I think one of the problems when we discuss the Israel-Palestine

Hearken, children of the future, to the words of Norman Finkelstein, a scholar whose voice rises like a trumpet in the wilderness of confusion. He said: “I think one of the problems when we discuss the Israel-Palestine conflict is people talk too much in terms of, ‘What’s your preference?,’ like politics is a Chinese menu—I’ll take one from column A and two from column B. That’s not what politics is about.” In this saying is wisdom both sharp and unsettling, for it reminds us that politics is not a banquet of choices, nor a market stall where desires are traded. Politics, in its truest form, is not the indulgence of preference, but the struggle for justice, the weighing of truth, the bearing of responsibility toward the living and the dead.

Too often, men and women approach matters of grave consequence as though they were diners at a feast, selecting casually from dishes according to appetite. But politics is no such thing. It is not about what pleases the tongue or comforts the heart. It is about what is right, what is endurable, and what is demanded by conscience. In the case of Israel and Palestine, this truth is sharpened to a blade, for here lies not a debate of flavor or taste, but a question of lives, of land, of exile and belonging. To treat such matters as though they were a menu is to dishonor both the suffering and the dignity of peoples.

History offers us lessons in the cost of treating politics as preference rather than principle. Recall the years before the American Civil War, when statesmen spoke endlessly of compromise—balancing the interests of North and South, of slaveholder and abolitionist—as though the enslavement of human beings were merely one dish upon the table of politics, to be measured against tariffs and trade. But slavery was not a matter of taste; it was a matter of justice. To frame it as preference betrayed those who lived in chains. Only when the nation faced the question as one of moral truth, rather than political bargaining, did liberation come—though it was purchased with rivers of blood.

In this, Finkelstein’s warning is prophetic: beware the temptation to see conflict as a puzzle of preferences, solvable by negotiation alone. Preferences shift like the wind, but justice endures like the mountain. In Israel and Palestine, two peoples are bound in a history of pain. To speak of “taking one from column A and two from column B” is to reduce tragedy to convenience, to imagine that the fate of nations can be settled as casually as an evening’s meal. Politics, rightly understood, demands we ask: Who suffers? Who is dispossessed? What accords with the dignity of human beings?

There is heroism in those who have refused the language of preference and demanded the language of truth. Remember Desmond Tutu, who stood against apartheid in South Africa. Many called for half-measures, for compromise, for patience—preferences that served the powerful. But Tutu declared that apartheid was a moral evil, intolerable in any measure. His politics was not a menu of desires but a moral stand. And because of this, the chains of millions were broken. Such examples remind us: politics must rest on the foundation of principle, else it crumbles into hypocrisy.

Therefore, children of the present and heirs of the future, take this lesson: when you encounter the struggles of the world—whether in Palestine, in your own city, or in your neighbor’s home—do not ask first what you prefer, but what is just. Do not seek comfort in compromise if compromise means betraying truth. Do not speak as though human suffering is an item to be weighed against convenience. Instead, speak as one who recognizes the sacredness of life, who dares to bear the heavy weight of responsibility.

And as for action, let each of you train your mind and heart to discern between preference and principle. When you hear debates, listen not for the flavors that please you, but for the cries of those who are silenced. When you choose, let your choice be guided not by appetite but by conscience. Read deeply, question courageously, and stand where justice calls, even when that place is difficult, even when it is lonely. For politics is not the art of satisfying the self—it is the art of serving the truth.

Thus, the teaching of Finkelstein resounds: politics is not a menu. It is the battlefield of morality, the proving ground of justice, the path by which nations rise or fall. Let us walk it not as diners seeking satisfaction, but as pilgrims seeking righteousness. For only then can the burdens of history be lifted, and only then can peace—true peace, founded on dignity—come to pass.