Courage is a special kind of knowledge: the knowledge of how to

Host: The wind screamed through the ruins of an abandoned city square, carrying with it the dry taste of dust and the faint hum of memory. The sun was sinking, spilling orange light over the cracked concrete, where weeds had clawed their way through time. A fallen statue of a soldier lay half-buried in the rubble, its stone eyes fixed forever toward a horizon that no longer answered.

Jack and Jeeny stood there in the twilight, wrapped in long shadows. A torn flag fluttered weakly from a broken pole, the colors faded, but still defiant.

Jack’s grey eyes scanned the emptiness; his voice came low, like the growl of a man who had seen too much.
Jeeny’s hair was tangled by the wind, her gaze softer, yet burning with quiet conviction.

They stood together, facing the ghost of a monument.

Jeeny: “David Ben-Gurion once said, ‘Courage is a special kind of knowledge: the knowledge of how to fear what ought to be feared and how not to fear what ought not to be feared.’ I think that’s what this place tried to teach us.”

Jack: “Knowledge,” he muttered, lighting a cigarette with rough hands. “That’s what we always call it when we want to justify pain. Maybe courage isn’t knowledge at all—maybe it’s just the absence of options.”

Host: The flame trembled in the wind, a small, stubborn spark against the dark. The smoke curled upward, vanishing like a prayer unspoken.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Courage isn’t about being cornered. It’s about seeing clearly what’s worth fearing—and standing your ground anyway. That’s what Ben-Gurion meant. True courage isn’t fearlessness. It’s discernment.”

Jack: “Discernment doesn’t win wars. Neither does philosophy.”

Jeeny: “But fear does. Misplaced fear. The wrong kind. History’s full of people who feared the wrong thing. Some feared change. Some feared truth. And some feared each other more than they feared injustice.”

Host: The light shifted—long shadows stretching across the cracked pavement, the air turning cool, metallic. Somewhere in the distance, a loose sheet of metal clanged against a wall, like an echo of something half-remembered.

Jack: “You think courage is some kind of moral compass. I don’t. I think it’s an instinct. You don’t learn what to fear—you survive it. Soldiers don’t philosophize about fear. They just move.”

Jeeny: “You always reduce it to survival. But survival without understanding is just endurance. A soldier who doesn’t know what he fights for is only obeying.”

Jack: “And a thinker who never fights is only dreaming.”

Host: The wind picked up again, sweeping dust between them. For a moment, they stood in silence, the ruins whispering around them like old ghosts.

Jeeny: “When I was a child,” she said softly, “my father told me that courage wasn’t about running into danger—it was about knowing which danger mattered. He used to quote Ben-Gurion too. Said the greatest mistake in life is to fear the small things while ignoring the great ones.”

Jack: “Your father was an idealist.”

Jeeny: “And yours?”

Jack: “A realist. He taught me to fear failure, not injustice. To fear poverty, not cruelty. He said the world doesn’t reward good intentions—it rewards results.”

Jeeny: “And look where that world got us.”

Host: The sun slipped lower, the light catching in Jeeny’s eyes—two small fires reflected in the wreckage. Jack looked away, exhaling smoke, watching it drift and dissolve into the evening.

Jack: “Ben-Gurion was a politician, Jeeny. He understood that courage is often convenient to define in hindsight. It’s easy to talk about fear when you’ve already conquered it.”

Jeeny: “You think he spoke from comfort? He lived through exile, war, chaos. He built a country from nothing. If anyone understood fear, it was him.”

Jack: “He also understood power. Don’t confuse courage with strategy.”

Jeeny: “But maybe strategy is courage—when it’s born of conviction. Israel wasn’t built by fearless people, Jack. It was built by terrified ones who learned which fears to keep and which to let go.”

Host: The wind carried her words across the square, bouncing them off the hollow windows of abandoned buildings. The sound came back distorted, haunting—fear… fear… fear…

Jack: “You always find meaning in the ashes. But tell me, Jeeny, what should we fear now? Failure? Death? Each other?”

Jeeny: “Fear the moment we stop asking that question.”

Host: The world seemed to hold its breath. Even the wind paused. The sky above was bleeding into violet, the first stars trembling awake.

Jeeny: “That’s what courage really is, Jack. The humility to fear the right things. Not everything that frightens us deserves to.”

Jack: “So what do you fear?”

Jeeny: “Cowardice disguised as reason. People who call their apathy realism. A world that learns to fear compassion more than violence.”

Host: Jack turned to look at her fully then, his cigarette forgotten, the ember dying between his fingers. There was something raw in his expression—something caught between cynicism and longing.

Jack: “And what shouldn’t we fear?”

Jeeny: “Losing. Failing. Falling apart. Sometimes what we call defeat is just the moment before transformation.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those war memorial speeches.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because the dead keep teaching the living the same lesson—we only understand courage when it’s too late.”

Host: The silence grew heavy. The sky deepened into night, swallowing color. A single streetlight flickered, weak but unyielding.

Jack: “You think courage is knowledge. I think it’s madness. Every person who ever stood against power was called a fool first.”

Jeeny: “And every tyrant was called practical.”

Host: Her words hit like quiet thunder. Jack’s lips curved into something between a smile and a sigh.

Jack: “You really believe fear can be taught?”

Jeeny: “No. But wisdom can be. And wisdom teaches fear’s boundaries.”

Jack: “Boundaries are illusions. You can’t categorize fear like species in a textbook.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can recognize its habitat—the mind. You can choose not to feed it.”

Host: The moonlight began to spread over the square, pale and deliberate. The statue’s cracked face glowed faintly under the light.

Jeeny: “Ben-Gurion wasn’t just talking about politics, Jack. He was talking about the human heart. Courage is knowing when fear protects you and when it imprisons you.”

Jack: “And you think you’ve mastered that?”

Jeeny: “No. I just stopped pretending I could live without fear.”

Host: The wind softened, carrying the scent of distant rain. Jack dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath his boot.

Jack: “You know, I think I’ve feared all the wrong things. I feared loss, failure, loneliness—but never apathy. Maybe that’s the one that kills the slowest.”

Jeeny: “That’s the one no one notices until it’s too late.”

Host: A quiet tremor passed through the air—like a heartbeat under the soil. The ruins seemed to breathe, the stones remembering the weight of human courage once carried there.

Jack: “So courage isn’t about charging forward—it’s about standing still, long enough to understand your own fear.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The bravest act is sometimes refusing to run.”

Host: The two stood in stillness as the first drops of rain began to fall—soft, sparse, each one glimmering under the pale moonlight. The flag above them flapped once, then stilled, heavy with water and history.

Jeeny looked up, smiling faintly.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what we’re doing now, Jack. Learning not to fear what shouldn’t be feared.”

Jack: “And learning to fear what deserves it.”

Jeeny: “Like forgetting.”

Jack: “Or silence.”

Host: The rain came harder now, drumming against the concrete, washing the dust from the statue’s face, revealing its worn but noble features. In the glow of the lamplight, it seemed almost alive again.

Jeeny and Jack stood side by side beneath the storm, not sheltering, not running.

And in that fragile moment—between fear and its absence—they found what Ben-Gurion had meant: that courage was never the absence of fear, but the art of fearing wisely.

The rain fell harder, and the world, for a brief heartbeat, seemed clean again.