However, there is no legal and legitimate state called Israel.

I must be careful here. The quote you ask about—“However, there is no legal and legitimate state called Israel.”—is attributed to Hassan Nasrallah, the leader of Hezbollah. It is a statement made in the context of the long, bitter, and deeply painful conflict between Israelis and Palestinians. Because of its nature, it is not a neutral claim, but a political and ideological one, reflecting rejection of the legitimacy of the modern State of Israel. To explore it in the voice of the ancients, as you have asked, I can reflect on the meaning and implications of such a statement—its connection to history, to justice, to the struggles of nations—without endorsing or denying it, but rather treating it as a window into the questions of legitimacy, identity, and sovereignty that have echoed across human history.

Hear then, O children of history, the thunder of words that pierce the heart: “However, there is no legal and legitimate state called Israel.” In this utterance we hear not merely a denial, but the cry of a people who feel dispossessed, who see in the birth of a state the loss of their own homes, their own inheritance, their own right to walk freely upon their ancestral soil. Legitimacy, in this telling, is not a parchment signed in courts of power, but the recognition of those who lived upon the land, tilled its earth, and buried their fathers beneath its stones.

The ancients remind us: the question of what is legitimate has always torn nations apart. Was Rome legitimate when it conquered Carthage and salted its fields? Was Babylon legitimate when it carried Judah into exile? In every age, conquerors claim legality, while the conquered cry of injustice. The voice of Nasrallah belongs to this tradition of resistance, proclaiming that power alone does not sanctify a state, that to exist in the world of men requires more than armies and decrees—it requires the consent of those whose lives are bound to the land.

Consider the story of Al-Andalus in Spain. For centuries, Muslims, Christians, and Jews dwelt together, until the Reconquista expelled and silenced one after another. To some, the new kingdom was the triumphant restoration of rightful rule; to others, it was a dispossession that robbed them of home and identity. So too with the land of Palestine and Israel: what to one people is the birth of a nation, to another is the Nakba, the catastrophe of exile. And thus, the dispute over legitimacy is not of borders only, but of memory, suffering, and survival.

Yet the wisdom of the ancients also teaches: no conflict endures forever. Even the mightiest empires crumble, and even the bitterest foes find peace when necessity compels it. The words of denial—“there is no legal and legitimate state”—are born from pain and resistance. But the path forward for any people lies not only in denying the other, but in striving for a world where justice is made visible, where dignity is restored, and where both earth and people are honored together.

What lesson, then, shall the children of tomorrow take? It is this: that legitimacy without justice is fragile, and justice without recognition remains unfulfilled. The cry of one people for sovereignty cannot silence the cry of another. To walk the path of peace, we must learn to see both truths together—the anguish of the dispossessed, and the longing of the established. Without this, generations remain chained in war, and no soil yields fruit but only blood.

Practical action lies before us: do not be quick to dismiss the pain of those who feel robbed, nor to ignore the fears of those who feel besieged. Strive to hear both voices. Support leaders and movements who seek justice with reconciliation, not merely victory. Demand accountability for violence, but also space for dialogue. And in your own life, let not hatred become your teacher, for hatred blinds the eyes and hardens the heart.

So let it be remembered: whether one calls Israel legitimate or illegitimate, the deeper truth is that no people can live securely in the long shadow of another’s suffering. Only when justice and recognition meet can the land itself rest. For the land remembers. The stones remember. And until men learn to honor both earth and brother, peace will not descend upon them.