhetoric would lead, millions were dead. I am not comparing Hakan Fidan to Hitler. I am making a different point. Dangerous language becomes dangerous precisely when decent people convince themselves that it is not worth confronting.

The issue is not whether Fidan intended genocide. The issue is whether describing a nation as a "burden humanity can no longer bear" is acceptable language for a foreign minister in the twenty-first century. The answer should be obvious. Silence in the face of such rhetoric is not neutrality. It is permission.

If the civilized world cannot bring itself to openly condemn language that dehumanizes an entire nation, we should not be surprised when that language becomes more common, more extreme, and more dangerous. Words have meaning. When leaders cross red lines, those red lines must be defended. Otherwise, we will hear the same words again. The next time, they may be louder. And they may very well be accompanied by the sharp smell of gunpowder.

Good things,

Ari Sacher