Empires came and went while we, the Jewish people, persecuted

Host: The night settled over Jerusalem like a veil of fire and prayer. The old stones glowed beneath the moonlight, whispering centuries of struggle and song. The Western Wall stood silent, massive, ancient — each crack filled with notes and tears, folded prayers like fragments of human breath trapped in time.

The wind carried the faint hum of chanting from a nearby synagogue, voices rising and falling like waves upon eternity.

Jack stood near the wall, his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes grey, reflecting the flicker of the candles that burned in the plaza. Jeeny, her hair wrapped in a loose scarf, approached quietly, her steps soft on the stone. She stopped beside him, her gaze drawn upward — not at the wall, but beyond it, toward something unseen yet deeply felt.

Jeeny: “Eli Yishai said, ‘Empires came and went while we, the Jewish people, persecuted relentlessly, facing expulsions and pogroms and the Holocaust, survived. We survived thanks to the Torah and faith in the Lord.’”

Host: Her voice was low, almost reverent — but edged with pain, like the sound of faith remembering its scars.

Jack: “Faith. Always faith.” (He exhales.) “It’s remarkable how one word has carried a people through so much suffering. But I wonder — was it faith, or defiance disguised as faith?”

Jeeny: “What’s the difference?”

Jack: “Defiance is human. Faith is surrender. Maybe they survived because they refused to bow to despair — not because they believed a divine hand would save them.”

Jeeny: “And yet that refusal is faith. You think faith is only about trusting heaven. Sometimes it’s about refusing to abandon light when the world goes dark.”

Host: The flames of nearby candles trembled in the breeze, like fragile souls — flickering, but never extinguished.

Jack: “You call that light divine; I call it endurance. The Torah didn’t shield them from persecution. No scroll stopped a bullet. What kept them alive was resilience, community — not scripture.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you think scripture is separate from soul. The Torah isn’t ink on parchment, Jack. It’s memory. It’s moral architecture. It taught them who they were when the world told them they were nothing.”

Jack: “Identity can be a curse too. Nations have died clinging to it.”

Jeeny: “And nations have vanished for losing it. The Jewish people carried identity like fire — dangerous, yes, but essential for warmth in the dark.”

Host: A group of young soldiers passed nearby, their boots soft on the stone, their rifles gleaming under moonlight — symbols of modern defense in a city built on ancient fragility.

Jack: “You think survival is proof of God?”

Jeeny: “No. Survival is proof of belief — and belief itself is a miracle.”

Jack: “But belief didn’t stop the Holocaust.”

Jeeny: “No. But it stopped the Holocaust from being the end.”

Host: Her eyes glistened, not from tears, but from a light that seemed to rise from within — something stubborn, untamable.

Jeeny: “Empires always promise forever — Babylon, Rome, Spain, the Reich. And yet each fell into the dust. Only those who believed in something greater than empire remained.”

Jack: “You make it sound like divine justice.”

Jeeny: “Not justice — endurance. Justice belongs to history. Endurance belongs to the human heart.”

Host: The wind grew colder. Somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of a shofar rose and fell — ancient, mournful, eternal.

Jack: “But don’t you think faith is dangerous too? That it blinds people? For every story of survival, there’s another of fanaticism. Faith builds temples and burns them.”

Jeeny: “That’s not faith’s fault. That’s the corruption of it. The same fire that warms can destroy — it depends on whose hands it’s in.”

Jack: “Still, to say they survived because of faith — it sounds too neat. Like a story written to justify suffering.”

Jeeny: “Or to give suffering meaning. Isn’t that what humans do, Jack? We turn pain into purpose. Without it, the soul withers.”

Host: The wall loomed above them — a silent witness, its surface worn by centuries of hands, tears, and hope.

Jack: “You talk about purpose, but where’s the fairness? A people persecuted for centuries, still standing — yes — but at what cost? You call that divine love?”

Jeeny: “Love doesn’t always protect. Sometimes it preserves. The Holocaust should have destroyed faith, but for many, it deepened it. Maybe because when everything is stripped away, belief is all that’s left.”

Jack: “You’d call that strength.”

Jeeny: “You’d call it delusion.”

Host: Their words collided, sharp as the desert wind — but beneath the clash, there was a shared ache, an unspoken reverence for those who’d carried both torch and wound through history.

Jeeny: “Yishai wasn’t glorifying suffering, Jack. He was acknowledging survival — the quiet miracle of continuity. The Torah wasn’t armor; it was memory. Memory that refused to die.”

Jack: “And yet, maybe survival isn’t divine — maybe it’s just stubbornness coded into humanity. Maybe every tribe that endures calls it God.”

Jeeny: “Then call it what you want. I’ll still call it faith. Because without faith, stubbornness turns to bitterness. And there’s no survival in bitterness — only delay.”

Host: A faint light glimmered through the clouds, painting the wall in silver. Jack’s expression softened — not in agreement, but in recognition.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, when I was younger, I read about the camps. I used to wonder — how could anyone still believe in God after that? How could anyone pray in the smoke of Auschwitz?”

Jeeny: “And what did you decide?”

Jack: “That maybe they weren’t praying for rescue. Maybe they were praying not to forget who they were.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s faith, Jack — not expecting salvation, but remembering identity even in ruin.”

Host: The wind stirred again, lifting her scarf, carrying it briefly toward the wall before it fell back upon her shoulders. The gesture felt sacred — as though the air itself had bowed.

Jeeny: “Empires come and go because they believe in power. The Jewish people survived because they believed in purpose.”

Jack: “Purpose stronger than power?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The candles beside the wall began to gutter as the breeze strengthened, but none went out. They bent and flickered, their flames dancing defiantly against the cold.

Jack: “You think that’s why they still light candles — every Sabbath, every year — even after all this time?”

Jeeny: “Not because they forget suffering, but because they refuse to let suffering define them.”

Host: A long silence. The city breathed — the sound of distant bells, the murmur of prayer, the quiet hum of survival.

Jack: (softly) “So maybe it’s not that faith saved them… maybe it’s that faith gave them the reason to keep living.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith doesn’t erase pain, Jack. It outlives it.”

Host: She reached out and pressed her palm gently to the ancient stone, closing her eyes. Jack watched her — and after a moment, he did the same. Two hands, two souls — one skeptical, one faithful — touching a wall that had outlasted kings.

Above them, the moonlight bathed the city in quiet grace.

Empires had indeed risen and fallen. Armies had come and gone. Flags had burned and been rewritten.

But the wall remained.

And so did the faith — not untouched by doubt, but strengthened by it.

Host: In that silence, the past and present breathed together, and for one fragile instant, both Jack and Jeeny understood the same truth:

That survival is not proof of victory — it is proof of spirit.

And spirit, like the flame of a Sabbath candle, may bend in the wind —
but it never goes out.