Sometimes I wonder if it was ever about Israel at all. Or if it was about me.
The land speaks louder than any man who tries to govern it. It devours leaders, eats visionaries, wears kings down to dust and forgets their names.
I tell myself I am different. I tell myself history will remember. But at night — when sleep slips and the old fears leak back in — I hear the land whisper otherwise.
It says: You are temporary.
I feel the weight of the fathers — the ones who fought with nothing, who built out of sand and blood and desperate faith. I walk in their footprints but mine feel lighter somehow, like they do not sink as deep, like the ground is not sure it wants to hold me.
I wonder if I have made Israel stronger or just heavier. More secure, yes — but at what cost? Division cuts deeper every year. Pride turns brittle. Faith turns violent.
Did I bind the wounds — or stitch the rot deeper into the flesh?
Sometimes, in the thinnest hours, I see flashes of collapse: the cities falling not from bombs but from emptiness, from forgetting. From growing so strong that we believe ourselves invulnerable — and from that arrogance, becoming fragile.
Sometimes I see my own face carved in stone somewhere in a cracked and empty square, and no one left alive who remembers why.
I wanted to be a shield. I fear I have become a blade too heavy to wield.
And deeper still — beneath pride, beneath strategy, beneath even duty — there is the smallest voice, the one I bury beneath mountains of will.
It asks:
Was it ever possible to save something that was born already under siege? Was survival itself a victory, or only a stay of execution? Was the dream always doomed, and I simply learned how to slow the fall?
I silence it. I must.
Because if I listen too long, if I allow that voice to bloom, then the hands I have kept so steady might start to tremble.
And if the hands tremble, if the mind breaks — then Israel cracks with me.
So I rise each day, harder than the day before, carving certainty over the bruises. Wearing the mask so tightly it becomes the skin.
Because whether or not I believe anymore —whether or not I am right — I must still stand.
There is a moment in the desert, an endless stretch of heat and sand, where a man walks alone. He is wrapped in linen, moving against the wind, the weight of revelation pressing down on his shoulders. He does not question the voice he hears—it is God, it must be God. A thousand years from now, they will kill in his name. A thousand years from now, they will bow five times a day, press their foreheads to the earth, and call it submission. He will not see it, but it will happen.
History moves in whispers, in the slow-turning wheels of empires and the careful scripting of holy books. It is a fragile thing, belief, made real only by the sheer force of repetition. A thing spoken enough times, written in ink and carved into stone, takes on the illusion of permanence. And so it was with Islam.
It began with a man and a vision. And in that moment, it was real.
But history is not kind to those who freeze time.
The Weight of the Word
It is no small thing to build a world with words. It is no small thing to stand in the sands of the Arabian Peninsula, under an unforgiving sun, and speak of an unseen God. But where there is faith, there is always something else—power. And the line between the two is thin, the space between worship and control measured only by how tightly one holds the reins.
Islam, from its first breath, was never just a religion. It was law. It was politics. It was a nation before it was a scripture. And it was unyielding. The Prophet did not simply offer a path to God; he built a system that demanded obedience. There would be no negotiation. The words were final. The book was closed. And when the book is closed, the mind is too.
There is a flaw in this, a crack in the foundation. A book cannot evolve. A book does not learn. And yet, the world does. The world shifts beneath the weight of certainty, and when it does, those who cling to the past must either loosen their grip or be buried with it.
But Islam does not loosen.
The Hand of the Clock
There was a time, long before the minarets stretched into the sky, when the Muslim world burned bright with knowledge. In the libraries of Baghdad, scholars wrote of numbers and stars, of medicine and philosophy. They translated Aristotle, debated the structure of the cosmos, built the engines of modern science.
And then they stopped.
Or rather, they were stopped.
Somewhere along the line, the gates of reason were shut, locked with a key that fit neatly between the pages of holy text. The world had moved too fast, too far, and so the scholars were silenced. Innovation gave way to imitation. Discovery gave way to dogma. The light dimmed, and what remained was law, rigid and unchanging.
A system that cannot evolve is a system that will collapse.
It is a strange thing, to watch a great civilization retreat into its own shadow. And yet, here we are. The Quran remains. The hadith remains. The laws remain. But the mind does not move.
In the West, the church was broken long ago. The Enlightenment shattered the chains, tore apart the pulpits, replaced divine right with reason. The battle was fought, and though the scars remain, the ground was won. But Islam has not yet had its reformation. It stands now as it stood then—unyielding, absolute, unwilling to bend to the tide of history.
And what does not bend, breaks.
The Prophets and the Puppets
They say there will be no more prophets. Muhammad was the last. The final seal, the last word. But this is the greatest illusion of all—there is always another prophet. They rise in every age, whisper new truths, carve new paths. Some are real. Most are frauds.
To claim that no more will come is to claim that God has finished speaking. And if God has finished speaking, then the world is abandoned.
But the problem is not prophecy. The problem is power.
For when prophecy is used to build a throne, it is no longer prophecy.
To call Muhammad the final prophet is not a theological argument—it is a political one. It locks the door. It prevents challenge. It ensures control. If the gates are sealed, no new revelations can threaten the old ones. If the book is closed, no new voices can rewrite it. And so, the world of Islam remains frozen, its people chained to the past, its laws written in the ink of an empire that no longer exists.
The Last Man in the Desert
Imagine him again, the man in the sand. Alone, before the empire, before the armies, before the cities built in his name. He was not yet a legend. He was not yet a ruler. He was just a man. And in that moment, before the weight of history settled upon him, perhaps he still had doubt.
Perhaps he still wondered if the voice he heard was real.
Perhaps he still had the chance to be something else.
But history is not kind. And words, once spoken, cannot be unsaid.
Rise now, O red earth, O bones of the sun, Split the dawn with your burning breath, Let the wind cry out from the jagged stones, Let the sky pour fire upon my flesh.
O gods of the high desert, who sleep in the dust, Who turn in the belly of the trembling hills, Who whisper through the ribs of the coyote’s song, Come forth in the hour of my calling.
I am the wanderer, the hollowed hand, The foot that treads where shadows burn, Where the river runs thin as a silver thread, Where time is swallowed by the open mouth of the sky.
Fill me with the rage of the thunderhead, With the patience of the sun-cracked stone, With the howl of the wind that gnaws the cliffs, With the hunger of roots that drink the dark.
Let the stars etch their scars on my skin, Let the sand carve my name in the endless tide, Let the heat of the earth rise through my bones, Until I am no more man than storm.
I call you forth, O watchers of the lonely hills, O keepers of the brittle moon, O nameless ones who wear the dust—Rise, rise, and enter me!
For the road is long, and the night is waiting, And I must be fierce as the desert’s breath, Sharp as the teeth of the howling wind, Strong as the stone that breaks the light.
I will not fall. I will not turn. I am the fire, the dust, the storm, And I will do what must be done.
