Look, I worked with American Republican presidents and Democratic

Host: The sun was low over the Mediterranean, spilling gold across the waves like liquid history. The terrace café overlooking Tel Aviv’s shoreline was quiet, save for the rhythmic whisper of wind through the palms and the distant hum of the city waking behind it. The air smelled of salt, cardamom, and memory.

Host: Jack sat at a small, round table, a coffee untouched before him, his eyes on the horizon. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, his hands folded, his posture heavy with thought. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, her dark hair moving with the breeze. The sunlight caught her face, turning her eyes to molten bronze.

Host: Between them, resting on the table beside a Hebrew newspaper, was a printed quote — simple words, but carrying the weight of decades:

“Look, I worked with American Republican presidents and Democratic presidents, all of them, and each of them has shown a deep and profound friendship to Israel, you know? I can’t remember anybody who was in that sense negative as far as Israel is concerned.” — Shimon Peres

Jeeny: “You know,” she said softly, glancing at the paper, “Peres had that rare kind of optimism — the kind that refuses to die even when the world gives it every reason to.”

Jack: “Optimism,” he muttered, stirring his coffee though he didn’t drink it. “Or diplomacy dressed as hope.”

Jeeny: “You always say that — as if belief and politics can’t coexist.”

Jack: “They rarely do. Every politician talks about friendship between nations, but most of the time it’s just business with better lighting.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the distant sound of waves against the breakwater. Jeeny watched him, her expression patient, but sharp with conviction.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But Peres wasn’t just talking about politics. He was talking about something deeper — recognition. The idea that friendship, even on a national scale, has to come from understanding, not transaction.”

Jack: “You think world leaders are capable of understanding? Half of them barely understand their own citizens.”

Jeeny: “Then why did he call it friendship? He could’ve said alliance. Or cooperation. But he didn’t. He chose a word that means loyalty, empathy, shared values.”

Jack: “Or maybe he chose it because it sounds good in speeches. ‘Friendship’ looks better on paper than ‘strategic interests.’”

Host: The light from the setting sun hit the sea, shattering into a thousand shards of gold. For a moment, neither spoke. The world, in all its contradictions, was too beautiful for cynicism — but Jack wore his like armor.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?” she said quietly. “I think Peres was talking about human constancy — the rarest thing in politics. You can call it idealism, but he believed in it enough to make it real. That kind of belief creates reality, Jack.”

Jack: “Or blinds you to it.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s forgotten what trust looks like.”

Jack: “No,” he said, finally meeting her gaze. “I just remember what it costs.”

Host: The silence between them deepened — not empty, but full of unsaid things. The sun dipped lower, the light turned redder. Somewhere behind them, a radio played an old Hebrew ballad about home, hope, and the ache of waiting.

Jeeny: “You think friendship between nations is impossible?”

Jack: “Not impossible. Just… conditional. It’s like a ceasefire — always temporary.”

Jeeny: “But Peres saw it differently. He believed friendship — real friendship — could outlast governments. He saw it in people, not policies.”

Jack: “That’s a nice thought. But nations aren’t people. They don’t hug. They don’t forgive.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “But people lead them. And sometimes, the right people make them human for a while.”

Host: Jack’s expression softened, just a trace. He looked again at the quote, running a finger across the word friendship as if testing its weight.

Jack: “You think that’s what he was? One of the right people?”

Jeeny: “I think he tried to be. And maybe that’s enough. Trying.”

Jack: “You talk like belief itself is a political act.”

Jeeny: “It is. Especially when the world keeps rewarding cynicism.”

Host: The sound of the sea filled the brief pause. A group of children laughed somewhere down the promenade, their voices bright and free. Jack glanced toward them, his expression flickering — something old and unspoken crossing his features.

Jack: “When I was stationed here, years ago,” he said quietly, “I met an old man in Jerusalem. He told me, ‘In this land, hope isn’t a feeling — it’s a survival strategy.’ I didn’t understand it then. Maybe Peres did.”

Jeeny: “He didn’t just understand it. He embodied it. He believed peace wasn’t naive — it was necessary. Friendship wasn’t weakness — it was the only way forward.”

Jack: “And yet, the world kept proving him wrong.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But he kept believing anyway. That’s courage, Jack. The kind that doesn’t shout — it just endures.”

Host: The light dimmed. The first stars appeared, trembling faintly above the water. Jeeny’s reflection mingled with Jack’s in the window — two faces layered with weariness and hope, both shaped by the same paradox: the desire to believe in something fragile.

Jack: “You really think nations can be friends?”

Jeeny: “Not like people. But maybe they can learn from them. Maybe diplomacy’s just the world’s slowest form of friendship — awkward, messy, but necessary.”

Jack: “And the world keeps asking for people like Peres to keep believing so the rest of us don’t forget how.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The breeze shifted again, carrying the scent of jasmine from the garden below. Jeeny reached for her cup, her fingers brushing his hand for just a moment — accidental, but not meaningless.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Peres meant most?” she said softly. “That friendship — whether between nations or people — isn’t about agreement. It’s about consistency. Being there, even through disagreement. That’s what defines it.”

Jack: “Consistency,” he repeated. “That’s a rare thing in any relationship, political or personal.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it’s valuable.”

Host: The sky deepened to indigo. The city lights began to glow — each one a quiet promise that the dark could be held at bay.

Jack: “You think maybe that’s why Peres stayed so calm through everything? Because he believed the act of friendship itself — even when imperfect — was sacred?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because he saw that the world only breaks when we stop trying to understand each other.”

Jack: “And when we stop trying to repair what’s broken.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: They sat there a while longer, listening to the steady music of the sea — that eternal rhythm of division and reunion, distance and return. The quote between them seemed to hum with its own quiet light.

Host: And as the night settled over Tel Aviv, Shimon Peres’s words — simple, steadfast — lingered in the air:

“I worked with American Republican presidents and Democratic presidents, all of them… and each of them has shown a deep and profound friendship to Israel.”

Host: Perhaps what he meant was larger than politics — that friendship, whether between people or nations, is not about perfection, but perseverance.

Host: For as long as there are those willing to believe in the possibility of understanding — even across oceans, faiths, and ideologies — the world remains, if only faintly, redeemable.

Host: And in that golden hush before night fully claimed the sea, Jack and Jeeny sat together — not debating politics, but honoring what Peres knew best: that peace, like friendship, begins in the stubborn courage to keep the heart open, even when history would rather close it.