The Arabs are ready to accept a strong Israel with nuclear arms

The voice of Mahmoud Darwish, poet of exile and prophet of longing, rings with a wisdom forged in sorrow and vision: “The Arabs are ready to accept a strong Israel with nuclear arms—all it has to do is open the gates of its fortress and make peace.” In this saying lies a truth of nations and of men: that walls built of stone, iron, or weapons cannot endure forever. Strength alone does not bring safety; it is peace that endures. Darwish, who carried the burden of displacement in his own life, speaks here of the paradox of power: that even when one possesses the might of arms, true security is found only in reconciliation.

The origin of these words is found in the long conflict of the Middle East, where peoples of the same ancient soil—Arabs and Israelis—have been locked in cycles of fear, war, and mistrust. Israel, armed and vigilant, stands like a fortress, and yet even with unmatched military strength, its heart is restless, for walls cannot silence the yearning for belonging and recognition. Darwish, poet of the Palestinian struggle, understood that the Arab world, weary of endless strife, was prepared for coexistence. All that was needed was for the gates of isolation to open, for the language of weapons to give way to the language of peace.

History bears witness to the possibility of such vision. Recall the Camp David Accords of 1978, when Egypt and Israel, long bitter enemies, sat together under the guidance of Carter, Sadat, and Begin. Against the weight of centuries, they broke the pattern of war. Egypt, the largest of Arab nations, accepted Israel’s existence, and Israel, once besieged on all sides, tasted a new security—not from weapons, but from peace. It was not weakness that created this moment, but courage—the courage to set down the sword, if only for a moment, and extend the hand. Darwish’s words echo this same truth: power may defend, but only peace can heal.

Yet how often do leaders cling to the fortress! They build higher walls, forge stronger weapons, believing that security lies in the silence of enemies cowed. But Darwish warns: this is an illusion. For walls make prisons as much as they make fortresses. A people who hide behind stone and steel may protect their bodies, but they do not free their hearts. To truly live, a nation must step beyond its fear, risk trust, and open its gates to the possibility of peace.

Darwish’s wisdom also speaks beyond nations to the life of every soul. How many of us build our own fortresses—walls of pride, suspicion, or self-protection? We think we are strong, yet in truth we are imprisoned. We carry weapons of harsh words, cold silence, and guarded hearts. Yet strength without openness isolates us. Just as Israel’s might could not buy peace without dialogue, so too in our personal lives, we find that reconciliation comes only when we dare to lower our defenses and extend the hand of trust.

The lesson is profound: true strength is not the might to destroy, but the courage to reconcile. Nations and individuals alike must understand that weapons may silence for a time, but only peace creates the soil where trust and stability can grow. To open the gates is an act of vulnerability, yet it is also the doorway to healing. Darwish challenges us to imagine a world where power is tempered by compassion, where even the strongest do not hide behind walls, but walk openly among their neighbors.

Therefore, let us take his words to heart. In our lives, in our communities, and in our nations, let us remember that fortresses cannot protect forever, and weapons cannot comfort the soul. If we would find lasting safety, we must open our gates, speak to our rivals, and seek peace. For the poet reminds us: it is not weakness to reconcile—it is the highest form of strength. And in this, both nations and hearts alike will find their truest security.

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