For us to become a nation, everyone - including Arabs, Druze

Host: The morning light stretched over the Galilee hills like a quiet benediction — soft, golden, and infinitely patient. The air carried the scent of olive trees, iron, and earth, the blend of something both ancient and industrious. Beyond the valley, a factory’s hum echoed faintly, its machines awakening with the sun, turning steel into something useful, something enduring.

On the terrace of a small kibbutz café, two figures sat overlooking the fields where farmers and engineers worked side by side. Jack leaned on the railing, his hands rough, his eyes distant, watching a group of young workers—Jewish, Arab, Druze—moving crates together, laughing in a mix of languages that sounded almost like music.

Across from him, Jeeny sat at a wooden table with her notebook open, her dark hair glinting in the morning light, her eyes calm yet bright with conviction.

The radio behind them crackled faintly, playing a short interview — a voice filled the air, wise, deliberate:

“For us to become a nation, everyone — including Arabs, Druze, ultra-Orthodox and new immigrants — must feel that they belong. Their success is extremely important to us. If they succeed, they will come to understand the advantages of democracy and freedom.”
— Stef Wertheimer

A pause. Then silence — like the hills themselves were listening.

Jeeny: “He’s right, you know. A nation isn’t built by borders, Jack. It’s built by belonging.”

Jack: Still watching the workers. “Belonging sounds nice in speeches. But in practice? People cling to their tribes. To their wounds. You can’t just tell a man to forget who he is because you want unity.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what he said. He didn’t say ‘forget.’ He said ‘belong.’ There’s a difference.”

Jack: “A semantic one.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “No. A moral one.”

Host: A truck rumbled by the road below, dust rising briefly before settling into the morning heat. The sound of hammering from the nearby workshop punctuated the air — rhythmic, steady, almost like a heartbeat.

Jack: “You’ve lived in cities too long, Jeeny. Out here, things are different. People remember every scar. Every fence. Every broken promise. You can’t build democracy on top of distrust.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But you can build trust through shared success. That’s what Wertheimer did — he built factories where Arabs and Jews worked side by side, not as symbols, but as craftsmen. That’s not idealism. That’s strategy.”

Jack: “Strategy for what? Peace through productivity?” He laughed quietly, bitterly. “You think making widgets together heals history?”

Jeeny: “Not widgets — dignity. Work gives people a stake. A reason to see each other as human again.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing labor. The same factories you praise are run by systems that still favor one side over another. You can’t build equality on uneven ground.”

Jeeny: “Then you level the ground. That’s what progress is for.”

Host: The wind rose, carrying the call to prayer from a nearby village. It drifted through the hills — serene, solemn — and met the faint strains of Hebrew music playing from a truck’s radio across the road. The two sounds intertwined for a moment, neither overpowering the other.

Jeeny listened, her eyes soft, while Jack’s brow furrowed, caught between disbelief and longing.

Jack: “You hear that? Two worlds. Same sky, different gods.”

Jeeny: “Maybe one God. Different languages.”

Jack: “And you think democracy can translate between them?”

Jeeny: “It has to. Otherwise, it’s just a word on a flag.”

Jack: “Democracy only works when people trust the system. And people who’ve been left behind — they don’t trust anything that speaks in slogans.”

Jeeny: “Then stop speaking in slogans. Start listening.”

Jack: “Listening doesn’t change power.”

Jeeny: “No. But it changes hearts. And hearts change power.”

Host: The sun climbed higher, catching on the metal roof of the workshop, throwing bright reflections into their eyes. Jack blinked, shielding his face, while Jeeny didn’t move — as if she welcomed the glare.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. As if democracy’s some light we can just hold up and everyone will suddenly see.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a light. It’s a bridge. And you build it piece by piece — with education, equality, opportunity.”

Jack: “You sound like a policy paper.”

Jeeny: Smirking softly. “And you sound like someone who’s given up believing policy can change anything.”

Jack: “I haven’t given up. I’ve just seen what happens when ideals meet reality. You build a bridge, someone bombs it. You teach tolerance, someone exploits it. You talk about democracy — but democracy doesn’t feed a child or stop a bullet.”

Jeeny: “Neither does cynicism.”

Host: Her words lingered, hanging in the dry morning air like dust motes caught in sunlight. For a moment, even the machines seemed to pause, their rhythmic clatter replaced by a brief, deep quiet.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? I think democracy isn’t the goal. It’s the method. It’s how we learn to disagree without destroying each other.”

Jack: Quietly. “And what if people don’t want to learn?”

Jeeny: “Then teach them anyway.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one being hated.”

Jeeny: “And harder to say when you are — which is why it matters more.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, but her eyes stayed fixed on the hills. Somewhere in the distance, a group of students walked past carrying flags — one Israeli, one Druze, one bearing no symbols at all, just white cloth fluttering in the wind.

Jack watched them until they disappeared into the light.

Jack: “Maybe Wertheimer’s right. Maybe if everyone succeeds, they’ll start believing in democracy. But success isn’t evenly distributed. Some people start with everything. Others start with nothing but resentment.”

Jeeny: “Then the ones who have more must build longer tables, not higher fences.”

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never felt resentment.”

Jeeny: “I have. And it ate me alive until I realized — belonging isn’t something others give you. It’s something you decide to claim.”

Jack: “So everyone just decides to belong, and that fixes it?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the first step toward not being defined by who excluded you.”

Host: The factory whistle blew, its sound echoing through the valley. Workers began to emerge for lunch — laughing, smoking, talking across languages. The air shimmered with heat and conversation.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence for a while, both watching — the rhythm of coexistence, fragile but visible.

Jack: “You know what I see? I see people who just want to live. Maybe that’s the real foundation of democracy — not ideas, but hunger. Hunger to belong, to be safe, to be seen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And when that hunger is met, people stop fighting for survival and start fighting for principle.”

Jack: “You think we’ll get there?”

Jeeny: Looking at him gently. “We have to. Otherwise, everything we build will rust — factories, governments, even hearts.”

Host: The camera pulled back, capturing the wide sweep of the valley — the fields, the machines, the villages, all breathing beneath the same unbroken sky.

The sound of hammers began again — steady, determined.

Somewhere in that rhythm was a lesson older than politics and truer than slogans:

A nation isn’t born from blood or borders.
It’s built from the simple courage to belong together, even when it’s hard.

And as the sun rose higher, spilling gold across the steel, the day continued — unfinished, imperfect, but alive.