The Israeli government has proved over the past year its

In the words of Benjamin Netanyahu, we hear not only the voice of a leader but also the echoes of a struggle as old as the desert winds: “The Israeli government has proved over the past year its commitment to peace, both in words and deeds. By contrast, the Palestinians are posing preconditions for renewing the diplomatic process in a way they have not done over the course of sixteen years.” These words are not light; they weigh like stones carried across generations. They speak of a chasm between intent and action, between the yearning for peace and the barriers of mistrust that stand against it.

The commitment to peace is not a shallow proclamation. When a people promise peace in both words and deeds, they bind themselves to a covenant greater than law and stronger than treaties. To speak of peace is easy, but to live peace—to hold back the hand of vengeance, to build where war has broken, to extend the olive branch even when the sword is raised against you—is a work that requires both strength and sacrifice. Netanyahu here claims that Israel, through its acts, has borne such burdens, while its counterpart has raised conditions like thorns upon the path, blocking the way forward.

History shows us again and again the cost of such moments. Recall the tale of Anwar Sadat, who once journeyed to Jerusalem in 1977, when mistrust was thick as iron. Against the advice of allies and the rage of enemies, he extended his hand to Israel, and for this daring deed he received not only the Nobel Prize but also his death, struck down by those who could not yet bear the idea of peace. This story reveals the truth: to truly seek peace demands courage so deep that it risks even life itself. Peace is not gained by demanding conditions; it is born when trust grows stronger than fear.

The Palestinian preconditions, as described by Netanyahu, are seen here as obstacles. Yet, in the ancient way, one must understand that such barriers are not merely political maneuvers—they are the scars of memory. A people long wounded may grasp tightly to their demands, for fear that letting go would mean surrendering dignity or hope. But herein lies the paradox of peace: to grasp too tightly is to let the moment slip through the hand, like sand from a clenched fist.

From this, O children of tomorrow, we learn that peace is not a prize granted by conditions, nor is it a gift bestowed only when terms are met. Peace, in its purest form, is the courage to step forward without certainty, to speak without guarantees, to believe without proof. Nations that cling to demands before dialogue will never taste the fruit of reconciliation, for the tree of peace grows only when watered by trust.

Think, then, of your own life. How often do you say, “I will forgive, but only if they first do this or that”? How often do you make conditions before you soften your heart? Such ways are the pathways of endless conflict. If peace is to bloom in families, in friendships, in nations, it must be nurtured not with preconditions but with a willingness to walk together into uncertainty.

Therefore, the lesson is clear: commitment in word and deed is the highest virtue, and barriers born of mistrust must be gently but firmly laid aside. Take this teaching and make it practical: when you are wronged, do not demand endless conditions before you forgive. When you are in conflict, show by small acts—gestures, kindnesses, restraint—that you are sincere in your desire for harmony. In this way, whether in the chambers of kings or in the quiet rooms of households, the path of peace may be walked, one step at a time.

And so, as the ancients would counsel: Do not let peace be imprisoned by demands. Let it be set free by deeds. Only then shall the rivers of hostility dry, and only then shall the future generations drink deeply from the well of hope.