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What first struck me about Paris, this so-called city of liberty, was its curated grief, sanctioned empathy, and decorated silence. France mourns Ukraine loudly. Gaza, on the other hand, must be whispered. The Palestinian flag cannot be seen here. It is hidden, feared, criminalised. If you’re lucky, you find it painted in graffiti, a shy declaration of solidarity hastily sprayed like a secret. Should I be surprised? After all, France is a colonial empire that never dismantled itself, but only rebranded. From Algeria to Vietnam to Syria, France’s hands are stained with the blood of those who dared to resist it. When France supported the Zionist movement in the 20th century, when it trained Israeli officers, when it helped militarise a settler-colonial state on stolen land, it wasn’t out of ignorance. It was out of solidarity, white solidarity, with another colonial project.