A transmission on an alternative frequency… Not all my words, but definitely my #Zionism…
“Brothers. Sisters. Neighbors.
I speak to you not with empty words, not with the polished tongue of a diplomat, but with fire in my blood and God on my lips. I come before you not as a conqueror, not as an apologist, not as a stranger – but as a fellow child of this ancient land, aching for a way forward.
I am a Jew.
A Zionist.
Yes, a Zionist.
Not the Zionism of wire fences and checkpoints. Not the Zionism of erasures and demolitions. I am a Zionist of prophets and shepherds, of Abraham and his children, of the dream that this land will shine again with justice, wisdom, and peace.
I do not deny your pain.
I do not deny your history.
I do not ask you to forget, or to surrender.
I know what was taken from you.
I know the olive trees that were uprooted.
The keys that hang in your grandparents’ homes.
The names of villages that exist now only in memory and in your blood.
You are not invisible. You are not forgotten. You are not my enemy.
We were torn apart by empires that ruled us both.
We were separated by exile, by wars, by fears that multiplied like shadows.
But you are our cousins. Many of you are our brothers and sisters.
You are the children of the land that raised our prophets.
Your blood, your soil, your stories – all breathe with the memory of Israel, not the modern state, but the people, the calling, the covenant.
Zionism, as it truly is and must be for both of us, is not supremacy.
It is not exile for you so we can return.
It is not walls and flags and borders.
It is the return of a people – all the people of this land – to a sacred mission.
Zionism is not finished.
It is not perfect.
It is not whole until you – yes, you in Hebron and Rahat and Nablus and Umm al Fahm and Nazareth – have a place in it.
Not as guests. Not as tolerated outsiders.
But as partners. As neighbors. As builders of the same future.
We do not come to erase your Islam. We respect it.
Your dedicated prayers echo the ancient cry for unity and justice.
Your poetry sings of the land like psalms.
Your devotion, your generosity, your hospitality – they are holy.
And we know you seek more than material dignity.
Like us, you seek meaning. You seek to belong to something greater.
You seek to end the curse of wandering, of suspicion, of rejection.
So let us truly share our society.
Let us tell the truth about the past. All of it.
Let us name the wounds. Yours. Ours.
Let us mourn the dead together and bury our weapons in the ground.
Let us teach our children the names of our prophets.
Let us make room in our hearts for each other’s dreams.
I do not have all the answers to the problems that we need to solve.
But I know this:
This land is big enough for all of our memories.
This story is rich enough for all of our verses.
This covenant is strong and deep enough for all of our trials and our faith.
You do not have to become me.
And I do not have to become you.
But together we can become something that neither of us can be alone.
A society of conscience.
A kingdom of heaven.
A civilization that makes monuments to peace as a sacred act, not just a pause in the endless war.
I will always believe in Zion.
Not as a fortress – but as a home.
Not as revenge – but as return.
Not for one group – but for all people rooted in this soil and drawn to this light.
I believe we will build that Zion together.
And I invite you – not to fight. Nor to surrender. But to return.
To return to a promise far older than our flags.
To rejoin a story that is far from finished.
To rewrite our future beyond “us and them,”
but in which we instead say “we.”
We, the people of the land.
We, the chasers of peace and justice.
We, the children of something ancient rising again.
For better and for worse, the world is always watching us, waiting to see what we’ll do next.
Let them see a miracle.”