It’s not the speeches, the photo ops, or the promises, it’s the tailor and the coffee grinders and the one who does my hair
Not gonna lie:
In this post-truth, apocalyptic swirl of fake news, AI manipulation, deepfakes, and agenda, truth feels slippery, almost liquid.
The only two things I know for certain are these:
1. I don’t trust Hamas.
2. I don’t trust Netanyahu and his coalition.
And before you start screeching – no, this isn’t a comparison. It’s simply how I feel: I don’t trust either.
But here’s who I DO trust:
I trust the bus driver who slammed on the brakes and opened the doors when he saw me sprinting down the street, sweat-soaked and late.
I trust the taxi driver who remembers the night my father had a heart attack in the backseat of his cab, and who still asks about him, swearing he prays for him every day.
I trust the Old City merchant who told me not to buy floaty dresses from his stall, but to go instead to the wholesaler he uses, where they cost a third of the price.
I trust the greengrocer who explains why the mangoes are perfect this summer, and why the avocados are disappointing.
I trust my neighbor, who once helped me extinguish a fire when terrorists across the valley hurled Molotov cocktails at our building.
I trust Keren from Discount Bank, who calls me personally when money arrives from overseas, asking whether I want it converted to shekels or left in dollars.
I trust my colleagues at The Times of Israel – who span the political spectrum, yet all insist on the stubborn, necessary practice of telling the truth as best we can.
I trust the protesters, especially the ones who have lost their children in this war, or who know their children are still trapped in terror tunnels. I trust the grief-stricken to hold the mirror to our faces, to remind us of the human cost beneath the slogans.
I trust the healers – the doctors and nurses and therapists.
I trust the tailor and the coffee grinders and the one who does my hair.
I trust the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker.
I trust the woman who told me I had a stain on my dress.
I trust the artists and miscreants, the philosophers and poets, the film makers and stubborn dreamers at the pub – and the bartender, who somehow always knows the song the night needs.
I trust my friends who walk across the hills in the blistering heat, even on Shabbat, just to sit a while.
I trust the friends who arrive with soup, muffins, and scones when I’m sick.
I trust the ones I call for logic and sound reasoning.
I trust the ones I call for advice on crystals and aromatherapy.
I trust the ones with open minds who explore with me and ask lots of questions.
I trust the ones I call to daven for me at the Western Wall when things get really tough.
I trust the one who lay under the desert sky with me, tracing the universe’s expansion and contraction while we swatted mosquitoes and counted falling stars.
And I trust my children. Not because they are perfect, but because they are growing. Because they are learning to choose kindness, to discern, to stumble and get up again. Because they carry tomorrow inside them – and they’re stubbornly refusing to let go of the hope that can come with it.
So no, I don’t trust politicians, warlords, or the men who claim to hold the keys to peace while they profit from endless war. I don’t trust the speeches, the photo ops, or the promises wrapped in barbed wire.
But I do trust the people who keep showing up. I trust the grief that refuses to be silenced. I trust the ordinary mercies that keep breaking through the cracks. I trust the dark humor and the light as well.
And if peace ever comes, it will not be signed into existence at a podium. It will come from the broken-hearted who demand justice, from bus drivers and mango sellers, from friends who bring soup, from children who grow up choosing kindness.
It will come from us.
Or it will not come at all.
BY: Sarah Tuttle
Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not necessarily reflect The Times Union‘ point of view
