Sometimes I wonder if there is any hope left for an

Sayed Kashua’s lament rises like a cry from the heart of a divided land: “Sometimes I wonder if there is any hope left for an Israeli-Palestinian discourse that is built on equality and liberty rather than a fruitless discourse of master and servant.” In these words we hear not the judgment of a distant observer but the anguish of one who has lived within the storm. He speaks of hope, yet his hope is shadowed by doubt, for too long has the conversation been twisted by domination, suspicion, and fear. His voice is the voice of the ancient prophets, who warned that no house divided against itself can stand, and that justice denied corrodes the very soil beneath our feet.

The yearning for equality is as old as humanity itself. From the dawn of time, tribes and nations have wrestled with the balance of power: some sought to rule, while others resisted with blood and spirit. The discourse of master and servant is the oldest and most destructive of patterns—it binds neither side in love but in chains. It is fruitless because it bears no harvest, only bitterness. Kashua, through his words, calls us to imagine another discourse: one rooted not in conquest, but in liberty; not in hierarchy, but in mutual recognition. For without equality, dialogue becomes hollow, and without liberty, peace is but a mask for oppression.

Consider the tale of South Africa under apartheid, when the land itself was cleaved between ruler and ruled. For decades, black South Africans lived under laws that marked them as lesser, as servants in their own home. The discourse was poisoned—one side spoke with the authority of power, the other with the cry of desperation. Yet when the tide turned, it was not endless war that restored dignity, but the brave and radical idea of equality. Nelson Mandela, after twenty-seven years in prison, did not emerge with vengeance but with vision. He invited his former jailers into a new discourse, one founded on liberty and shared humanity. Though imperfect and fraught with struggle, this example stands as proof that even the deepest fractures may be bridged if hearts are willing.

So too can we look to the ancient parable of Moses and Pharaoh. Pharaoh clung to the discourse of master and servant, his heart hardened, demanding obedience from those he considered lesser. Yet the enslaved yearned not for domination in return, but for freedom—to live as a people under their own law, with dignity intact. The lesson of that tale is eternal: oppression breeds resistance, and only liberty allows peace to endure. Kashua’s words echo this ancient wisdom: as long as one people sees itself as master, and the other as servant, no discourse will bring life. Only when both sit at the same table as equals can hope truly be born.

But Kashua also embodies the sorrow of our time: what if such hope is fading? What if cycles of vengeance and mistrust have hardened into stone? It is a heavy question, and one not answered easily. Yet even in asking, he preserves hope, for despair would remain silent. To ask whether equality and liberty are still possible is to still yearn for them, to keep alive a fragile flame. The ancients taught that the faintest spark, when guarded, can ignite a great fire. So too here: the act of longing for a just discourse keeps alive the possibility of its coming.

From this reflection, a lesson emerges: discourse matters, but the spirit of the discourse matters more. Words that are spoken from the throne of power cannot heal; they must be spoken from the soil of equality. If we desire peace—whether between nations, neighbors, or within our own homes—we must strip away the discourse of domination and speak to one another as fellow beings, children of the same earth, bearers of the same dignity.

Therefore, let each who hears these words take action. When you speak with another, whether friend or rival, practice equality in your tone and liberty in your listening. Reject the temptation to master or to diminish. Teach your children the stories of those who chose dialogue over domination. Stand against systems that label some as less and others as more. For if enough souls live in this way, the collective discourse of humanity will shift, slowly but surely, from the barren fields of master and servant to the fertile gardens of liberty and equality.

Thus Kashua’s sorrow becomes our charge. His doubt becomes our challenge. And his hope, though faint, is the ember we must carry forward. If we guard it with courage, the day may come when Israeli and Palestinian, like all divided peoples, may sit not as enemies but as equals, not as master and servant, but as free men and women shaping a future together. This is the path of liberty; this is the labor of equality; this is the discourse that bears fruit.