Israel's creation was politically amazing and caused by a number

Host: The rain fell slowly over the old Cleveland street, washing the grit off the cracked sidewalks and catching in the orange puddles beneath streetlights. The hour was late — that strange time when silence sounds heavier than noise. The air tasted of iron, memory, and rain-soaked paper.

A small diner sign buzzed, its neon “OPEN” flickering half-heartedly in the drizzle. Inside, the world felt paused — empty stools, a faint radio hum, the smell of burnt coffee and something fried long ago.

Jack sat in the far booth, a newspaper spread open before him, its headline faintly visible: “Another Clashes Flare in Gaza Strip.” His face was tight — not angry, not sad — just burdened. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee slowly, eyes unfocused, watching the dark swirl back into itself.

Jeeny: “Harvey Pekar once said, ‘Israel’s creation was politically amazing and caused by a number of unusual events. And I understand. For centuries, Jews endured horrible suffering, and like other people, deserve the right to self-determination, but the way Israel is going now frightens me. Jews make awkward colonial overlords.’”

Jack: (after a pause) “Pekar never was afraid to say what everyone else was afraid to think.”

Jeeny: “That’s what made him powerful — and lonely.”

Host: The radio murmured, a jazz tune fading into static. Outside, a bus sighed to a stop, then roared off into the night. The world, it seemed, kept turning no matter how much it misunderstood itself.

Jack: “He was right about one thing — Israel’s creation really was politically amazing. Unlikely, chaotic, born from ashes. A people scattered for centuries, clawing back a homeland from trauma. It was like history finally blinked.”

Jeeny: “And yet — every miracle leaves a shadow.”

Jack: “You mean the Palestinians.”

Jeeny: “I mean the paradox. The oppressed becoming the powerful, and in that transformation, inheriting their own ghosts.”

Host: The rain hit harder now, streaking the diner window in silver lines. Jack looked up, eyes catching the neon reflection, the light flickering between red and blue, like a warning signal from the past.

Jack: “Pekar said Jews make awkward colonial overlords — he wasn’t mocking. He was mourning. Mourning how survival can twist when mixed with power.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s the tragedy of trauma — the way it recycles itself. The once-exiled can become exilers without realizing it.”

Jack: “You think he meant guilt?”

Jeeny: “No. He meant grief. A nation born out of survival doesn’t know what to do once survival turns into dominance.”

Host: A waitress passed, refilling their cups. The sound of coffee pouring filled the silence — a small, human act in a world too big for comfort.

Jack: “You ever think about how complicated love for a country can be? Especially one that’s both miracle and wound.”

Jeeny: “Every country is that, Jack. But Israel... Israel is the embodiment of contradiction. It’s faith built on fire. It’s a promise that keeps bleeding.”

Jack: “And people choose sides like it’s simple.”

Jeeny: “Because simplicity feels safer than sorrow. But Pekar lived in the sorrow — he saw both sides and couldn’t look away.”

Host: The radio hissed, catching a fragment of news — “…ceasefire… protests… retaliation…” The words fell heavy in the space between them.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. For someone like Pekar, a man from Cleveland who never left much, to feel that much weight for a land he didn’t live in. It’s like the Jewish heart carries geography as memory.”

Jeeny: “That’s not strange — it’s ancestral. It’s the inheritance of exile. Even those far away feel the pulse of Jerusalem in their blood.”

Jack: “And yet, even that love can turn into fear.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Fear of what you might become in the name of what you love.”

Host: The lights flickered, a hum running through the ceiling as the rain outside grew relentless. Jack took a sip, his eyes lingering on the wet window where the neon word “OPEN” blurred into something unreadable.

Jack: “It’s hard to talk about Israel without being accused of betrayal, no matter what you say.”

Jeeny: “That’s because everyone’s pain is still fresh. No one has had time to heal, and everyone thinks to question the wound is to reopen it.”

Jack: “But Pekar — he questioned because he cared. He didn’t hate Israel; he feared for its soul.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He knew that identity without empathy rots into ideology. And ideology without reflection — that’s how empires are born.”

Host: The camera drifted toward the window — the rain distorting the streetlights into trembling constellations. The reflection of Jack and Jeeny in the glass seemed ghostly, like two spectators peering at a world that refused to learn from itself.

Jack: “You think the idea of a homeland can ever exist without displacing someone else?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But maybe the test of a homeland is how gently it learns to exist on borrowed soil.”

Jack: “And we all live on borrowed soil.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every inch of this planet is layered with someone’s memory, someone’s pain. That’s what Pekar was warning — that justice isn’t a flag; it’s humility.”

Host: The waitress turned off the radio, and the silence that followed was heavy, sacred. Jeeny folded her hands, her eyes reflecting the candlelight, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “You know what amazes me about his words? He starts with admiration — the political miracle, the courage, the endurance — and ends with fear. That’s honesty. To love something enough to be terrified of what it’s becoming.”

Jack: “That’s what real patriotism is — not blind loyalty, but the courage to hold your own story accountable.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To say, ‘I understand the pain that built you, but I can’t ignore the pain you’re causing now.’ That’s love at its highest frequency — not silence, but truth.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning to a mist that glowed against the streetlights. The neon sign steadied, “OPEN” glowing clearly again.

Jack looked up, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Jack: “Maybe Pekar knew what most of us forget — that a nation, like a person, is never finished. It’s always a draft.”

Jeeny: “And the edits are written in empathy.”

Jack: “If we’re lucky.”

Jeeny: “If we’re brave.”

Host: The camera pulled back, out through the diner window, into the night. The rain-slicked streets shone like ink, reflecting light from the lampposts, as if the city itself were writing something — a long, unfinished letter to humanity.

And as the sound of distant thunder rolled low and weary, Harvey Pekar’s words lingered like smoke over the scene — both lament and lesson:

That even the most amazing acts of creation
carry the weight of their own contradictions.

That a people born from exile
must never forget what it feels like to be displaced.

And that true love for a nation
is not blind celebration,
but the terrifying, necessary honesty
to say:

“I understand — and I am afraid.”