If there were an Oscar for best theatrical performance by a

Host: The night hung heavy over Jerusalem, a city of stone and shadow, where the air itself seemed to tremble with memory. In the distance, the muezzin’s call echoed against church bells—a chorus of faiths, colliding and harmonizing in the same ancient valley. Beneath a flickering streetlight, two figures sat at a small café table, the neon glow painting their faces in ghostly hues of blue and amber.

Jack leaned back, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the smoke tracing patterns in the cold air. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea, its steam mingling with the fog that rolled down from the hills.

Host: The city hummed with life, but here, in this corner, there was only the sound of breathing and the distant hum of cars. The world outside moved, but in this moment, time held its breath.

Jeeny: “Norman Finkelstein once said, ‘If there were an Oscar for best theatrical performance by a country, Israel would win every year. It's a country based on theater. It's a lunatic state — completely insane.’”
She looked out the window, her voice soft but weighted with thought. “He said it not with malice, but with despair. You can almost hear the pain in his words, the disbelief that a nation born from suffering could turn its own tragedy into a performance.”

Jack: “Or maybe,” he said, exhaling smoke, “he just doesn’t understand what survival looks like when the world is always ready to erase you.”
He tapped his ashtray, eyes narrowing. “You call it theater, Jeeny, but what if it’s just the instinct to exist in a world that never forgave them for being alive?”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the metal sign above the door. The sound was sharp, like a cut through silence.

Jeeny: “But Jack, doesn’t that logic excuse madness? Every bomb, every blockade, every child’s body buried under rubble—is that theater too? Are those scripts written by necessity?”
Her eyes shone, reflecting the city lights like small lanterns. “Finkelstein’s point isn’t that they perform for survival. It’s that they’ve made a spectacle of it—politics as drama, grief as currency.”

Jack: “So what, you think it’s all fake? You think millions of people wake up every morning and pretend their history just to win the world’s sympathy?”
He laughed, but the sound was bitter, not amused. “That’s a hell of a claim. Every nation performs, Jeeny. America does it with flags and freedom slogans. Russia with parades and myth. Israel just learned the act better than the rest.”

Host: The smoke rose between them like a curtain, softening their faces, blurring the edges of anger and tenderness. A waiter passed, his eyes tired, his movements slow, as if dragged by the weight of centuries.

Jeeny: “You call it an act, but there’s a difference between acting and living inside a lie. When a state convinces its citizens that every criticism is an attack, that’s not theater—that’s madness. That’s what Finkelstein meant by ‘a lunatic state.’ It’s the insanity of believing your own performance.”

Jack: “And yet,” he said, leaning forward, his voice low, “maybe that’s what all countries do. They build myths so their people can stand upright. Without a story, there’s only chaos.”
He paused, the light catching his eyes like a steel reflection. “You remember the Holocaust survivor Finkelstein’s own mother? She told him the same thing—‘Never forget.’ But what happens when remembering becomes a weapon? When memory becomes a performance of righteousness?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not memory anymore. It’s propaganda.”

Host: The air grew tense, as if the walls themselves were listening. The distant sirens wailed, then faded, like a chorus retreating from the stage.

Jack: “Propaganda, performance—it’s all just storytelling, Jeeny. Humans can’t live without it. Maybe Israel’s theater is extreme, but it’s not unique. Every flag, every anthem, every national day—they’re all costumes and scripts for the same play.”

Jeeny: “You sound so numb,” she whispered. “Like nothing means anything unless it’s staged.”
She leaned in, her fingers tightening on the cup. “But there are real bodies, Jack. Real tears. Children who don’t know what script they’re in. They don’t even know the language of their own pain.”

Jack: “And you think the other side doesn’t suffer? You think those Israeli kids don’t grow up with sirens and bomb shelters, with fear as their lullaby?”
He stubbed out his cigarette, the sound harsh against the metal. “Everyone’s caught in someone else’s scene. Everyone’s an actor in a story they didn’t write.”

Host: The silence after his words was long, stretching like a shadow over the table. The lights of the Old City flickered in the distance, their glow reflected in Jeeny’s eyes like fragments of a broken promise.

Jeeny: “You’re right. Everyone plays a part. But some have the power to rewrite the script, and others don’t. That’s what makes it theater—when truth becomes a performance, and power becomes the director.”

Jack: “And what would you have them do? Drop the curtain? End the show? The world doesn’t care for truth, Jeeny. It only watches what moves the crowd.”

Host: The rain began to fall, first in small drops, then in steady rhythm. It beat against the roof, mingling with the sound of distant prayer. The city seemed to breathe, a living organism of belief, fear, and performance.

Jeeny: “But there’s a difference, Jack,” she said, her voice trembling but clear. “A nation that forgets its humanity for the sake of its performance will one day forget how to feel. And when that happens, it’s not a nation anymore. It’s a stage built over a graveyard.”

Jack: “Maybe,” he said quietly, “but every nation starts as a graveyard. Every flag is stitched with blood and memory. You just decide which one you can live with.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming on the café awning, blurring the lights into streaks of gold and silver. Jeeny looked at Jack, her face half-illuminated, half in shadow—like the city itself.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in truth, do you?”

Jack: “I believe in perception. In what people are willing to call truth.”

Jeeny: “Then there’s no hope for any of us.”

Jack: “Maybe hope is the biggest theater of all.”

Host: The wind shifted, lifting the edge of her scarf, twisting it like a flag in stormlight. They both sat in silence, their faces reflecting the light of a passing car—for a moment, they looked like two ghosts caught between worlds.

Then, softly, Jack spoke again.

Jack: “Maybe Finkelstein’s right. Maybe it is a lunatic state. But if it is, then it’s just a mirror for the world that made it that way.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re all mad, Jack.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the only way we survive.”

Host: The rain began to ease, and a thin line of light broke through the clouds, spilling across the wet pavement. The city still hummed, still performed, still believed in its own script.

Jack stood, pulling his coat tight, and Jeeny rose beside him. For a moment, they both looked out at the city, the lights, the domes, the crosses, the minarets—a mosaic of faith and madness, truth and illusion.

Host: The camera would have lingered there, on their faces, on the rain, on the trembling light—and then faded slowly, like a memory too heavy to hold.

Because in the end, every nation, every soul, is both the actor and the audience—clapping for a performance it no longer understands, but cannot stop watching.