Talking to a Wall

I stood at the Western Wall and said,
“Israel is not committing genocide.”
Then I added,
“Israel has delivered millions of tons of aid to the people of Gaza—during the war.”
I went on,
“Israel endangered its own soldiers to warn civilians before every strike.”
Then I paused, waiting for an echo.
“Hey world, do you hear me?”
Silence.
No, they don’t. Because I’m talking to a wall.
We’ve all been talking to one. Jews everywhere—shouting facts, data, footage,
testimony. We show the world the videos Hamas made themselves, confessing their
crimes, bragging about their deceit. We share captured documents, eyewitness
accounts, satellite images. We plead. We reason.
But the world doesn’t hear us. It never has.
Our parents knew why.
Our grandparents felt why.
Our great-grandparents lived why.
It’s hatred.
It’s envy.
It’s jealousy.
It’s antisemitism—pure, simple, unashamed.
So yes, you can shout to the world, you can scream truth until your throat bleeds.
But the wall won’t answer. The world won’t listen.
And maybe… maybe that’s not who we’re meant to be talking to.
Because the purpose of standing at the Kotel isn’t to yell—it’s to pray.
Not to argue, but to connect.

Not to prove, but to reflect.
We are called “the Chosen,” though I’ve never been sure if that’s a privilege
or a burden. We weren’t chosen because we’re smarter, stronger, or better.
We were chosen to be an example — to show the world that it’s better to be better.
To show kindness when we crave revenge.
To show restraint when we could destroy.
To show mercy when our enemies would show none.
“Vengeance is mine,” says the Lord.
So we wait. We endure. We keep our humanity, even when the world loses its own.
Because that’s what it means to be chosen.
And though the world may never listen—
God does.