Why Israel Has Difficulty to Win - The Goblin on the Hill

This is not just a fantasy story. It’s a reflection of what Israel faces when dealing with terrorist groups that attack its people—while the world watches and blames Israel for defending itself.

A small town is under attack. Not by an army—but by one goblin on a hill with a grenade launcher.

The town wants to stop him, but every action they take might upset the international community.

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The Story:

“I saw your job posting,” said the half-elf as he entered the mayor’s office.

“It says there’s a task available—but it doesn’t say what the task actually is. Can you explain?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple,” the mayor replied with a shrug.

“See that hill over there? There’s a goblin sitting on top of it. He has a grenade launcher. Every so often, he fires at the town. That’s the issue.”

“I see,” said the half-elf. “So... we’re supposed to kill the goblin?”

“What?! Absolutely not!” The mayor’s eyes widened in alarm.

“We can’t kill him!”

“Why not?” the dwarf asked, clearly confused. “He’s a goblin.”

“Exactly,” said the mayor.

“If we kill him, the international community will accuse us of genocide. They’ll call us racists.”

“So?” the dwarf muttered. “Let them talk.”

“And then they’ll send troops against us,” the mayor added with a sigh.

The half-elf frowned.

“So... a goblin is bombing your town, and you just let it happen?”

“We don’t dare fight back,” said the mayor.

“If we retaliate, they’ll label us as aggressors.”

“Okay... what if we don’t kill him, just exile him somewhere far away?”

“From *his* hill?” the mayor scoffed.

“That would make us occupiers.”

“Fine. What if we just take his grenade launcher away?”

“They’d sanction us.”

“Lock him up with the launcher?”

“That would be considered a violation of rights.”

“Alright, alright,” the half-elf sighed. “I get it.”

The princess, who had been quietly observing, finally snapped.

“So let me get this straight. We can’t kill him.

We can’t disarm him.

We can’t arrest or exile him.

What’s left—send him to therapy? That’s not exactly our area of expertise.”

“Oh no,” said the mayor.

“We’d have to hire a psychologist for that.

But even then, the international community would say we’re using psychological pressure.”

“And we’d be accused of disrespecting goblin traditions,” added the dwarf, nodding solemnly.

“Shooting grenade launchers at townsfolk is practically sacred to goblins.”

“Exactly!” the mayor said, eyes lighting up.

“You understand.”

“Okay, so what exactly do you want from us?” the princess asked again.

“Just deliver a package,” the mayor said, holding up a sack.

“To the goblin?” the half-elf asked.

“Yes. There’s no food up there on the hill.

In about an hour, he’ll get hungry, declare a ceasefire, and call for peace talks.

He does this every day.

He demands food, wine, weapons—whatever he feels like.

Then, once he’s full, he announces that negotiations have broken down and resumes fire.

The international community thinks he’s a man of principle.”

“And if you refuse to give him what he wants?” asked the half-elf.

“They say we’re being unreasonable.”

“We get it,” the half-elf said, waving his hand.

“…and then they send troops,” the mayor mumbled.

“But why us?” the dwarf asked. “Can’t one of *them* deliver it?”

“They’ve tried,” said the mayor.

“None of them came back.”

“What? Did the goblin kill them?”

“He says he didn’t.”

“And they believe him?”

“They do.”

“So why won’t he kill us?”

“You’re outsiders,” said the mayor.

“He might not see you as a threat.”

The half-elf sighed.

“Okay. So let me summarize: Forget the politics and all the nonsense.

Our job is just to deliver a package from you to a goblin.

A basic courier mission.

Everything else is your problem, right?”

“Exactly!” the mayor nodded eagerly.

“So, do we have a deal?”

The half-elf exchanged glances with the princess and the dwarf. Then he nodded.

“Deal.”

The mayor let out a long, relieved sigh.

“Can I ask one last thing?” said the princess, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re terrified the international community might call you warmongers or racists or colonizers.

But what do they call you *now*?”

The mayor looked at her sadly.

“Idiots,” he said.