There is a moment, suspended between dusk and night, when the air itself seems to hold its breath. It is in this quiet charged with omens that the most subtle work of power flourishes: not brutal imposition, but the sweet, methodical cultivation of resignation. First, with the patience of a poisoned gardener, the soil is prepared. Crises are sown, watered with disorder, fertilized with fear. Hunger and poverty are not system failures; they are its undeclared pillars. Social fractures, forced migrations that uproot cultures like ancient trees, are not accidents along the way. They are the design. A people divided, displaced, stripped of their roots and their certainties, is a people who no longer know who they are. And those who do not know who they are are ready to believe anyone who tells them who they should be, and above all, who should no longer be.

The climate emergency is shouted, CO2 is brandished as a weapon of mass destruction. And yet, it is the very breath of life on Earth, the respiration of forests, the whisper of the living world. Without it, we would be a sterile rock like Mars. But the real pollution is not in the atmosphere; it is in the boardrooms, where it is decided that eight billion breaths are too many. That they consume too much oxygen, too many resources. Their oxygen. Their wealth. And so the problem, meticulously built brick by brick, demands a solution. The cure. A term so clean, aseptic, hospital-like. It hides the butcher’s knife under the doctor’s white coat.

The latest, lucid folly of this philosophy is the normalization of one’s own disappearance. After being stripped of everything—work, identity, future—the robbed are offered the final, bitter gift: the dignity of leaving. Assisted suicide, euthanasia, are not presented as extreme tragedies, but as acts of freedom. It is the ultimate stroke of genius: to turn murder into a right, surrender into a choice. We have taken away your hope? Here, we give you the keys to exit. And you, in your despair, give thanks. It is the perfect alchemy of evil: converting oppression into emancipation, poison into medicine.

Thus, a crime against humanity is perpetrated not with extermination camps, but with forms to fill out. Not with bayonets, but with balance sheets and protocols. It is a silent war, waged with statistics and narrative, where the enemy to be eradicated is not an army, but life itself, when it becomes inconvenient, when it becomes numerous, when it dares to breathe too loudly. Faced with this polished, inhuman machine, words recoil, wear down to the bone. Exhausted. For how can one describe the abyss to those who are falling, without becoming oneself an echo of the void? Nothing remains but silence, a silence laden with an ancient rage and a nameless sorrow, the only possible response to an evil that has forgotten it is evil.