This sentence is sold around the world, especially on the progressive left, as if it describes some fantasy of inter-ethnic brotherhood: from the Jordan to the sea, everyone will live in peace, share hummus, and teach each other folk dances.
It’s a beautiful idea — kind of like thinking that if you opened all the cages on a safari, the lions, zebras, and giraffes would cook together over a fire.
The Palestinian people may not be a people — but they are certainly a weapon of consciousness. One aimed at the heart of Zionism, armed with lies, heartwarming words, and the cooperation of the post-Western world.
If we don’t understand that the threat is not just missiles but also narratives — we will find ourselves apologizing for our existence. Again.
If you think that tourist trips to the tombs of the righteous began in the 1980s with rabbis caressing friends and handing out dollar bills, you’re probably right. But long before that, in 1867, a slightly different type arrived in Jerusalem, armed with a wide-brimmed hat, a sharp pencil, and capable of describing the high school in a way that would make even a guide from the “Antiquities Department” sweat.
His name was Samuel Langhorne Clemens, but everyone knows him as… Mark Twain.
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