It goes without saying that the Jewish people can have no other

Host: The night lay heavy over Jerusalem, a city where stones carried stories older than nations. A thin mist curled above the old walls, and the air was thick with the smell of rain and earth. Lanterns flickered along the narrow alleys, painting the faces of passersby in shades of gold and shadow. In a small café by the edge of the market, two figures sat in quiet tension — Jack and Jeeny.

Jack leaned back, his grey eyes glinting with skeptical calm, his hands wrapped around a chipped cup of black coffee. Across from him, Jeeny, her dark hair pulled behind her ears, watched the rain bead against the windowpane, her expression soft yet firm, as if she were carrying a weight too sacred to name.

Host: The quote had been read from a book, its pages yellowed and its edges marked by years of touch. The words of Theodor Herzl hung between them like a ghost of destiny:
“It goes without saying that the Jewish people can have no other goal than Palestine and that, whatever the fate of the proposition may be, our attitude toward the land of our fathers is and shall remain unchangeable.”

Jack: (quietly) Unchangeable, huh? That’s a dangerous word. History doesn’t care about unchangeable things. It shifts, burns, and rebuilds. Nations rise, empires fall, and people—they adapt or they disappear.

Jeeny: (her voice soft, unwavering) Some things are not meant to adapt, Jack. Some things are meant to endure. A people without roots is like a tree without soil. It might live for a while, but it can never truly grow.

Host: The wind pressed against the glass, whispering through the cracks. The café felt smaller, as if the walls themselves were listening.

Jack: And yet, when that root becomes an obsession, it turns to conflict. Look around — Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Hebron — every stone here bleeds because someone refused to let go. Herzl’s dream gave hope, yes, but it also ignited wars that never truly ended.

Jeeny: (leans forward, eyes burning) You speak as if hope were a crime. Herzl saw a people scattered across continents, mocked, exiled, killed—generation after generation. He dreamed not of war, but of home. Do you remember the Holocaust, Jack? Six million souls turned to ash, their names erased from the earth. And still, from the dust, they rose, saying, “We will return.” That’s not politics. That’s survival.

Host: A silence fell, thick as smoke. Outside, the rain grew heavier, drumming on the roof like the pulse of an ancient heart.

Jack: (sighs) I’m not questioning their pain, Jeeny. I’m questioning the price of the promise. When a dream costs blood, it becomes something else — fanaticism, maybe. You call it returning home; others call it occupation. Can both be right?

Jeeny: (her voice trembling slightly) Maybe they both can. Maybe truth is not a single stone, but a wall built by many hands. Herzl didn’t just speak of a nation; he spoke of a memory—the memory of belonging. You can’t measure that in borders or maps.

Host: The lamplight flickered, casting long shadows that stretched across their faces. Jeeny’s eyes shone, wet with something that was not just tears, but conviction.

Jack: You sound like you’re defending faith, not facts. But faith built on land always leads to conflict. Look at the Crusades. Look at India and Pakistan. Every time someone says, “This is ours by divine right,” someone else is forced to leave.

Jeeny: (quickly) And yet, without faith, what’s left? You think the Jewish people came back to Palestine because of logic? No. They came because of faith, because centuries of exile could not kill the song of home. Herzl wasn’t just a politician — he was a poet who believed that dreams could be laws.

Jack: (bitterly) Dreams can also be weapons.

Jeeny: (quietly) Only when love is replaced by fear.

Host: Her words lingered like incense in the air. For a moment, the storm outside seemed to pause, as if even the sky had stopped to listen.

Jack’s hand tightened around his cup, the steam rising between them like a veil.

Jack: Let’s be real, Jeeny. Every nation believes it’s the chosen one. Every people think their story is unique. But history is a graveyard of promised lands. Herzl’s vision wasn’t wrong — it was just… incomplete. He didn’t see what happens when two peoples claim the same soil as holy.

Jeeny: (softly, almost whispering) And yet, both still live here. Somehow. Jews, Muslims, Christians — all in this tiny space of sand and faith. Maybe that’s the real miracle, Jack. That after so much hate, there’s still hope left to fight over.

Host: A thunderclap rolled through the distance, echoing like the memory of cannons. The lights flickered once, then returned.

Jack: (after a long pause) You really think that’s a miracle? I see division, walls, checkpoints, fear. If this is a miracle, it’s a cruel one.

Jeeny: (meeting his gaze) Then maybe miracles are meant to be cruel — to test if we still have the heart to believe in them.

Host: The rain eased. The café’s windows glowed with reflections of passing lights, and for a brief moment, the world outside looked almost peaceful. Jack leaned forward now, his voice lower, more tired than angry.

Jack: You know, when Herzl wrote those words, he wasn’t living in Palestine. He was sitting in Vienna, surrounded by anti-Semitism, by Europe’s hypocrisy. He saw the storm coming and tried to build a refuge before it arrived. I get that. But what he couldn’t foresee was that his refuge would become someone else’s exile.

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) Yes. Maybe that’s the tragedy of all dreams, Jack. They always come at someone’s expense. But that doesn’t mean we should stop dreaming. Maybe the goal isn’t to find pure justice, but to keep walking toward it.

Host: Her voice had softened into something like forgiveness. The tension in the room began to fade, replaced by a melancholy stillness.

Jack: (half-smiling) So you think unchangeable doesn’t mean stubborn — it means faithful?

Jeeny: Exactly. Herzl didn’t say the Jewish people must conquer Palestine. He said they must never forget it. Memory is not a weapon; it’s a mirror. The problem begins when we start using mirrors to cut instead of to see.

Host: A moment of quiet understanding passed between them. The rain had stopped, and a faint moonlight spilled across the table, illuminating the wet streets beyond.

Jack: (after a long silence) You know… my grandfather fought in the British Army during the Mandate. He told me once, “Every man here believes God is on his side. That’s why no one ever wins.” I guess I’ve carried that cynicism ever since.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe he was half-right. Maybe God isn’t on anyone’s side. Maybe He’s in the space between — where people meet, argue, forgive. That’s where the real holy land is.

Host: The clock ticked softly, like the heartbeat of time itself. Outside, the streets glistened under the moon, their stones whispering of centuries that had seen both exile and return.

Jack: (sighs, finally smiling) So… the unchangeable part isn’t the land. It’s the longing.

Jeeny: (smiling back) Yes. The land is just the symbol. The longing—that’s what makes us human.

Host: They sat in silence, their faces lit by the dim glow of the lamp, the storm now nothing more than a memory. Outside, the city breathed again — ancient, wounded, yet still alive.

In that moment, Jerusalem was no longer a map or a conflict, but a heartbeat — a place where faith and doubt, history and hope, still learned to coexist beneath the same sky.

Host: And though neither Jack nor Jeeny could claim to have found the answer, they had found something rarer: the understanding that even the unchangeable must be carried with humility — not as a banner, but as a burden of love.

The camera pulled away, through the window, over the wet streets, up toward the moon, where the clouds slowly parted, and a faint light fell upon the old stones of a city still learning what it means to belong.