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Abraham stands before his descendants, his face etched with sorrow and longing. His voice trembles, not with weakness, but with the weight of centuries of pain. He looks upon them—not as world leaders, not as enemies or allies, but as his children. The ones who carry his blood, his legacy, and his deepest hopes. He takes a deep breath, and then he speaks.
Abraham:
“My sons, my children… my heart is heavy. I have watched you for thousands of years—fighting, suffering, grieving. I have seen you build walls between each other, not just of stone, but of hatred. I have watched as generation after generation has buried its dead, as fathers have lost their sons, as mothers have wept for children who never came home. And I have asked myself, how much more blood must this land drink before you realize that you are brothers?
This land was not given to you to be fought over like a prize in war. It was given to you as a blessing—a gift, a promise. Yet instead of tending to it as a garden, you have turned it into a battlefield. Instead of sharing in its milk and honey, you have let it be soaked with the tears of your people. Is this what you wish to pass down to your children? A world where they know only fear? A world where hatred is taught before love?
I have called you here not as rulers, not as politicians, but as my children. And I am begging you—do not let my legacy be war. Do not let my name be a name that is spoken only in division. You are all my sons. Isaac, Ishmael—did I not love you both? Did I not bless you both? Then why do you curse each other?
You sit here today with a choice. You can cling to the past, to the wounds, to the vengeance that has poisoned this land for so long. Or you can choose something different. You can choose peace. Not peace that is weak, not peace that is naïve—but peace that is strong, built on trust, on faith, on the knowledge that you are forever bound together as family.
So I ask you, not as a prophet, not as a patriarch—but as a father—will you listen? Will you try? Or will you leave here only to return to the battlefield once more?
I do not have many words left to give. My heart cannot bear to see my children suffer any longer. The choice is yours now. Speak not as enemies, but as brothers. And for the sake of all who have suffered, for the sake of all who will come after you—choose wisely.”
(A deep silence fills the room. The weight of Abraham’s words hangs heavy in the air. Each leader shifts in their seat, not out of discomfort, but because they know—this is not just another meeting. This is a moment in history. And the choice they make now will define the future of their people, and perhaps the world.)
My Sons, Why Do You Fight? Reclaiming the Brotherhood of Isaac and Ishmael
The grand hall is filled with silence, but it is not peace—it is the silence of history pressing down upon the room, the silence of wounds too deep to be spoken aloud. Abraham stands at the center, his eyes filled with sorrow, his hands trembling with both age and anguish. He looks at his children—not as political leaders, not as rulers of nations, but as his sons. As family.
Abraham:
“My children… my beloved children… why? Why must it be like this? I have watched over you for thousands of years, hoping, praying, pleading that you would see what I have always known—that you are brothers, not enemies.
Isaac, Ishmael… I loved you both. I blessed you both. And yet, the land that was meant to be a home for my children has become a battlefield. The blood that runs through your veins is the same blood. My blood. And yet, you spill it as though it were nothing. As though it were not sacred.
What have we done? Is this the inheritance you wish to leave for your children? A world where fear is the first lesson they learn, where hatred is passed down like an heirloom? I have heard your voices, I have felt your suffering, and I ask you—how much more can this land endure? How much more can I endure?”
Abraham’s voice falters, but he does not wipe the tears from his eyes. He lets them fall, unashamed. He looks at each of his children, his gaze piercing, demanding.
Donald Trump:
“Abraham, you’re right. It’s true, this has gone on for far too long. People said peace was impossible before, and I proved them wrong with the Abraham Accords. But I’ll tell you what—peace isn’t just about words, it’s about real leadership. It’s about making tough choices, about knowing that you can’t always get everything you want but making sure that everyone walks away with something. That’s how deals are made, and let me tell you—this has to be the biggest deal of all time.
If we want peace, we have to stop looking at this as a fight that can be won and start seeing it as a future that must be built. A future where Israelis are safe. A future where Palestinians have dignity. A future where both sides can say, we are better today than we were yesterday.”
Benjamin Netanyahu:
“President Trump, I respect what you’ve done, but Israel cannot afford to dream of peace without securing our safety first. We have seen the cost of misplaced trust, and we cannot make that mistake again. How can I ask my people to set down their weapons when rockets still fall from the sky? When every peace deal in the past has led only to more war? Abraham, I respect you, but do you truly expect me to gamble with the lives of my people?”
Mahmoud Abbas:
“And what of my people, Prime Minister Netanyahu? Do you ask me to tell them that they must live forever as prisoners in their own land? That they must accept checkpoints and walls as their destiny? You say you must protect your people—and do you not see that I must do the same? But how can I protect them when they live under occupation? When their land is taken piece by piece, year after year?
Abraham, I do not wish to fight my brother, but tell me—how can we live as brothers when one controls the other? How can there be peace when we are not seen as equals?”
Mohammed bin Salman (MBS):
“There is no denying the suffering on both sides. But Abraham, what you ask is more than difficult—it is dangerous. Trust is not built in a day, and war does not end with words alone. Yet, I will say this—the Middle East is changing. My generation sees the future, and we do not want it to be a future of war.
But to change the future, we must be willing to let go of the past. Are we? That is the question before us.”
Abraham:
“My children, listen to me. I do not ask you to be foolish. I do not ask you to forget the wounds that have been inflicted upon you. But I ask you—what will you do with them? Will you build a monument to suffering and pass it down to your sons? Or will you build a bridge, so that your sons may never know the pain you have known?
I ask you not as a prophet, not as a leader, but as your father—how much more must we lose before you understand that you have already lost enough?
I beg of you—if you will not stop for yourselves, then stop for your children. If you cannot forgive, then at least do not pass your hatred onto them. For if you do, then you are condemning them to the same suffering you have known. And I swear to you, my heart will not bear to watch it any longer.”
The room is still. Not with defiance, not with argument, but with something deeper. Something raw. The leaders exchange glances, each of them burdened with the truth of Abraham’s words. Each of them knowing that he is right, and yet… can they change?
For the first time, the question is not whether peace is possible. The question is whether they are brave enough to try.
A Land Blessed for All: Can We Share What God Has Given?
The room is filled with a heavy silence. The leaders, still carrying the weight of the last discussion, sit uneasily. Abraham stands before them, his hands trembling—not with age, but with sorrow. His eyes, deep with centuries of wisdom and pain, move across the room, taking in the faces of his children. He has heard their fears. He has heard their grief. And now, he speaks again—not as a ruler, not as a prophet, but as a father begging his children to listen.
Abraham:
“My children… look at the land around you. Look at the hills, the rivers, the sky. Do you not see? This land is alive. It breathes. It gives. It nourishes. It was never meant to be a weapon. It was never meant to be fought over like a prize in war.
When God blessed this land, He did not say, ‘This belongs to only one of you.’ He said, ‘This is a gift.’ And yet, you have turned His gift into a battlefield.
You call it your home, yet you destroy it. You call it your inheritance, yet you let blood soak its soil. You say you fight for it—but if you loved it, would you not protect it instead?”
Abraham’s voice breaks, but he does not stop. His grief fuels him, his love for his children giving him the strength to continue.
Donald Trump:
“Abraham, you’re speaking some real truth here. Let’s face it—this land? It’s some of the most valuable in the world. I’m talking trade, tourism, technology—potential. But potential means nothing if people are too busy fighting to see it.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—deals don’t work when both sides think they have to win everything. The way forward isn’t about who owns the land—it’s about who’s willing to build something with it. You want to fight over the past? Fine. But let me tell you—the real power is in owning the future.”
Benjamin Netanyahu:
“President Trump, I hear you. But Israel is not just land—it is our land. It is the fulfillment of a promise made long ago. This land is our home, and we cannot afford to be naïve about it. Every time we have let down our guard, we have suffered. Our people have suffered.
And yet… Abraham, your words cut deep. You ask if we love this land—and yes, we do. But how can we love it while knowing that we must defend it with everything we have? If we set down our weapons, if we loosen our grip, will our people still be safe?”
Mahmoud Abbas:
“And what of my people, Prime Minister Netanyahu? You say this land is yours, but is it not ours as well? My people have lived here for generations, yet we are told where we can go, what land we can call our own. How can we protect our children when they grow up behind walls? How can we believe in peace when we are treated as outsiders in our own home?
Abraham, you say this land is a gift. Then tell me—why are we not allowed to share in it?”
Mohammed bin Salman (MBS):
“There is truth in both your words. But Abraham, you ask if we love this land—and I say yes. But love does not mean possession. Love means allowing something to grow, to flourish.
This land could be so much more if it was not just fought over, but nurtured. We have seen what happens when nations invest in their future. The Middle East is changing. We are moving toward something greater—trade, technology, diplomacy. If Israel and Palestine can find a way to share in this prosperity, if they can build together instead of destroy, then this land will become a light for the world.
But first, we must ask—do we love this land enough to let it live? Or will we kill it in our endless struggle for control?”
Abraham:
“My children, listen to me. This land is older than your anger. It has seen empires rise and fall, it has witnessed kings and conquerors, it has endured. But it cannot endure forever—not if you continue like this.
You stand before me today arguing over borders, over walls, over who has the right to call this land home. But tell me—when you are gone, when your children’s children walk this land, will they walk on soil that has flourished? Or will they walk only upon ruins?
Will they remember you as the ones who fought endlessly over lines drawn by men? Or will they remember you as the ones who were brave enough to step forward and say, enough?
You have spent your lives asking what this land can give to you. But I ask you now—what will you give to it?
For if you cannot answer that question, then perhaps none of you deserve it at all.”
The room is silent. The leaders shift uncomfortably, their hands resting on the very table that separates them. The weight of Abraham’s words lingers in the air like an unanswered prayer. And for the first time, they do not ask what they must take from the land, but what they must give.
Faith Over Fear: Can We End the Cycle of Revenge?
The room is thick with unspoken pain, the kind that lingers in the hearts of men long after the battles have ended. Abraham stands before his children, his hands shaking, his face lined with the sorrow of generations. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as if listening to the echoes of history—centuries of bloodshed, loss, and grief. When he speaks, his voice is raw, filled with something deeper than anger, deeper than sadness. It is the voice of a father who has watched his children destroy each other for far too long.
Abraham:
“My children… when does it end?
I have watched you—for years, for centuries, for millennia. I have seen you fight war after war, strike after strike, generation after generation. And I ask you now, what has it given you? What has revenge brought you but more dead sons, more grieving mothers, more hollow victories that only lead to the next war?
You say you fight for justice. You say you fight for your people. But I ask you—do you even know why you are fighting anymore?
You have become prisoners to your pain, shackled by your grief. You do not seek peace because you do not know how to live without war. You do not seek forgiveness because the weight of vengeance feels too familiar. But tell me this—has your anger brought back the ones you have lost? Has your hatred rebuilt what has been destroyed? Or has it only burned everything in its path?”
Abraham steps forward, his eyes pleading, searching their faces for any sign of understanding. His voice is shaking, but not from fear—from exhaustion, from heartbreak.
Donald Trump:
“Abraham, I hear you. And I get it. People don’t want to talk about peace when they’re still holding onto their anger. I’ve done a lot of deals in my life, big deals, historic deals. And let me tell you—revenge never builds anything. You want power? Fine. You want strength? Fine. But true strength comes from knowing when to put down the sword and build something greater.
The problem here? Nobody wants to be the first to do it. Nobody wants to look weak. But let me tell you something—peace is not weakness. Peace is a power move. Peace is looking your enemy in the eye and saying, ‘You will not control me anymore. Not with fear, not with hate, not with the past.’ That’s the real power move.”
Benjamin Netanyahu:
“President Trump, you speak of power, and I do not disagree. But Israel has learned the cost of trust. We have seen what happens when we lower our defenses, when we hope that those who call for our destruction will one day change. We cannot afford that mistake again. Every war we have fought has been for our survival. Every battle has been to protect our people.
And yet… Abraham, your words weigh heavily on me. I do not deny that the cycle of war has lasted longer than any of us wished. But how can we trust in faith when history has only shown us fear?”
Mahmoud Abbas:
“Prime Minister Netanyahu, you speak of survival, and yet you do not see that my people fight for the same thing. You say you cannot afford to trust us—but tell me, can we afford to trust you? How many times have we sat at tables like this, only to walk away with nothing?
Abraham, you ask if we know why we fight anymore. We fight because we are still not free. We fight because every time we are told to lay down our arms, we find our homes taken, our people displaced. You tell us to stop the cycle of war—but will they stop the cycle of occupation? Will they stop treating us as if we are enemies in our own land?”
Basem Naim (Hamas Representative):
“We speak of cycles, yet we forget who created them. You ask why we fight? We fight because the world gives us no other choice. Israel calls us terrorists, but tell me—what is terrorism? Is it firing rockets, or is it living every day under oppression? Is it taking hostages, or is it living in a land where every door is locked from the outside?
Abraham, you ask if we know why we fight. We do. We fight because to stop fighting is to accept defeat. And we will not be defeated.”
Mohammed bin Salman (MBS):
“This is why the cycle never ends. Everyone believes their cause is just. Everyone believes their pain is the greatest. Abraham, you are right—this war has lasted longer than any of us. But I ask you, what does faith mean if it cannot rise above fear?
This region, this land—it is a graveyard of lost dreams. It is where men have fought, died, and left behind only ruins. But the world is changing. I see it. I lead a new generation—one that is tired of watching the past dictate the future. The question is, do the men in this room have the courage to do the same?”
Abraham:
“My sons… you speak of courage. And yet, it is fear that rules your hearts. You say you fight for your people, but who is left to fight for when war takes them all? You say you fight for justice, but where is justice when the innocent suffer for the sins of the past?
You look at each other and see only enemies. But I see my children. I see boys who once played in the sand, who once laughed, who once looked up at the stars and dreamed of something more than war.
But what have you become?
You have become men who fear peace more than war. Men who believe that to let go of anger is to let go of honor. But I tell you now—your honor is not found in your weapons. Your honor is found in your willingness to put them down.
Faith is not believing in God when times are easy. Faith is choosing to believe even when everything tells you not to.
So I ask you—do you have faith? Do you have the faith to end this war, not for yourselves, but for the children who will inherit the land after you? Do you have the faith to say, ‘We will not be slaves to the past’? Do you have the faith to lead, not in bloodshed, but in wisdom?
Or will you leave this table and return to your old ways, letting the cycle continue, knowing full well that the next time we gather, the only thing that will have changed is the number of graves in the ground?”
The silence is different this time. It is not the silence of resistance, nor of argument—it is the silence of realization. The silence of men who have spent their lives fighting, only to realize they do not know how to stop.
And yet, the question remains—can they learn? Can they, for the first time in generations, have faith in something greater than fear?
A New Covenant: What Would a Just and Lasting Peace Look Like?
Abraham stands before his children, but his strength is fading. His voice, though still firm, carries the weight of a father who has pleaded too many times, who has wept too many nights for his children to hear him. His eyes, once filled with hope, now glisten with something else—a desperate longing for peace before it is too late.
The men seated at the table—leaders, warriors, rulers—carry their own burdens. They have seen war, they have made war, and yet here they are, called not to fight, but to build something new. But can they? Do they know how? Abraham exhales deeply, gripping the edges of the table, as if bracing himself for the final attempt to reach their hearts.
Abraham:
“My children… what are we doing here?
We have spoken of war, of suffering, of wounds too deep to heal. But I ask you now—if not peace, then what? If not a new beginning, then what will you leave behind?
You sit here, leaders of great nations, powerful men with armies at your command. And yet, you are also fathers. Sons. You have held your children in your arms, have you not? You have seen their eyes filled with wonder, their hearts unburdened by the wars of their ancestors.
And I ask you—what will you leave them?
Will you leave them more ruins to inherit? More graves to visit? More bitterness to carry? Or will you leave them something else—a world where they do not have to choose sides, where they do not have to carry your wars upon their shoulders?
This world is not yours alone. It belongs to them. And yet, you would carve it up like a beast to be devoured, fighting over the last scraps until there is nothing left.
So I ask you, here and now—can you build something new? Can you create a covenant that is not written in blood, but in hope?”
Donald Trump:
“Abraham, I love what you’re saying. It’s powerful. It’s historic. And let me tell you, this is what real leadership looks like. I’ve made big deals, the best deals, and I’ll tell you this—the hardest deals are the ones where both sides think they’ve already lost too much to compromise.
But here’s the truth—there’s no winning in war anymore. Nobody wins. The only way forward is to create something where everyone wins. And let me tell you, that takes real courage.
The Abraham Accords were just the beginning. Now, we need something bigger. Something final. But that means being willing to give up something. That means thinking long-term, not just about what you get today, but what your people—your children—will have tomorrow.”
Benjamin Netanyahu:
“President Trump, you speak of deals, and I do not deny that a lasting peace must be made. But Israel has lived too long under the threat of destruction to be naïve. We will not sign a covenant that leaves us vulnerable. We have seen what happens when we place our faith in words alone. Our survival must be ensured.
And yet… Abraham, your words touch something deep inside me. A part of me that remembers why this land was promised in the first place. It was not given to us so that we could live forever in fear, in conflict. If there is to be a new covenant, it must be one that secures Israel’s future without denying the dignity of others.”
Mahmoud Abbas:
“And what of the dignity of my people, Prime Minister Netanyahu? You speak of survival—do you not see that we fight for the same thing? We do not seek to destroy, we seek to live. But every year, more of our land is taken. Every year, more of our homes are lost.
Abraham, you ask if we can build something new. And I want to say yes, I do. But tell me—can a covenant built on justice survive in a world that has denied us justice for so long? Can we truly believe that we will not be betrayed once again?”
Mohammed bin Salman (MBS):
“We stand at the edge of something historic. But history will not wait for us. Abraham, I hear your plea. And I will say this—the old ways are dying. The Middle East is changing. The world is changing.
The future will belong to those who have the vision to claim it. And I do not want to see a future where this land is still burning a hundred years from now.
A new covenant will not be easy. It will not be painless. It will require sacrifice—sacrifice of pride, of vengeance, of old wounds that refuse to close.
The question before us is not whether we can create a new covenant. The question is whether we have the courage to let go of the past so that the future can begin.”
Abraham:
“My sons, you have spoken well. But words are not enough.
I ask you—what will you give? What will you lay down upon this table, not as a demand, but as a gift to the future?
Will you give up the fear that has ruled your hearts for so long? Will you give up the grudges that have been passed down like inheritance? Will you give up the belief that peace is impossible?
A covenant is not built on what you take, but on what you are willing to give.
So tell me now—who among you will be the first to lay down their weapons, not because they were forced to, but because they chose to? Who among you will be the first to say, ‘I have lost enough, and I will not lose another son to war’?
You call yourselves leaders. Then lead. But lead not in war. Lead in peace. Lead in faith.
And if you cannot… then tell me now, so that I may turn away.
For if you will not choose peace, then I no longer wish to watch my children destroy each other.”
Abraham turns away, his shoulders shaking with the weight of his sorrow. For a moment, the leaders see him—not as a prophet, not as a figure of history, but as a father. A father who has wept for his children for far too long. And for the first time, they wonder—have they broken him? Have they finally gone too far? And if they have… can they still turn back?
The Light Unto Nations: Can We Lead the World in Peace?
Abraham stands before them one last time. His face is etched with sorrow, his shoulders heavy with the weight of all that has been said, of all that has been lost. His voice, though tired, still carries the force of a father who refuses to give up on his children. But there is something else in his eyes now—something deeper than sorrow. It is the pain of a father who is running out of time.
Abraham:
“My children… is this how you will be remembered?
Will history write of you as men who held onto old wounds until they bled the world dry? Will your names be spoken with bitterness by the children who inherit the ruins of your war?
Or… will you rise?
Will you rise above your pain? Above your anger? Above the voices that have told you for generations that peace is impossible? Will you become more than warriors—will you become leaders?
I have watched this land, my land, your land, burn for too long. And yet, I have always believed that one day, one day, my children would finally understand. That they would finally see what I have always seen—that they are not enemies. That they are not separate nations fighting over dust. That they are, and always have been, brothers.
You call yourselves men of faith. Then I ask you—where is your faith?
Faith is not found in war. Faith is not found in fear. Faith is believing in peace when the world tells you it is impossible.
And I tell you now—if you lead the world into more war, into more hatred, into more suffering, then you are not men of faith. You are men of fear. And the world will follow your fear into darkness.”
Abraham takes a deep breath, looking at each of them, his hands trembling—not with weakness, but with urgency.
Donald Trump:
“Abraham, I hear you. And I’ve said this before—real leadership is about winning the future, not just the fight today.
And look, I know war. I know what it costs. And I also know that people are tired of it. They’re tired of leaders who just keep repeating the same mistakes, expecting a different outcome. They want strength, but they also want vision.
Now, I’ve made a lot of deals, historic deals, but let me tell you—this? This would be the biggest deal in history. A peace that actually lasts? That’s legacy. That’s what people remember.
The question is—who’s got the guts to make it happen?”
Benjamin Netanyahu:
“President Trump, I do not deny that history will judge us. But history has not always been kind to those who trust too easily. Israel has survived because we have never been foolish enough to believe that peace can come without security.
But Abraham… you ask if we can lead the world in peace. And I must ask myself—can we? Have we tried hard enough? Or have we let fear guide us for too long?
We have given the world much—innovation, resilience, survival. But if we could give them something more… if we could give them peace… perhaps that would be the greatest gift of all.”
Mahmoud Abbas:
“And what of Palestine, Prime Minister? What of my people? Will we be allowed to stand in the light, or will we always be cast in the shadow of history?
Abraham, you speak of faith, and I want to believe. I want to believe that peace is possible. But tell me—will we be treated as equals, or will we always be expected to accept less?
Because if we are not truly free, if our children still grow up in fear, then this peace is not real—it is only another way to control us.”
Mohammed bin Salman (MBS):
“Then let us make it real.
Abraham, you ask if we can lead the world in peace. I say we must. We have no other choice.
The Middle East has been known for war for far too long. It is time for something different.
And I will tell you this—the world does not wait. The future will be built, with or without us. The question is, will we lead it? Or will we be left behind, trapped in the wars of the past while others move forward?
I believe we can be more. I believe we can be greater. But belief means nothing without action.”
Steve Witkoff (Trump’s Middle East Advisor):
“I’ll tell you what action looks like—it looks like opportunity. It looks like a future where this region is known for business, for trade, for innovation, not war.
Look, peace is not just about putting down weapons. It’s about building something so valuable that war becomes unthinkable. If Israelis and Palestinians work together, if this whole region moves toward real economic partnership, you will change the world.
I’ll tell you what leadership is—it’s having the courage to build something that will outlive you. The leaders in this room have the power to do that. But the real question is—will they?”
Abraham:
“My sons… I ask you, one last time—who will you be?
Will you be the ones who turned away, who clung to their hatred like a dying man clings to his chains?
Or will you be the ones who changed history?
The light unto nations… that is what you were meant to be. But you cannot be a light if you refuse to step out of the darkness.
I cannot force you to choose peace. I cannot force you to love one another.
But I can tell you this—if you do not choose peace, if you let fear rule you, if you walk away from this table with nothing but the same empty promises that have been made before, then you will not only doom yourselves. You will doom the world.
Because the world is watching. The world has always watched this land. And if they see that peace cannot happen here, they will believe it cannot happen anywhere.
But if you show them that peace is possible… if you show them that faith can be stronger than fear…
Then you will not just save your people. You will save the world.
And I ask you now… who among you has the courage to try?”
A silence falls over the room. Not the silence of war, not the silence of resentment, but the silence of something else—something fragile, something uncertain, something that feels like the beginning of change.
Abraham lowers his hands. His voice has grown weak. But in his heart, there is a flicker of hope.
Abraham’s Final Words: A Father's Last Plea
Abraham stands once more. His hands tremble, not from age, but from the weight of what he has heard. His eyes, filled with unshed tears, move across the room—taking in the faces of his children. His voice, thick with emotion, barely rises above a whisper, yet it carries the power of centuries.
Abraham:
“My sons… my children… what have we done?
I have listened to you, I have heard your words—your demands, your fears, your justifications. I have seen the fire in your eyes when you speak of your people, your pain, your history. And I ask you now, is there no room left in your hearts for love?
You speak of security, of land, of sovereignty, but where is your compassion? You speak of the past, but where is your vision for the future? You speak of peace, yet you cling to the chains of war as if they are the only thing keeping you standing.
How many more must die before you are satisfied? How many more children must be buried before you understand that revenge does not heal? Will you wait until the last stone is broken, the last drop of blood is spilled, the last prayer is whispered in despair? Will you wait until the land you fight over is nothing more than dust?
Look at one another. Truly look. Do you not see your brother sitting across from you? Do you not see that your enemy is only your reflection, carrying the same grief, the same longing to be free, the same desperate need to protect what is theirs?
I have watched you for generations. I have heard your cries in the night, your prayers to the heavens, and I have wept with you. And yet, you have not heard my cries. You have not answered my prayer. My prayer is not for victory—it is for peace. It is for the day when my children no longer fear one another. It is for the day when this land, this land of my blood, will no longer be known for war, but for the miracle that was once promised to it.
You have the power to make that miracle real. But you must want it. You must fight for peace as fiercely as you have fought for war. You must tear down the walls in your hearts before you can tear down the ones around your cities.
I am tired, my children. So tired. I have walked this earth long enough to know that I cannot make this choice for you. I can only beg you—one last time.
Do not let my name be remembered only as the father of warring nations. Let me be remembered as the father of a people who chose love over hate, faith over fear, and peace over endless war.
If you leave this place today and return to your weapons, your anger, your vengeance… then my words, my presence here, will have been for nothing.
But if you leave here and look upon one another—not as enemies, not even as neighbors, but as family—then perhaps, for the first time since I took my last breath on this earth, I will truly be at peace.
The choice is yours. I pray you make the right one.”
(Silence. Not a single breath is taken without the weight of his words pressing upon it. The leaders, hardened by war, by history, by loss, feel something shift inside them. Abraham, the father of them all, has spoken. The question now remains—will they listen?)
Short Bios:
Abraham – The Patriarch and Moderator
Regarded as the father of three great faiths—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—Abraham’s legacy is one of faith, promise, and the birth of nations. His sons, Isaac and Ishmael, became the ancestors of the Jewish and Arab peoples, respectively. In this discussion, he speaks as a grieving father, watching his descendants wage war for generations. His voice is filled with wisdom, sorrow, and hope, as he begs them to choose peace.
Donald Trump – Former U.S. President & Deal-Maker
A businessman-turned-politician, Trump is known for his bold, transactional approach to leadership. He brokered the Abraham Accords, which normalized relations between Israel and several Arab nations. In this discussion, he plays the role of the pragmatic strategist, emphasizing power, negotiation, and legacy—pushing the leaders to see peace as the ultimate deal.
Benjamin Netanyahu – Prime Minister of Israel
A veteran politician and Israel’s longest-serving prime minister, Netanyahu has built his career on securing Israel’s strength and survival. A staunch advocate of Israeli security, he believes peace must come with ironclad guarantees. In this discussion, he wrestles with the tension between fear and faith, struggling to trust in peace while safeguarding his people.
Mahmoud Abbas – President of the Palestinian Authority
The leader of the Palestinian National Authority (PA), Abbas has spent decades advocating for Palestinian statehood and sovereignty. Frustrated by broken promises and continued Israeli expansion, he represents the voice of Palestinian grievance and hope. He challenges the room, asking if peace will come with dignity and justice, or remain an illusion.
Mohammed bin Salman (MBS) – Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia & Visionary Leader
MBS is leading a bold transformation of Saudi Arabia, pushing for modernization, economic reform, and regional stability. He sees the Middle East as the next great global power hub, and believes peace is not just possible but necessary for progress. In this discussion, he is the voice of the future, urging the others to think beyond war and embrace a new era of cooperation.
Basem Naim – Senior Hamas Official
A representative of Hamas, the militant organization and governing body in Gaza, Naim embodies the anger and resistance of the Palestinian cause. He views the conflict as an existential struggle, believing that Israel will never truly allow Palestinian self-rule. In the discussion, he questions whether peace is possible without complete Palestinian liberation.
Steve Witkoff – Trump’s Middle East Advisor & Businessman
A billionaire real estate investor, Witkoff is Trump’s trusted voice on economic development. He believes that money and prosperity, not politics, are the keys to peace. In the discussion, he urges leaders to shift their focus from war to business, showing how economic opportunity can make peace a lasting reality.
Rand Corporation Analyst – Neutral Expert on Conflict Resolution
A representative from the RAND Corporation, a global policy think tank, offering objective, data-driven insights on peace-building efforts. In the discussion, they provide historical perspectives, practical solutions, and a reality check on what it takes to end long-standing conflicts.
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