Sydney’s shame, Jerusalem’s hope.

There’s a hospital in Sydney where hate festers behind sterile walls, where two nurses speak of murder as if it is a game, where antisemitism slithers through the cracks of an institution meant to heal, not harm. “I’d kill Israelis,” one says. “I’ve sent some Israelis to Hell” another replies.

And if you think for one second they’re the only ones who think like this, you are tragically mistaken.

Jew hatred is a disease – and it is spreading.

And then—

There’s a hospital in Jerusalem, where my father lies in a bed surrounded by hands that mend instead of break. Where a Jewish doctor adjusts the monitors while an Arab nurse whispers reassurance.

Where a Christian technician moves between rooms, calibrating machines that keep hearts beating, lungs rising, bodies warm. Where the man sweeping the hallway might be Muslim, and the woman bringing the tea could be Jewish or Druze or Armenian, and it doesn’t matter because here, under the relentless hum of ventilators and the rhythmic beeping of life itself, the only thing that matters is the fight against death.

Here, in this hospital, there is no room for the sickness of hate.

The scalpel doesn’t ask who you pray to. The IV doesn’t care where you were born. And the surgeon’s hands, steady and sure, move with the same precision for the child from Ramallah as they do for the grandmother from Tel Aviv.

Two hospitals. Two realities.

One where the Hippocratic Oath was drowned out by a centuries-old curse, where healing was twisted into a weapon.

And one where life-fragile, flickering-was cradled in the hands of those who understand that in the end, we are all just blood and bone and breath.

Sydney’s shame, Jerusalem’s hope.

The darkness of hate, the defiance of healing.
The hospital that failed, and the one that, every single day, refuses to.