In July of 2024, twelve children stood on a soccer field in a Druze village in Israel, near Mount Hermon.
They weren’t soldiers.
They weren’t political.
They were children.
They were laughing, talking, passing a ball—living in the simple, sacred rhythm of childhood.
And then, in a single moment, everything changed.
A rocket fired by Hezbollah landed in the middle of that field.
All twelve were killed.
That moment has haunted me for the last 20 months.
I think about those children often. I think about their names, their faces, their families. I think about what that field must have looked like just seconds before impact—joyful, alive—and what it became after.
At the time, I had an idea. I wanted to design a mural on behalf of those children. But the timing wasn’t right.
The politics were too raw. The emotions were too fresh. So I waited. Fast forward to today.
As I was praying, thinking, and meditating on what to create next—what to draw, what to design—I felt a quiet but undeniable prompting. As if the Lord was tapping me on the shoulder, reminding me of those twelve children.
Not once.
Not twice.
But over and over again.
At the same time, I couldn’t ignore what I was seeing in Iran.
Every day, the news tells a story that the world still struggles to fully grasp. Since 2022, thousands of children have been killed by the Islamic regime. The exact number is hard to pin down—conservative estimates place it somewhere between 3,000 to 5,000.
Children who were murdered.
Silenced.
Different countries.
Different circumstances.
But a shared reality.
So I designed the banner.
Not knowing if it would be approved.
Not knowing if the timing was right.
Not knowing if anyone would say yes.
But something deeper told me: this needs to exist.
And then I looked at the calendar.
In just a short time, the world’s attention will shift. The FIFA World Cup is coming to the United States, Canada, and Mexico. The eyes of the world will be watching. And, suddenly, the connection became undeniable.
A soccer field.
Children.
A global stage centered around the very game they were playing.
It felt like more than timing.
It felt like alignment.
I sent the design to the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
A man with whom I’ve worked—Dan Oryan—reviewed it, approved it, and passed it along to the leadership in Majdal Shams.
I got on a plane to Israel. But when I arrived, I didn’t know if anything would happen. No confirmations. No clear plan. Just silence.
I sat in a hotel room, waiting. Praying. Wrestling with uncertainty.
The plan in my mind had been simple: Unveil the mural in the Druze village on April 29… Then unveil it again in another city on April 30 (maybe Kfar Maccabiah).
But none of that came to pass.
No one got back to me.
And for a moment, it felt like everything might fall apart.
Then something shifted.
A friend reached out—someone I can only describe as a quiet force of strength. A Jewish woman whose courage doesn’t announce itself, but reveals itself through action.
Her name is Justine Zwerling. She drove to Tel Aviv to meet me for lunch. I told her everything—the confusion, the frustration, the uncertainty, the complexity of navigating politics and approvals.
She listened. And then she said something simple: “This is ridiculous. We’re going to make this happen.”
She got on the phone. Within hours, she connected me to one of the leading spiritual figures of the Druze community: Sheikh Rafa Halabi… from the Druze community on Mount Carmel in Israel.
Director of the Jerusalem Office of the International Organization for Human Rights and the Defense of Public Liberties and President of the Organization of Distinguished Captains-Gentlemen of the Islamic World. He heard the story. And he personally invited me to Majdal Shams. When I arrived, everything changed.
I met the people.
I saw the village.
I felt the weight of what had happened there.
And then I met a mother. Her name is Naila Fakhr al-Din. She is the mother of Alma Fakhr al-Din—one of the children killed on that soccer field.
I sat with her.
I listened.
I saw the artwork in her home, the memories, the pieces of a life that was taken too soon.
I went to the field itself—the place where the missile landed.
And I cried.
Not loudly. Not outwardly.
But internally, deeply.
Because standing there, you realize something: This is not abstract. This is not political theory. This is real.
When it was time, I presented the first draft of the banner. They looked at it carefully. They gave feedback. Honest, thoughtful, constructive.
And then something remarkable happened. Both Sheikh Rafa and Naila said: “This must go up. Not just in Israel. But in the United States. And not just anywhere—but in connection with the World Cup.”
They were laughing, talking, passing a ball—living in the simple, sacred rhythm of childhood.
At that moment, I realized: What started as an idea… What nearly fell apart… What sat in uncertainty just days before… Was now carrying the blessing of a family and the support of a spiritual leader.
The Mural: “A Mural Honoring Children Lost to Violence by the Islamic Regime + Its Proxies”
At its center is a simple, universal image: A soccer match between children. On one side: Twelve Druze children in green—honoring those killed in Majdal Shams on July 27, 2024. On the other: Children in red—representing those killed in Iran since 2022.
They are not enemies.
They are children—facing each other in a game that should have been played in peace.
Above them stands a referee: Zahra Azadpour—a young Iranian female footballer killed during the massacres of 2026.
She represents courage.
She represents defiance.
She represents a generation that refused to be silenced.
Behind them, two worlds converge: Nabi Shu’ayb (Jethro’s Tomb)—a sacred Druze site of faith and continuity. And Azadi Tower in Tehran—a symbol of a people longing for freedom. Between them stands the Lion and Sun—an ancient Persian emblem, reborn here as a symbol of resilience and identity.
The rising sun behind it signals hope: Even in darkness, light remains possible.
What Comes Next
I am back in the United States now. And I am going to do what I have always done: Pound the pavement. Because now, I’m not just carrying an idea. I’m carrying a blessing.
If you ask me what I’m really praying for… I’ll tell you plainly: I want this mural shown before matches at the World Cup.
At stadiums across America—
From Seattle…
To the Bay Area…
To Los Angeles…
To Kansas City…
To Miami…
To New York.
I want the world to see.
Not just the beauty of the game—but the reality behind it. The innocence of children. And the brutality that took them… namely the Islamic Regime of Iran.
God performed a miracle to get me to Majdal Shams. Not one miracle—many. And I believe He can do it again.
This is an intense mission. At times, a lonely one. But I have to believe that His hand is on it.
And maybe—just maybe—people of influence will see this. Leaders in sports. Voices in media. Decision-makers in governments. Those connected to FIFA.
And they will recognize what this is.
Not just a mural.
But a message.
A message the world can no longer ignore: “Woman. Life. Freedom.”
All eyes on Iran.
A Final Word
There was a moment in this journey when I was completely lost. Completely alone. Sitting in a hotel room, not knowing what would happen next… not knowing if any door would open… not knowing if this mural would ever see the light of day.
So I did the only thing I knew to do: I prayed. And not just me—others were praying with me.
People standing with me.
People listening.
People who, in that moment, could hear God more clearly than I could.
And, through those prayers, two things became very clear:
A spiritual stronghold needed to be broken. And God needed to send someone—not just a Good Samaritan… but an extraordinary one. And He did.
When I think about the very best of Israel… When I think about the goodness of its people in a moment like this… One name rises above the rest in my mind: Justine Zwerling.
She didn’t hesitate.
She didn’t overthink.
She didn’t make it about herself.
She acted.
She stepped in at the exact moment I needed help most—and she became a living, breathing answer to prayer.
A bridge.
A catalyst.
A force of courage and conviction.
Sometimes, miracles don’t look like lightning from the sky.
Sometimes, they look like a person who shows up at just the right time… with just the right heart… and changes everything. And, in this story, Justine was that miracle.
