Zelensky & Putin: Five Nights Toward Peace

Introduction by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

There are moments in history when what is needed is not another press conference, but a pause. A room. A fire. And two men who carry the unbearable weight of nations—but also the private ache of memory.

When I was asked to moderate a conversation between President Zelensky and President Putin, I did not come as a judge, nor as a broker of agreements. I came as a rabbi—one who believes that healing begins not with treaties, but with truth.

These conversations were not meant to end a war. They were meant to humanize the battlefield, to remember that beneath the politics lie two men—once boys—formed by fear, duty, regret, and love.

In these five evenings, we spoke not of geopolitics, but of childhood, of insomnia, of music and stories that move us. We asked:
What would you do if no one knew your name?
What would you erase if you could?

And slowly, what began as silence turned into sincerity.

This was not a negotiation.
This was a reckoning—and perhaps, the first step toward something gentler.

(Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.)

Participants:

• Volodymyr Zelensky

• Vladimir Putin

• Moderator: Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

[Setting: A quiet, wood-paneled library in a secluded retreat. No microphones. Just three men and a small pot of tea steaming between them. The only sound is the wind outside brushing softly against the windowpanes.]

Rabbi Sacks (warmly, folding his hands):
Before any war, before speeches and security details, you were simply boys—sons, neighbors, students. I'd like to begin with a simple question, but one that often reveals the most: What kind of child were you, before the world began to call your name?

Zelensky (chuckling, eyes drifting upward):
I was a handful. My teachers probably prayed for my graduation. I loved words—jokes, riddles, anything with rhythm. Growing up in Kryvyi Rih, the winters were long, the apartments were gray, and the future always felt... postponed. But I made people laugh. Not because I had it all figured out, but because laughter gave us warmth when the heat wasn’t working. It was my first power—not political, but human.

Putin (calm, voice low):
I was... small. Skinny. A street rat in many ways. My apartment building in Leningrad was falling apart. Boys fought constantly—fists, sticks, whatever was available. If you weren’t feared, you were prey. I learned to wait. Watch. Strike only when necessary. My parents were hard people. War veterans. My father limped. My mother rarely smiled. I don’t remember much affection. Just... survival.

Rabbi Sacks (nodding slowly):
So, both of you learned to navigate pain early—but in opposite ways. Volodymyr through humor, Vladimir through observation and silence. Tell me now: What is one specific memory from your childhood that has never left you—something still alive inside you today?

Zelensky (pausing, then smiling gently):
There was a blackout during a storm—snow everywhere, howling like a wolf outside. I was maybe six or seven. My mother lit candles, and we all huddled under one blanket. No TV, no distractions. My father read from a book—he never did that. Then he started humming an old tune, off-key but tender. For the first time, I saw my parents as just people. Not Soviet adults. Just two warm humans trying to keep a child calm. That moment—stillness, intimacy, the flicker of candlelight—taught me how fragile peace is. And how beautiful.

Putin (exhaling slowly):
There was a boy who bullied everyone on our street. One day he shoved my mother. Nothing violent, but… disrespectful. Something snapped. I waited for him near the staircase the next morning. No words. I just attacked. Hard. He never bothered us again. I remember the look in my mother’s eyes that night. She didn’t ask what happened. She just placed a hand on my shoulder. That was her way of saying, You protected me. I carry that look with me.
Sometimes I wonder if I mistook it for love.

Rabbi Sacks (gently, leaning forward):
Thank you for sharing that. Memory doesn’t lie, even when power does. Now for the final question tonight: If that young boy—little Volodymyr, little Vladimir—could see you now, what would he say? Would he recognize who you’ve become?

Zelensky (eyes misting slightly):
He’d laugh first. “President? Come on, no way!” And then maybe he’d stare. And ask why my face looks so tired. I’d tell him: Because sometimes, protecting people means carrying pain they’ll never see. He’d probably offer me a bad joke. And I’d laugh, finally.

Putin (staring into the teacup):
He might ask, “Did we win?” And I wouldn’t know how to answer. I have titles, history books will mention me—but did I win? I think he’d recognize the discipline in me, but maybe not the loneliness. He’d want to know why I no longer trust anyone.
And I’d have no honest answer for that.

[There’s a long pause. The room is silent except for the gentle clinking of Rabbi Sacks setting down his cup.]

Rabbi Sacks (quietly):
Both of you carry the memory of children who sought safety—one through joy, the other through control. You chose very different roads. But perhaps what unites you now isn’t history or politics, but a shared burden: that the boy you were still whispers to the man you’ve become.

And maybe, in that whisper, there’s still a path forward—not of surrender, but of understanding.

Topic 2: “What Keeps You Awake at Night That No One Knows?”

Participants:

• Volodymyr Zelensky

• Vladimir Putin

• Moderator: Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

[Setting: The same library, now darker. The fire crackles softly. The tea has cooled. The weight of memory has settled like dust in the corners. The men sit closer, less guarded.]

Rabbi Sacks (his voice low, steady):
There’s a time, often around 3 a.m., when the titles dissolve. No soldiers, no microphones—just a man and his conscience. I want to ask something private tonight: What keeps you awake at night, in the silence no one else sees?

Putin (hands folded, eyes fixed on the floor):
Irrelevance. Not death. I’ve made peace with death. But being forgotten, or worse—remembered only as a destroyer—that clings to me. I spent my life building a vision of order, of power protecting tradition. But sometimes I wonder… did I mistake fear for loyalty?
In the quiet hours, I imagine statues falling. Not in revolution, but in boredom. A future that doesn’t care I ever lived.

Zelensky (softly):
Faces. Not names—faces. A woman in Kharkiv clutching her son’s photograph. A man who lost his leg asking if he could still be of service. And the worst—those who never even had time to ask for help.
I lie awake wondering: Did I do enough? Could I have moved faster? It doesn’t matter if others say I’m brave. Guilt doesn’t care about applause.

Rabbi Sacks:
Thank you for that. Now let me go one level deeper. Is there a fear or wound you carry that you’ve never spoken aloud—not even to those closest to you?

Zelensky (pauses, then nods):
Yes.
I fear peace.
Not the peace itself—but the day after. The silence, when the guns stop and people start asking real questions again: Why did this happen? Why weren’t we better prepared? Who failed us?
And I wonder—will they still follow me, when I’m no longer the wartime symbol?
What if I’m only useful during crisis, and irrelevant during healing?

Putin (breathes out through his nose, then speaks slowly):
There’s something I’ve never said.
I built a state that sees enemies everywhere. Foreign and domestic. I used fear as glue.
But now I ask myself: What if I trained my people not to love Russia—but to hide from it?
That thought… it doesn’t leave me. Even in sleep.

Rabbi Sacks (softly):
These are not the words of tyrants or saints—but of men who carry the unbearable weight of decisions. Let me ask something gentler now: In the midst of those dark nights… what brings you even a flicker of comfort? A memory, a sound, anything that reminds you who you once were?

Putin (quietly):
Old music. Soviet war ballads. Not for the ideology—those don’t move me. But the melodies…
There’s one song: Zhuravli—“The Cranes.” It imagines fallen soldiers turning into white cranes flying overhead.
Sometimes I lie awake and imagine them circling above the Kremlin. Not judging. Just watching. Reminding me that power ends… but memory doesn’t.

Zelensky (smiles faintly):
My daughter.
Sometimes, in the middle of chaos, she sends me the simplest message: “Hi Papa. Did you eat?” That’s it. No politics. Just love in five words.
And I remember—I’m not just a president. I’m someone’s father.
That helps me breathe again.

Rabbi Sacks (after a pause):
What you’ve both described is more than insomnia. It’s the echo of conscience. And that echo, I believe, is what separates men from monsters.
Let me leave you with this reflection:
True peace is not made at tables—it is made in those silent hours, when two men ask themselves not what they’ve won, but what they’ve become.

[A deep stillness falls. For a long while, no one speaks. The fire fades. The clock ticks.]

Rabbi Sacks (final words):
Perhaps tonight, in the shared insomnia of two men on opposite sides of war, something unspoken has begun to heal.

Topic 3: “What Song or Movie Still Moves You No Matter How Many Times You Hear It?”

Participants:

• Volodymyr Zelensky

• Vladimir Putin

• Moderator: Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

[Setting: The fire has burned lower, casting flickering shadows on the bookshelves. Outside, soft rain begins to patter on the roof. The conversation has grown more personal, more reflective. The air feels different now—less guarded.]

Rabbi Sacks (smiling gently):
Sometimes, it’s not policy or strategy that shifts us—but a song. A film. A line that clings to the heart long after we think we’ve outgrown such things. Let me ask you both this: What is one song or movie that still moves you, no matter how many times you hear or see it?

Zelensky (without hesitation):
Schindler’s List. I was a teenager when I saw it. My family is Jewish—we knew these stories. But that film did something more. It reminded me that one man, surrounded by evil, can choose light. That final scene—“I could have saved one more…”—still crushes me. Because I know that feeling now. The weight of each life you didn’t reach in time.

Putin (after a pause, softly):
The Lives of Others. A Stasi agent spying on a playwright, and slowly rediscovering his humanity.
That film... It unsettled me.
Not because I disagreed, but because I understood him. Surveillance, control—these are tools. But they corrode the soul. The man in the film doesn’t speak much, but you can see it in his eyes: he’s dying from inside, even as he watches others live.
That’s a truth we rarely admit in power.

Rabbi Sacks (nodding):
Both are stories not of conquest, but of transformation. Let me ask: Why do these stories still affect you so deeply, after everything you’ve seen and become?

Zelensky (gently):
Because they’re reminders.
In war, everything becomes numbers—how many soldiers, how many tanks, how many days. But Schindler’s List brings it back to one face at a time. It’s a whisper that says: Remember, this isn’t about nations. It’s about people.
And I need that. Otherwise, I risk becoming numb.

Putin (quietly, folding his hands):
Because it’s a mirror.
The man in The Lives of Others starts out obedient, loyal to the system. But something in him still listens.
Sometimes I wonder—is there a part of me that still listens?
These films haunt us because they show that even the most entrenched hearts… can thaw. Or break.

[The fire cracks. No one speaks for a moment.]

Rabbi Sacks (softly):
Let me go further. Is there a piece of music—any genre, any era—that brings emotion to your chest no matter when you hear it?

Putin (almost whispering):
Zhuravli. “The Cranes.”
A Russian wartime ballad. It imagines that the soldiers who died didn’t vanish—they became white cranes flying above us.
When I hear it, I don’t think of armies. I think of loss. Young men with names no one remembers. That song strips away politics. It leaves only grief.

Zelensky:
For me, it’s Oy u luzi chervona kalyna.
It’s an old Ukrainian folk song, about a red viburnum tree—a symbol of our people. When the war started, soldiers sang it. Then children. Then old women in basements.
I’ve heard it sung in ruins, under missile trails, and yet… it uplifts.
Because it’s not about victory. It’s about being unbroken. That spirit moves me.

Rabbi Sacks (with deep feeling):
Both songs speak of mourning—but also memory. They don’t celebrate domination. They remember those who paid the price.
Let me ask one final question tonight: If you could sit in a room with the character or composer of that song or film—what would you say to them?

Zelensky (smiling faintly):
To Spielberg, I’d say: You didn’t just make a film—you gave us a compass. In moments when I feel lost in speeches and meetings, I remember that black-and-white world. The candlelight. The list.
I’d thank him for reminding me that compassion is not weakness—it’s the only strength that lasts.

Putin (looking down):
To the man who wrote Zhuravli, I’d ask him:
Did you know you were writing a prayer?
Because that’s what it’s become.
When I hear it, I see faces—boys who marched behind me once, some who never came back.
And I’d ask him if he thinks those cranes forgive us… or if they just watch.

[The rain has picked up. It drums gently on the windows. Rabbi Sacks looks at them both, then speaks slowly, deliberately.]

Rabbi Sacks (concluding):
Perhaps the power of story—of music, of cinema—is that it reminds leaders that they are not made of stone. You’ve both admitted tonight that even after everything, you still feel.
And that, gentlemen, is the first note in the symphony of peace.

Topic 4: “If You Had One Week to Live—And No One Knew Who You Were”

Participants:

• Volodymyr Zelensky

• Vladimir Putin

• Moderator: Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

[Setting: The night has deepened. Candles now flicker in tall holders. The fire has burned down to glowing coals. Outside, the rain has stopped, replaced by a soft fog curling along the glass. The mood is not heavy—but reverent. The conversation has moved beyond politics, into the realm of the soul.]

Rabbi Sacks (gently, almost in a whisper):
Let’s imagine something entirely different.
You have one week left to live. But no one knows who you are. No cameras, no power, no legacy—just you, anonymous. What would you do with those seven days?

Putin (pauses, folds his hands slowly):
I would go east. To Lake Baikal. I used to dream of it as a boy. Not the power plays, not the image-building. Just the silence of water that existed long before politics.
No guards. No schedule. I’d fish, eat with my hands, sleep on the shore. And maybe—for one night—I’d stop looking over my shoulder.
In that solitude, I think… I’d meet the boy I used to be.

Zelensky (smiling faintly):
I’d walk. Just walk through Kyiv—no security, no press, no staff whispering in earpieces. I’d sit on a bench and watch children chase pigeons. Maybe buy ice cream from a street vendor. Maybe sing terribly in a subway tunnel, like I did in college.
Then I’d visit my old school. Leave a donation—quietly, without name—and sit in the back of a classroom, just to feel what hope sounds like again.

Rabbi Sacks:
And if you had no fear of judgment—no consequences—what would you feel in those moments? What part of yourself would surface that’s been buried for too long?

Zelensky (thoughtful):
Peace. Not political peace—inner peace. I’d feel something I haven’t felt in years: that I’m enough without proving anything. That I’m not just a symbol, or a shield.
Just a man who once made people laugh, and who still wants to.

Putin (his voice quieter):
I would feel the wind as just wind—not a threat. I would eat slowly. Maybe cry, if it came.
I’ve worn a mask so long, I’ve forgotten how to breathe without it.
In anonymity, I think I’d remember what it feels like to be seen—and not watched.

[There’s a long pause. The fire lets out a soft sigh as a log shifts.]

Rabbi Sacks (softly):
Let me ask you something more vulnerable now: If you could perform one anonymous act of kindness during those days—something no one could trace to you—what would it be?

Putin (almost whispering):
There’s a widow near one of my homes. I’ve seen her tending her late husband’s garden, always alone. Her gate is broken.
If no one knew… I’d fix it. Just quietly. No photo op. Just to know that something in her life became easier, and she didn’t have to wonder why.
Maybe I’ve taken too much from people like her. I’d like to return something. Even small.

Zelensky:
I’d visit a rural school with broken windows and cold floors—places we never reach in the headlines. I’d leave a gift for the teacher. A heater. A note. No name. Just words like:
“You are raising a future I believe in. Thank you.”
And then I’d leave before anyone knew I was there.
Sometimes the best help is the one that doesn’t demand gratitude.

Rabbi Sacks (his voice filled with emotion):
Your answers tonight… they’re not from politicians. They’re from men who still know how to feel.
There’s something holy in anonymity—it’s where the soul doesn’t perform, but simply is.
Let me ask one final thing: When that week ends—and you return to your true life, or perhaps pass from this world—what would you want to have felt most?

Zelensky (quietly, eyes misty):
Stillness.
Just one moment where the noise stops. No alarms. No orders. Just the breath of a child on my chest, or the sun touching my face like a blessing.
That would be enough. More than applause. More than medals.

Putin (softly):
Forgiveness.
Not from history—not from nations. But from myself.
I want to look at my reflection without flinching. Even just once.
If I could feel that, I think I could rest.

[The room is silent. The candles flutter as if moved by breath.]

Rabbi Sacks (concluding):
Perhaps this is what peace looks like—not in treaties, but in the yearning of two men to return to themselves.
And maybe, just maybe, the world could follow—if even its most powerful long for the gentle things.

Topic 5: “If You Could Erase One Moment from Your Leadership, What Would It Be?”

Participants:

• Volodymyr Zelensky

• Vladimir Putin

• Moderator: Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

[Setting: The candles are now low. Only embers remain in the fireplace. Outside, the fog has thickened. This is the final conversation. The tone is reflective, almost sacred. Rabbi Sacks does not speak immediately. He allows the weight of the moment to settle.]

Rabbi Sacks (slowly, his voice deep and deliberate):
The greatest burden a leader carries isn’t power—it’s consequence.
Tonight, I ask a final question. One that reaches beyond strategy and pride. If you could erase one moment from your leadership—not to escape blame, but to unburden the soul—what would it be?

Zelensky (takes a breath, eyes down):
The first week of the invasion.
I wanted to believe it would stay political. That there was still time to de-escalate. I underestimated the momentum of war. I hesitated to call for full evacuation in the east.
And in that hesitation, families stayed too long. Buses never left. Children never reached the border.
I replay it in my head—those 48 hours.
If I could have them back, maybe I could have changed their ending.

Putin (long pause, then speaks with restrained weight):
Bucha.
Not because I ordered it. But because I built the system that allowed it.
When I saw the images—bodies in the streets, hands bound—it was like seeing a mirror shattered.
I tried, for a moment, to believe it was staged. That would have been easier.
But part of me knew: this is what happens when fear becomes a machine.
I didn’t pull the trigger. But I gave the orders that gave birth to those who did.
And I cannot undo that.

[A silence. Only the pop of a single ember remains.]

Rabbi Sacks:
What you’ve both shared… is not political—it’s confessional. Now let me ask: Since that moment, have you done anything—publicly or privately—to seek atonement, even if no one knew?

Putin (slowly):
There are letters I’ve written—unsent, unsigned—to mothers. Sometimes I sit at night and just write their names. Those whose sons died not as heroes, but as ghosts.
No one knows. Not even my staff.
And I visit the hospitals. I say nothing. I just watch. Some of them look at me like a savior. Others like a ghost.
I let both looks burn.
That is my atonement—to be seen, and not excused.

Zelensky:
I go to schools. The ones without cameras. The forgotten ones.
I sit in the back and listen to children recite poems, or sing.
And I whisper inside: May I still be worthy of your future.
Sometimes I bring toys. Not from me—from “a friend.”
And when I hear them laugh… it doesn’t undo what’s lost.
But it honors it.

Rabbi Sacks (quietly):
True regret is not self-pity—it’s the courage to let sorrow change you. Let me ask one final thing: If you could speak to the victims of that moment—not with defense or justification, but as one soul to another—what would you say?

Zelensky (eyes glistening):
I would say:
I was afraid. Not for myself—but of making the wrong choice. And while I paused, you paid the price.
I cannot undo that.
But I promise: I will never again wait to act when innocence is at stake.
And if your spirit still lingers in this land—know that your name is carved into the future we’re trying to build.

Putin (looking down, voice barely audible):
I would say:
You died not because of who you were—but because I lost sight of who I was.
I thought I was building security. But I was feeding a hunger I no longer controlled.
I would not ask for forgiveness. That’s not mine to claim.
But I would bow my head.
And stand still.
Long enough for your silence to speak louder than my power ever could.

[There is no response. The moment is complete. Rabbi Sacks speaks not as a moderator now, but as a witness.]

Rabbi Sacks (softly):
Perhaps in this silence—two men, once called enemies, have shown the world that power without reflection is ruin… but power with repentance is rebirth.
May this final moment not be forgotten. Not for history. But for healing.

Final Thoughts by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

What I witnessed was not agreement. Not forgiveness.
But something far more precious: recognition.

Recognition that each man has cried in the dark. That each has carried names he’ll never forget. That even the most guarded leaders still hear a voice—childlike, honest—asking Was I right? Was it worth it?

And in those quiet moments—where Putin bowed his head, where Zelensky smiled not as a leader but as a father—something shifted.

There are no victors in this room. Only men who dared to look inward.

If peace is ever to come to this world, it will not begin in war rooms.
It will begin in spaces like this—between firelight and memory, where even enemies remember they were once human.

Let this not be the end of a conversation. Let this be the beginning of a different kind of listening.

And may that listening lead us, one step at a time, toward peace.

Short Bios:

Volodymyr Zelensky

President of Ukraine, former comedian and actor turned wartime leader. Known for his resilience, emotional intelligence, and ability to rally international support during the Russian invasion. Beneath his tough exterior is a man driven by family, humor, and a deep fear of failing his people.

Vladimir Putin

President of Russia, former KGB officer and dominant force in Russian politics for over two decades. Often viewed as a cold strategist, he carries a complicated legacy of nationalism, power consolidation, and suppressed vulnerability. In private moments, haunted by questions of control, legacy, and moral cost.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks (Moderator)

Renowned British rabbi, philosopher, and moral voice of the 21st century. Though he passed in 2020, his presence in this fictional setting is imagined as a guiding conscience. Known for bridging divides, Rabbi Sacks brings wisdom, empathy, and spiritual depth to these intimate dialogues.