I was learning, as I did in the Ministry of Defense. I never

Host:
The night was quiet except for the steady tick of an old clock and the faint rustle of papers drifting across a massive wooden desk. The room smelled of ink, dust, and history — the kind of place where every object seemed to remember something you didn’t.

Outside, the Jerusalem skyline shimmered under a full moon, the stone buildings glowing like old scars turned beautiful. From the open window, a breeze slipped in — dry, warm, carrying with it the far-off sound of a muezzin’s call and the answering bells of a distant church.

Jack sat at the desk, a stack of old briefings before him, his grey eyes scanning the yellowed pages as though trying to learn something that time had long erased. The lamplight cut across his face — sharp, focused, but weary.

Jeeny stood by the window, her silhouette soft against the moonlight, her hands folded loosely, her dark hair stirring in the wind. She had been watching him for a while, the way one watches someone lost in thought, afraid to interrupt the gravity of memory.

Then, in that quiet voice of hers — half thought, half conviction — she spoke.

Jeeny:
“Shimon Peres once said, ‘I was learning, as I did in the Ministry of Defense. I never knew, but I always learned.’”

She turned from the window to face him. “Do you ever feel like that, Jack? Like no matter how much you know, it’s never enough — and that the real strength isn’t certainty, but the willingness to keep learning?”

Jack:
He leaned back in his chair, his expression distant. “Peres had the luxury of reflection. He was building a nation from smoke and threats — every lesson was survival disguised as wisdom.”

Host:
The lamp flickered, and the shadows shifted like the thoughts in his head — restless, unresolved. Jeeny walked over to the desk, her footsteps soft against the old stone floor.

Jeeny:
“Maybe. But don’t you see what he meant? Learning isn’t luxury — it’s endurance. It’s what keeps you human when the world demands you be more than that.”

Jack:
He smiled faintly, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You make it sound noble. But I think learning is just another form of defense — the mind’s way of keeping the chaos at bay. Peres learned because he had to. The world kept throwing him puzzles written in fire.”

Host:
A gust of wind pushed the curtains inward, scattering the papers across the floor like the past refusing to stay organized. Jeeny crouched to pick one up, holding it carefully — an old map, the ink faded, the borders smudged.

Jeeny:
“Every lesson starts with not knowing,” she said, tracing one of the lines. “That’s what I love about his words — ‘I never knew, but I always learned.’ He’s admitting that uncertainty isn’t failure. It’s faith. Faith that learning itself is the only constant.”

Jack:
He looked at her for a long moment. “You think faith and learning are the same thing?”

Jeeny:
She smiled softly. “No. But they both begin with humility — with admitting you don’t have the answers.”

Host:
He turned back toward the desk, the light glancing off his silver watch, its ticking perfectly in time with the clock on the wall. Jack picked up one of the reports — military, decades old — and ran his finger along the edge.

Jack:
“When I was younger, I thought knowledge was power. You learned so you could control things — people, situations, outcomes. But the older I get, the more I realize… control’s just an illusion dressed up as competence.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly,” she said quietly. “And Peres understood that. He wasn’t saying learning makes you powerful — he was saying it keeps you alive. The moment you stop learning, you stop growing. You turn into a monument instead of a man.”

Host:
Her words settled over the room like dust on old stone — visible only when light touched it. The clock ticked on, steady and indifferent, the sound of time itself marking their conversation.

Jack:
“You sound like a teacher,” he said, his tone teasing but gentle.

Jeeny:
“I’m a student,” she replied. “Always have been. You forget that I learn from you, too.”

Jack:
He gave a quiet laugh. “From me? What could I possibly teach?”

Jeeny:
“How to question everything,” she said with a grin. “How to see the cracks in certainty. How to live with not knowing.”

Host:
A silence followed — not uncomfortable, but contemplative. The kind of silence that stretches out between people who no longer need to fill it.

The moonlight fell fully across Jack’s desk, illuminating one open folder — a photograph inside, black-and-white, showing a group of young soldiers standing beside an older man. They were all smiling, though their eyes held the gravity of those who’d already seen too much.

Jack’s gaze lingered on it.

Jack:
“Peres lived in a world where every mistake cost lives,” he said quietly. “He learned because he couldn’t afford not to. Maybe that’s why his words hit hard — he made learning an act of courage.”

Jeeny:
“Isn’t that true for all of us?” she asked gently. “Every day we wake up and face what we don’t know — about ourselves, about others, about what’s next. That’s courage too.”

Host:
The wind had quieted now. The city below glowed like a constellation, ancient and electric at once. In the distance, a single sirene wail rose, then faded — the night’s reminder that history never really sleeps.

Jack:
“You think we ever stop learning?”

Jeeny:
“No,” she said. “We just stop admitting that we need to.”

Host:
He looked at her again, really looked — the soft light catching the curve of her face, the strength in her stillness. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Jack:
“Maybe that’s what keeps the world turning,” he said. “People who never stop asking. Never stop trying to understand.”

Jeeny:
“That’s all we can do, Jack. Keep learning. Even when we don’t know what for.”

Host:
The clock struck one, the sound deep and resonant. Jeeny crossed the room and stood by him. She reached over, picking up one of the papers — an old quote scribbled in the margin, faded but legible.

She read it aloud.

Jeeny:
“‘Wisdom is born not from knowing, but from learning again and again.’”

Jack:
He smiled faintly. “That sounds like something he would’ve said.”

Jeeny:
“Or something you would.”

Host:
The camera lingered on the two of them — Jack seated at the desk, Jeeny standing beside him, both framed in the light of an old lamp and the glow of an eternal city outside. The air around them felt charged — not with revelation, but with the quiet strength of understanding.

And as the scene faded, the words of Shimon Peres seemed to echo softly in the air, like the final note of a song that never really ends:

That knowing is temporary,
but learning — learning is forever.

That to live without knowing is not ignorance, but grace —
the courage to say, “I never knew, but I always learned.”

And perhaps that is the true art of being human —
to let the mystery remain,
and to keep learning,
even as the night goes on.