I have not one shred of anger in my heart against Netanyahu or

Host: The desert stretched endlessly under a crimson sky, the sun melting into the horizon like a wound closing slowly. The air shimmered with heat, heavy with dust and the faint smell of dry earth. In the distance, a small roadside café stood — its wooden sign swinging in the wind, the paint peeling, the letters half-erased by time.

Host: Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other at a rough table, a pot of tea between them, steam curling like a fragile spirit. The radio whispered in Hebrew, the announcer’s voice low, measured, speaking of politics, conflict, reconciliation.

Host: Jack’s eyes were cold, reflective, like steel that had seen too much fire. Jeeny’s hands were clasped, her fingers trembling slightly as she listened.

Jeeny: “Did you hear what Naftali Bennett said? ‘I have not one shred of anger in my heart against Netanyahu or his wife.’”

Jack: (snorts) “That’s politics, Jeeny. Words for the camera. You don’t lead a country through betrayal and walk away without anger. That’s not human.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s exactly what’s human — to forgive. To refuse to let hate take root. Maybe it’s the only way anyone can stay sane in that world.”

Host: The wind outside howled, brushing sand against the windows like tiny needles. Jack lifted his cup, sipped, and stared through the steam as though seeing some other battlefield.

Jack: “Forgiveness is just a mask people wear when they’re too tired to fight. You can’t just erase betrayal with a sentence.”

Jeeny: “It’s not erasing it. It’s releasing it.”

Jack: “That’s the same thing. The moment you let go, they win. They keep their power, and you keep your scars.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes lifted, steady, burning with quiet fire.

Jeeny: “Do you think Nelson Mandela lost when he walked out of prison and forgave his captors? He said, ‘As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.’ Forgiveness wasn’t weakness, Jack. It was freedom.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. His voice dropped, almost a growl.

Jack: “Mandela had something to gain — a nation to rebuild, a legacy to protect. But Bennett? He’s just another politician trying to look righteous. He forgives because it sells. There’s no morality in it — just strategy.”

Jeeny: “You see, that’s where you always go — cynicism. You think every act of grace is a trick.”

Jack: “Because it usually is. The world doesn’t reward forgiveness; it devours it. Look at history. Jesus forgave, and they crucified him. Gandhi preached peace, and they shot him. The kind get killed, Jeeny. The forgiving become martyrs.”

Jeeny: “And yet, their names outlived their killers. Isn’t that the point?”

Host: The light shifted, turning the room gold for a moment, then dim again. The radio crackled, then fell silent. The world outside seemed to pause, listening.

Jack: “You really believe that forgiving the people who stab you in the back makes you strong?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it means they can’t define you anymore. Anger is a chain, Jack. Forgiveness breaks it.”

Jack: “No. Anger is truth. It’s what tells you something’s wrong. Without it, you’re just — numb.”

Jeeny: “No, anger is a fire that burns the house you live in. It destroys the one who holds it, not the one it’s aimed at.”

Host: Jack’s hand slammed the table. The cups rattled. His eyes flared — not in hatred, but in something deeper: hurt.

Jack: “You talk about forgiveness like it’s a choice you make over tea. But what do you know about betrayal? About trusting someone who tears your life apart?”

Jeeny: (softly) “More than you think.”

Host: Silence. The kind that’s too thick to breathe through.

Jeeny: “My brother… he turned me in once. I was helping activists during the protest years. He thought he was protecting me. I spent a year under house arrest. I hated him for it. For years. Every time I saw his face, it was like the world was mocking me.”

Jack: (his voice barely a whisper) “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now he’s dying. And all that anger… it feels like carrying poison I fed myself.”

Host: Jack’s expression softened. His shoulders slumped. The fire in his eyes flickered down to a tired glow.

Jack: “So you forgave him?”

Jeeny: “I’m trying. Forgiveness isn’t an act, Jack. It’s a process — like healing a wound you can’t see.”

Jack: “But Bennett’s words — they sound too easy. ‘Not one shred of anger.’ Come on, nobody’s that clean inside.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he’s not. Maybe it’s aspirational. Maybe he’s saying what he wants to become. We say things we don’t fully feel yet — not to deceive, but to grow into them.”

Host: The wind quieted. The sun had fallen below the horizon, leaving behind only a deep, bruised violet sky. The first stars began to appear, small and defiant.

Jack: “You think forgiveness is growth. I think it’s denial.”

Jeeny: “Then tell me, Jack — what has your anger given you?”

Host: Jack didn’t answer. His hands were trembling now, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

Jeeny: “You carry it like a weapon, but it’s only cutting you. Don’t you ever get tired?”

Jack: “Every damn day.”

Host: His voice cracked, the walls of cynicism fracturing. Jeeny reached across the table, her hand gentle on his wrist.

Jeeny: “Then let it go. Not for them. For you.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then forgive yourself first. The rest will follow.”

Host: The air in the café felt different now — lighter, almost sacred. The dust in the light looked like tiny sparks, as if the universe itself was exhaling.

Jack: “You make forgiveness sound like art.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. The art of turning pain into peace.”

Host: Jack looked out the window at the endless desert. Somewhere, the moon was rising — pale, distant, whole.

Jack: “So you think Bennett’s words weren’t political?”

Jeeny: “I think maybe, for once, they weren’t. Maybe he meant it. Maybe in a land where hate grows faster than olive trees, forgiveness is the bravest thing you can say.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, his face thoughtful, almost calm.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe forgiveness isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s... refusing to be controlled by what broke you.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s saying — you can’t have my heart anymore.”

Host: The camera would linger there — two silhouettes in a quiet desert café, the radio murmuring back to life, the wind easing its rage.

Host: Outside, the stars brightened — each one a small, stubborn act of forgiveness against the dark.

Host: And for a fleeting moment, the world seemed to breathe again.