I cannot say that the attitude of the United Nations always is

Host: The night had a heavy weight to it — a dust-filled silence over the old Tel Aviv port, where the sea lapped slowly against the rocks like a tired beast. The sky was deep violet, and the lamps along the promenade threw long, wavering shadows across the wooden planks. Jack leaned against the railing, a cigarette burning between his fingers, its ember bright against the darkness. Jeeny stood beside him, her hair pulled back, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon, where a few lonely ships drifted under the faint stars.

The wind carried a faint echo of music from the nearby cafés, mixed with the distant sirens that had become a kind of background rhythm to the city’s pulse.

Jeeny: “You’ve been quiet since the news broke. What’s on your mind?”

Jack: “A quote I read earlier. Ariel Sharon once said, ‘I cannot say that the attitude of the United Nations always is for the Israeli attitude. Israel, I think, has been under severe attacks by members of the United Nations many times.’ It’s not just about politics — it’s about being judged by a world that doesn’t live your reality.”

Host: The sea breeze tugged at Jack’s coat, fluttering it like a flag that refused to rest. His voice was low, weighed down not with anger, but with something more brittle — a sense of futility.

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s about perspective. Every nation sees itself as misunderstood. The world outside sees things differently. The U.N. isn’t a monster, Jack — it’s a mirror. Sometimes it reflects what people don’t want to see.”

Jack: “A mirror that’s cracked in a hundred ways. Tell me, Jeeny — how can an institution that claims to stand for justice keep voting against one of its own members again and again? Do you know there’ve been more U.N. resolutions against Israel than against countries that committed genocide? That’s not a mirror. That’s a bias dressed as virtue.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not bias. Maybe it’s reaction. When a nation uses force, even for survival, it shocks those who’ve forgotten what existential fear feels like. You and I talk here, under a quiet sky, but for many Palestinians — that sky means drones, not stars.”

Host: The sound of waves intensified, like an unseen heartbeat rising beneath their words. Lights from fishing boats blinked in the distance — small, fragile, yet defiant against the dark sea.

Jack: “And yet, the U.N. stays silent when rockets rain down on Israeli towns. When civilians are killed, when children grow up in bomb shelters. The world only wakes up when Israel fights back. It’s always the same — condemnation for defense, silence for provocation.”

Jeeny: “But can you really separate defense from domination anymore? It’s been seventy-five years of cycles — violence, retaliation, grief. Maybe the U.N.’s constant criticism is a symptom of that fatigue. The world sees blood and can’t tell whose hand spilled it first.”

Jack: “History knows whose hand moved first — and second, and again. But history doesn’t vote, Jeeny. Politicians do. Half the nations in that assembly don’t even have democracy — yet they sit in judgment over one that does.”

Jeeny: “Democracy isn’t a shield, Jack. You can have elections and still lose your soul. What matters is not who votes, but what they value. The U.N. is flawed, yes — but at least it tries to mediate, to speak, even when its voice trembles.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying a faint smell of salt and diesel. Jack dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushed it under his heel. His face was lit faintly by a passing car’s headlights — a flash of grey eyes, sharp and weary, like a man perpetually caught between loyalty and doubt.

Jack: “The U.N. was supposed to prevent wars, Jeeny. Now it just counts the bodies after each one. Do you remember Rwanda? Bosnia? Syria? It watched, issued reports, and did nothing. But with Israel — it acts. Always acts.”

Jeeny: “And yet, isn’t that proof that Israel matters? That it sits at the moral crossroads of the world’s conscience? Every nation projects its guilt, its hope, onto that land. It’s not just politics — it’s mythology. Jerusalem is not just a city; it’s an idea. And every idea attracts its share of conflict.”

Jack: “So we’re a symbol now? A story to keep the world’s conscience busy? That’s not justice, Jeeny. That’s sacrifice by spectacle.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack — that’s history. Every nation born in trauma carries a shadow longer than its flag. Maybe Israel’s story isn’t about being loved, but about surviving in spite of the world’s discomfort.”

Host: A deep silence followed — the kind that grows when truth cuts too close. The harbor lights flickered across the waves, shattering into trembling shards of gold. Jack’s hand rested on the railing, gripping it as if the whole argument were pulling him toward some inner edge.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve accepted it — the world’s judgment, the double standards. As if it’s just part of the script.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have. Because no one escapes judgment — not nations, not people. The question isn’t whether the U.N. is fair; it’s whether we still believe in dialogue, even when it hurts.”

Jack: “Dialogue? That’s easy to say when the missiles aren’t aimed at your house.”

Jeeny: “And yet the same could be said by a mother in Gaza watching her home crumble. You see, Jack, both sides are trapped — not by hate, but by the memory of it.”

Host: The sea roared louder now, as if echoing the unresolved rage of a world too small for its history. The moonlight trembled across the water, catching the salt tears in Jeeny’s eyes.

Jack: “So what do you suggest? That Israel keeps apologizing for surviving?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe it can survive with grace — without losing the compassion that justified its existence in the first place. Maybe strength isn’t only in walls, but in empathy.”

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t stop rockets.”

Jeeny: “Neither do walls forever.”

Host: The words hung between them like smoke that refused to disperse. The waves crashed, retreated, then crashed again — a rhythm as old as conflict itself.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, Sharon wasn’t wrong. Israel has been under attack — from enemies, from rhetoric, from history. But maybe he forgot something: sometimes, the attack comes not from others, but from within — from doubt.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the only battle that ever really matters.”

Host: A long pause. The wind softened. Somewhere behind them, the city hummed with ordinary life — laughter, traffic, the smell of bread from a late-night bakery. Jeeny turned to him, her face calm now, almost serene.

Jeeny: “The U.N. isn’t perfect, Jack. But neither is any nation. Maybe what we need isn’t a world that always agrees — but one that keeps trying to.”

Jack: “Even when it fails?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The camera would have slowly pulled back now — the two of them, silhouetted against the vast, indifferent sea; the lights of Tel Aviv flickering like fragile hope across the dark. The soundtrack would fade into the gentle thrum of waves, that endless dialogue between earth and water, between nation and world, between truth and belief.

And as the screen dimmed to black, the last thing left would be the whisper of Sharon’s words — a reminder that even power can feel persecuted, and even the righteous crave understanding.

That in the end, perhaps no one is entirely innocent, and no one entirely wrong — just human, reaching for the impossible balance between justice and survival.