For me, peace should provide security to the Jewish people.

"For me, peace should provide security to the Jewish people." Thus declared Ariel Sharon, warrior and statesman, whose life was forged in the fires of battle and tested in the councils of power. His words are both personal and universal, for they remind us that peace is not merely the silence of guns, nor the signing of treaties, but the assurance of security, the shelter of a people long hounded, long scarred, and long yearning for rest. Sharon’s vision was not abstract harmony, but tangible safety: that children might walk to school without fear, that families might sleep without dread, that the Jewish people—after centuries of wandering and persecution—might know a home inviolate.

The ancients, too, understood this truth. Did not the prophets of Israel cry out for a day when each man would sit beneath his vine and his fig tree, unafraid? Did not the Roman writers describe pax not as lofty ideals but as safety of roads, guarded borders, and protection of the hearth? Peace without security is fragile, a house without a foundation, a dream that can be shattered by the first whisper of violence. Sharon, shaped by war, knew that peace must be built not only on words, but on shields strong enough to guard them.

Consider the long journey of the Jewish people. Driven from their land, scattered across continents, they lived for centuries as strangers, often unwelcome, often in peril. Pogroms in Eastern Europe, expulsions from kingdoms, and the unspeakable horror of the Holocaust—all were chapters of insecurity, where peace was denied and life itself was precarious. When Sharon spoke of security, he spoke with the weight of history pressing upon him, the memory of a people who had known what it meant to live without safety. For them, peace could never be a luxury—it had to be a shield.

History gives us mirrors to this truth. When Winston Churchill spoke of peace, he too insisted it must be armed with security, lest it collapse into appeasement and betrayal. He saw in the 1930s how agreements with no teeth could not protect nations from the hunger of tyranny. In the same way, Sharon’s words echo across ages: peace must not be naïve. It must protect as well as promise, guard as well as heal.

Children of tomorrow, mark this wisdom: true peace is not only the end of conflict but the presence of security. A peace that leaves one side exposed to danger is no peace at all, but a prelude to greater sorrow. To build peace, one must consider not only lofty ideals but also the deep fears and needs of those who have suffered. Without security, peace is fragile; with it, peace becomes enduring.

Practical action lies within your grasp. When you seek peace in your own life—whether in family, community, or nation—do not settle for surface calm. Ask: are all safe? Are all protected? Are the weak sheltered, are the fearful reassured? Peace must be more than words; it must be felt in the bones, trusted in the heart. Labor for peace that defends as well as reconciles, for only then will it endure the storms of time.

Thus the lesson is clear: peace and security are twins, born together, unable to live apart. Ariel Sharon, soldier turned statesman, reminds us that peace without security is a shadow, but peace with security is a fortress. Let your labors, then, be not only for treaties and promises, but for safety and trust, that future generations may live not in fear, but in the calm strength of true peace.