It is an old custom amongst Jewish children, to become war-like

Host: The street glowed in the late afternoon sun, its cobblestones dusted with laughter and the rhythm of small feet. The air carried the faint smell of bread from the bakery, woodsmoke, and the distant music of someone tuning an old violin.

It was L’ag BaOmer, and the small town pulsed with life. Children ran wild through the narrow alleys, their wooden swords clashing against makeshift shields, their shouts of triumph echoing off the old walls. Mothers leaned from windows, smiling, pretending to scold. Old men sat on benches, shaking their heads, remembering when their own hands had held bows and arrows carved from branches and imagination.

At the edge of the street, near a crumbling stone fence, Jack and Jeeny watched — two figures from a different time, standing quietly in the middle of this small, eternal celebration of childhood.

Jeeny: “Sholom Aleichem once wrote, ‘It is an old custom amongst Jewish children, to become war-like on the “L’ag Beomer.” They arm themselves from head to foot with wooden swords, pop-guns, and bows and arrows. They take food with them, and go off to wage war.’”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Funny, isn’t it? Even our games prepare us for battle.”

Host: A group of children raced past, their faces flushed, their laughter like sunlight. One dropped a toy sword; Jack bent down, picked it up, and twirled it absentmindedly.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not preparation. Maybe it’s reflection. Even children know — the world is struggle. But they still turn it into play.”

Jack: “So, it’s rehearsal for resilience.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe it’s instinct — to transform fear into something you can hold.”

Host: Jack’s eyes followed a boy leading a charge, his wooden sword raised high, shouting in triumph as though he commanded legions.

Jack: “You know, Aleichem wasn’t just describing children. He was describing people. We all arm ourselves — not with wood, but with words, pride, sarcasm, pretense. We build our own armor and call it survival.”

Jeeny: “But even then, we’re still just pretending to be braver than we are.”

Jack: “Pretending’s the first step to becoming, though.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But pretending too long, you forget who you were before the armor.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, painting their faces in gold. The laughter of children filled the air again — a tide of joy, unburdened, unashamed.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that image? Wooden swords. Pop-guns. Nothing real. Their war is imitation, but their joy — their courage — that’s real. That’s the paradox of innocence: they play at fighting, but they’re teaching themselves to live.”

Jack: “While we grow up and play at living, teaching ourselves to fight.”

Host: A small pause, heavy and human. The world around them buzzed — life in its purest form, spilling forward without irony.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what Aleichem saw when he watched them? Maybe it wasn’t just the children’s play — maybe it was memory. The way we carry our history, even in games. The echoes of exile turned into laughter. The instinct to make joy out of survival.”

Jack: “You think he was mourning or celebrating?”

Jeeny: “Both. The way Jewish laughter always does. It’s the sound of people who’ve survived too much to stop finding meaning in even the smallest rituals.”

Jack: “So every L’ag BaOmer, those wooden swords are a kind of inheritance.”

Jeeny: “Yes — a rehearsal for resilience disguised as play.”

Host: A wind moved through the street, rustling the paper flags strung between balconies. One boy tripped, fell, and laughed harder than before. His sister pulled him up by the hand, her bow made of string and willow bouncing at her side.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to build forts out of cardboard boxes. My brother and I would fight off imaginary armies until it got dark. We didn’t know what we were defending — just that defending something felt good.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think we were just learning how to belong to something bigger than ourselves.”

Jeeny: “That’s what rituals do. They teach us to locate meaning in repetition. You swing a wooden sword often enough, and it becomes faith — faith that you can fight the impossible and still laugh after.”

Host: The last of the sunlight began to fade, turning the children’s shadows long and soft. The laughter grew quieter, replaced by the sounds of distant prayers and the smell of bread cooling on open windowsills.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how children wage their wars? There’s no bitterness, no victory to protect. They fight, they fall, they forgive. Maybe that’s why Aleichem called it a custom — not a game. It’s a lesson.”

Jack: “A lesson adults forget.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We fight for power. They fight for joy.”

Host: Jack handed the toy sword back to a small boy who had returned for it. The child smiled, nodded gravely, then ran off into the twilight. Jack watched him go, his expression softening, something wistful flickering behind his eyes.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? Those kids — they’re not pretending to win. They’re pretending to live in a world that lets them fight for fun. A world safe enough for make-believe war.”

Jeeny: “A world where fighting is just noise — not consequence.”

Jack: “And where the weapons are wood, not words.”

Jeeny: “Or worse — silence.”

Host: The first stars appeared above them, faint but certain. The streets began to empty. A few stragglers carried their wooden swords like banners of peace, tired but proud.

Jack: “Maybe Aleichem wasn’t just chronicling a tradition. Maybe he was reminding us that imagination is resistance — that every wooden sword is defiance dressed as innocence.”

Jeeny: “And every laugh in the face of history is a victory.”

Host: They stood there for a long moment, watching the last of the children disappear into doorways, into warmth, into sleep. The air was filled with the faint sound of distant song — a melody older than words, both weary and full of life.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe the war never ends. It just changes shape.”

Jack: “Then maybe the trick is to keep the weapons wooden.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And the laughter real.”

Host: The camera pulled back — the two figures standing under the lantern glow of the quiet street, surrounded by echoes of laughter, of courage, of faith disguised as play.

And Sholom Aleichem’s words lingered, tender and defiant:

“Even in play, the children remember — not to forget their struggle, but to transform it. Wooden swords become hope, pop-guns become courage, and laughter becomes the only war worth winning.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the song drifted away, and for one fleeting breath of night — the world was peaceful again.