There are those who say we must rescind the Golan Heights law

Host: The desert dusk was bruised with red and amber light. A thin wind carried the taste of dust and salt from the north, stirring the flag that hung from the old military outpost on the hill. Below, the Golan Heights stretched in silence — a vast mosaic of basalt stone and memory, divided by unseen borders and ancient echoes.

The sun had just begun to sink, and its final light spilled across the valley like gold poured over scars. The air smelled of earth and iron, of things unforgotten.

Jack stood near the edge of the overlook, his coat snapping gently in the dry wind. Jeeny sat a few meters behind him on a stone ledge, sketchbook on her knees, the pages trembling slightly under her pen. Around them, the world hummed with the quiet weight of history.

Jeeny: Softly, without looking up. “Menachem Begin once said, ‘There are those who say we must rescind the Golan Heights law that was passed in the Knesset. To rescind is a concept from the days of the Inquisition. Our forefathers were burned at the stake and would not rescind their faith.’”

Jack: Still staring into the horizon. “It’s not just politics. That’s a declaration of identity — written in fire.”

Jeeny: “And in fear.”

Jack: Turns slightly. “Fear?”

Jeeny: Nods. “Yes. The fear of erasure. The kind that comes from carrying the memory of being hunted — across centuries, across continents.”

Host: The wind shifted, bending the thin grasses that grew between the stones. The sun slid lower, its light turning from gold to the color of blood.

Jack: “You think he was justifying possession — or protecting survival?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe to him, they were the same thing.”

Jack: Quietly. “To rescind. It’s such a sterile word for something so human. It’s like asking someone to unlearn their scars.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t ask a people who’ve lived through exile to let go of what they’ve claimed — not without reopening every wound that came before.”

Host: The sky deepened to purple, the line between heaven and earth fading like an old photograph. A faint echo of distant thunder rolled across the valley — a sound that might’ve been war or weather.

Jack: “Still, it’s a dangerous kind of pride — the kind that confuses memory with ownership.”

Jeeny: Looks up from her sketchbook. “Maybe. But tell me, Jack — if the world tried to erase your home, your story, your right to exist — would you call it pride or survival to say no?”

Jack: After a long pause. “Survival. But survival can turn into obsession.”

Jeeny: “And surrender can turn into extinction.”

Host: The tension between them was quiet but palpable — not anger, but recognition. Two sides of a truth neither could fully claim, each carrying the weight of their reasoning like a flag.

Jack: “You know what I think Begin was really saying? That faith isn’t political. It’s personal. It’s the last thing people hold when everything else is taken.”

Jeeny: Softly. “And it burns.”

Jack: Nods. “And it burns.”

Host: The light around them thinned further — long shadows stretched across the stones like fingers reaching for the past. Jeeny closed her sketchbook and stood, brushing the dust from her knees.

Jeeny: “Faith built civilizations. But it also built walls.”

Jack: “Sometimes walls are all that keep the wind out.”

Jeeny: Looking at him. “And sometimes they just keep the light from coming in.”

Host: The valley below them shimmered in the final dusk. The vineyards, the ruins, the faint outlines of villages — all stories layered atop one another like palimpsests of longing.

Jeeny: “Begin’s words — they aren’t just about territory. They’re about inheritance. The kind of inheritance that lives in the blood — the refusal to forget.”

Jack: Quietly. “But remembering too fiercely can turn into living backward.”

Jeeny: “And forgetting too easily means you stop existing.”

Host: A long silence. The wind pressed against them, cold now, carrying the faint scent of rain and distance.

Jack: “You know, I once read something a historian wrote about this land — that every stone is both an anchor and a weapon. Depends on how you hold it.”

Jeeny: Gazing out across the hills. “Maybe that’s true for every conviction. Even faith.”

Jack: “Faith is supposed to heal.”

Jeeny: “Only if it forgives. Begin wasn’t talking about forgiveness. He was talking about endurance.”

Jack: Softly. “Endurance built on fire.”

Jeeny: “That’s the only kind that lasts.”

Host: The first raindrops began to fall, slow and sparse, darkening the stones at their feet. The sound was soft but steady — like a prayer spoken in a language older than either of them.

Jack: After a long silence. “You think he was right? That rescinding anything — even a law — is like betraying your faith?”

Jeeny: “I think there’s a difference between rescinding your past and rewriting your future.”

Jack: “And you think he knew that difference?”

Jeeny: “I think he was too haunted to risk finding out.”

Host: The rain thickened now, beading on their coats, running down the carved stone of the overlook. The world below blurred into silver and grey — ancient, unending.

Jeeny: “There’s something tragic about conviction, isn’t there? You can’t hold it too tightly without cutting yourself.”

Jack: “But let go, and you lose the only thing keeping you standing.”

Jeeny: “So you bleed for what you believe.”

Jack: “Or you go numb trying not to.”

Host: The wind howled once through the valley — a final cry before the storm settled into a slow, relentless rhythm.

Jeeny: Softly, almost to herself. “Maybe that’s what Begin meant. That true faith isn’t about laws or land or politics. It’s about standing your ground even when the fire comes for you — because you’ve already been burned before.”

Jack: Nods, watching the rain blur the horizon. “And refusing to rescind not out of pride, but out of memory.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Out of love.”

Host: The camera pulls back, revealing the two of them standing together at the edge of the overlook — small figures against a vast land shaped by belief, loss, and persistence.

The rain fell harder, washing dust from the stones, the sound like history breathing again.

And as the light vanished over the Golan, Menachem Begin’s words echoed — not as defiance, but as testimony:

That to rescind one’s faith is not to rewrite history,
but to erase its handwriting from the heart.

That conviction, like land,
is inherited through pain,
guarded through fire,
and remembered
not because it is easy —
but because it is all that remains.