I would like to see real peace and a state of Israel living

“I would like to see real peace and a state of Israel living peacefully alongside a state of Palestine.” These words, spoken by Elie Wiesel, survivor of the abyss and witness to the darkest night of the human soul, carry not only hope but also the weight of centuries. For he, who walked through the shadows of the Holocaust, knew what it meant for nations to be torn apart by hatred, and for peoples to be denied their right to live with dignity. His cry for real peace is not the shallow quiet that comes from fear or silence, but the deep, life-giving peace that springs from justice, recognition, and coexistence.

The ancients knew well the value of such peace. They told of kingdoms ruined not by the might of enemies alone, but by the festering poison of division. True peace cannot be forced by the sword, nor can it be born from domination. It requires that both peoples—neighbors bound by fate and soil—acknowledge one another’s humanity. This is what Wiesel longed to see: two states, Israel and Palestine, not in endless conflict, but standing side by side like twin olive trees, their roots entangled in the same earth, their branches rising toward the same heavens.

History offers both warnings and glimmers of this vision. Think of the Camp David Accords of 1978, when Egypt and Israel, after years of bitter war, sat across the table and chose dialogue over destruction. Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin, guided by the steady hand of Jimmy Carter, signed a peace that endures to this day. What was once unthinkable became reality, proving that reconciliation, though difficult, is not beyond human reach. If two long-warring nations could break bread and forge peace, then the hope for Israel and Palestine remains, though the path be steep.

Wiesel’s words, however, are not naïve. He spoke of real peace, for there is also a false peace, the kind born of silence imposed upon the oppressed, or the calm that precedes another storm. Real peace does not ignore injustice, nor does it deny the pain of history. It looks directly at wounds and says: these must be healed, not hidden. To live peacefully is not merely to end bloodshed, but to recognize dignity, to honor memory, to build a future where children on both sides wake to laughter rather than fear.

The lesson for us, then, is this: peace is not a gift handed down by rulers, nor is it simply the absence of war. It is a labor, a covenant between peoples, nourished daily by acts of understanding, compassion, and restraint. Just as Wiesel bore witness so that humanity might not forget the horrors of hate, so too must we bear witness to the pain of others, refusing to look away, refusing to dehumanize. For in every age, the seeds of conflict are sown by forgetting that the other is also human.

Practical wisdom flows from this truth: listen before you judge, seek to understand before you condemn, and never harden your heart to the suffering of another. Build bridges in your own life—with your neighbor, with the stranger, with those you are tempted to see as “other.” For if peace cannot be practiced in the small circles of our lives, it cannot flourish in the great arenas of nations. Let each person, then, be a seed of peace, sowing understanding where mistrust reigns.

So let Wiesel’s vision be carried forward, like a torch through the ages: that Israel and Palestine, long bound in pain, may one day live as neighbors, each sovereign, each free, yet joined by the shared destiny of the land they inhabit. And let his voice remind us all that real peace is not a dream too lofty, but a labor too sacred to abandon. For though the path is long, though the wounds are deep, peace remains the highest calling of humanity, and the truest measure of our wisdom.