The historic nature of Israel's struggle for self-determination

Host: The night pressed down over Jerusalem, heavy with heat and the faint echo of prayers carried by the wind. The city’s hills glowed like embers, each stone wall holding centuries of whispers, wars, and faith. Jack and Jeeny stood on the rooftop terrace of a small café overlooking the Old City, where the dome lights shimmered against the dark sky. The air was alive — not loud, but charged, as if the past itself still breathed.

A flag fluttered on a nearby rooftop — its motion slow, almost ceremonial. Somewhere below, a muezzin’s call intertwined with the chanting from a distant synagogue, two currents of devotion flowing through the same ancient air.

Jeeny: quietly, almost reverently “Pete Hegseth once said, ‘The historic nature of Israel’s struggle for self-determination, freedom, and prosperity underscores the gravity of their circumstances and fortifies my commitment to America’s responsibility as their ally.’”

Jack: leaning on the stone ledge, eyes tracing the skyline “He said that as if history were clean. As if struggle can be owned by one side.”

Jeeny: turning toward him, voice soft but steady “It’s not about ownership, Jack. It’s about acknowledgment. You can’t deny the Jewish people’s fight for self-determination. It’s one of the oldest dreams in human history — to come home.”

Jack: sighs “And yet, every dream comes at a cost. You talk about home, but what about the people who lost theirs in the process? Freedom for one often means displacement for another.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying dust and the faint scent of olives and smoke from a nearby street vendor. The city below was both alive and mourning, its lights trembling like conscience caught between belief and guilt.

Jeeny: “You always have to pull things apart, don’t you? Can’t something be both true and tragic at once?”

Jack: turning sharply “Of course it can. That’s what makes it unbearable. You can support a people’s right to exist and still question the cost of how that existence is defended.”

Jeeny: firmly “But to ignore their fight — their survival — that’s not questioning, that’s cruelty. After the Holocaust, after centuries of persecution, how could the world not help them find safety?”

Jack: “And yet, in the shadow of safety, someone else was cast out. History’s irony doesn’t excuse it; it exposes it.”

Host: A pause hung between them, long and unforgiving. The city lights flickered, reflecting off the wet cobblestones below — where tourists, soldiers, and vendors crossed paths in the labyrinth of streets that never agreed on where they began or ended.

Jeeny: softly “You make it sound like there’s a right way to survive.”

Jack: “No. I’m saying there’s no clean way. Every nation built on pain forgets it once bled. That’s what frightens me.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re blaming Israel for wanting peace.”

Jack: “I’m blaming the world for pretending peace is simple. For pretending allyship is the same as understanding.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glimmered with something between anger and sorrow. She took a slow breath, looking toward the Temple Mount, its golden dome glowing like an ember in the dark.

Jeeny: “Do you think America shouldn’t stand by them? Shouldn’t defend the one democracy in a region still struggling to define freedom?”

Jack: low voice “Allyship isn’t the same as absolution. Support doesn’t mean silence. True friendship demands honesty, even when it hurts.”

Jeeny: “Honesty can sound like betrayal.”

Jack: “Only to those who mistake justice for loyalty.”

Host: The wind carried their words out into the night, where the city below pulsed with layers of history — Roman stones, Ottoman domes, British railings, American accents. It was a place where time itself argued in whispers.

Jeeny: quieter now “You always see the fracture, Jack. But sometimes you need to see the faith too. This land — it’s built on faith. On belief that freedom, even when fragile, is worth fighting for.”

Jack: “Faith without reflection becomes fanaticism.”

Jeeny: “And skepticism without empathy becomes cruelty.”

Host: The words collided in the air — no shouting, no surrender — just two souls standing in the crossfire of conviction. The night grew cooler; the voices of prayer drifted softer now, almost like a lullaby for the weary.

Jeeny: after a long silence “Do you know what I see when I look at this city?”

Jack: “A thousand years of argument.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “No. I see endurance. Every stone here carries pain, yes — but also persistence. Every people who lived here believed they were building something eternal. Maybe that’s humanity’s curse — and its grace.”

Jack: “To build on the bones of belief.”

Jeeny: “To build, despite the bones.”

Host: The moon slipped from behind the clouds, its light silvering the walls and domes below. The city glowed softly, fragile and proud.

Jack: “So, you think America’s role is divine? Protector of freedom, patron of struggle?”

Jeeny: “Not divine — responsible. When you have power, neutrality becomes a kind of sin.”

Jack: “And when that power blinds you to suffering?”

Jeeny: “Then the responsibility is to stay awake — not to walk away.”

Host: The wind rose, lifting her hair, carrying her words like threads of fire through the night air. Jack looked at her, his expression softening, his defenses dimming like the city lights after midnight.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That struggle deserves allies, no matter how complicated it gets.”

Jeeny: quietly, with conviction “I believe humanity does. Even when it’s messy. Especially then.”

Host: The call to prayer echoed again — lower now, steadier. It mixed with the sound of church bells from across the valley, their tones overlapping, forming an unintended harmony.

Jack: sighs, looking down at the city “Maybe that’s the tragedy — and the beauty — of this place. Everyone’s praying to be heard. No one’s listening.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe our duty — as allies, as humans — is to listen. To hold the tension. To never stop trying.”

Host: The sky deepened, stars beginning to appear, faint but steadfast above the ancient skyline.

Jack: “Success, freedom, nationhood — all of it feels temporary here. Like the wind owns the story more than we ever will.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we keep writing. Every generation adds its verse, hoping one day the song will sound like peace.”

Host: They stood in silence, side by side, the city breathing below them — its history heavy, its light unbroken.

Jack’s hand brushed against Jeeny’s — a brief, unspoken acknowledgment of shared vulnerability in the face of impossible hope.

And as the wind swept through the rooftops, the flag flickered again, not as a symbol of victory or ideology, but as a reminder of endurance —
the eternal struggle of people to define themselves,
and of others to stand beside them,
not as saviors, but as witnesses.

The city of stone shimmered beneath the stars,
and the world — fractured, flawed, yet faithful —
kept breathing.