The war room calculations never look good for Israel. Military analysts count missiles, troops, territory. Iran has 90 million people. Egypt has 110 million. Turkey has 85 million. Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Syria, Yemen—the numbers keep climbing. Then add the campus protesters in America, the UN voting blocs, the European street mobs. The sheer mass of hostility is staggering.
And Israel? A country of 10 million people—only 7 million of whom are Jews—wedged into a sliver of land smaller than New Jersey, surrounded and outnumbered on every side.
The question is unavoidable: Can a nation survive when its enemy’s primary advantage is simply numbers—more people, more time, the ability to lose battle after battle and still return for another? When the demographic math works so heavily against you, when every generation sees your enemies multiply while you remain small, will arithmetic ultimately decide the outcome?
The answer lies in a grammatical anomaly buried in the book of Genesis.
Abraham had just learned that Sarah—not Hagar—would bear the son of the covenant. A kind-hearted father, Abraham was naturally worried about the fate of Ishmael, his firstborn son through Hagar. God responded to this concern in Genesis 17:20:
The phrase “a great nation” is significant. God uses this same language when blessing Abraham’s descendants through Isaac. Both lines receive the promise of becoming a “great nation.” Yet history reveals a stark difference in how this promise unfolds. The Arab world spans from Morocco to Iraq, encompassing hundreds of millions of people across vast territories. By any quantitative measure, Ishmael became a “great nation” through sheer numbers.
But this raises a critical question: If both Isaac and Ishmael receive the identical promise of becoming a “great nation,” why does Ishmael’s line possess such overwhelming numerical superiority while Isaac’s descendants remain so small? What distinguishes one “great nation” from another? And more importantly, why should the smaller line prevail against the larger?
The Bible commentator Rashi observes another critical detail: the Hebrew word for “princes,” nesi’im, translated here as “chieftains,” appears in the text with defective spelling—written with a missing letter. Biblical Hebrew employs both full and defective spellings, and the choice between them always carries interpretive weight. The full spelling would be נְשִׂיאִים, but here it appears as נְשִׂיאִם. Even if you cannot read Hebrew, you can see the difference: one letter is simply absent. Why does the Torah spell nesi’im defectively in this particular verse?
The Sages connect this defective spelling to Proverbs 25:14. Here’s the key: in Hebrew, the word nesi’im has a double meaning. It can mean “princes”—but it can also mean “clouds.” Proverbs 25:14 uses this very word with the same defective spelling to describe clouds:
The verse is talking about a person who makes big promises but delivers nothing—like clouds that look impressive but produce no rain.
Ishmael’s nesi’im—his princes—are like nesi’im—clouds. Just as the word is missing a letter, so too are Ishmael’s descendants missing substance. They look impressive from a distance, towering and threatening like storm clouds on the horizon. But when the moment of truth arrives—when actual rain is needed, when real force and lasting impact matter—there is nothing. The missing letter in the Hebrew text signals a fundamental impotence in Ishmael’s legacy. The numbers are there. The masses exist. But the strength that should accompany such overwhelming numerical superiority is absent. They are far weaker than their numbers suggest they should be.
But the Torah doesn’t stop there. Genesis 25:12 introduces Ishmael’s genealogy:
The Hebrew word for “generations” is toldot, and here it appears with doubly defective spelling—missing not just one letter but two. The full spelling would be תּוֹלְדוֹת (toldot), but for Ishmael it appears as תֹּלְדֹת (toldot)—doubly incomplete. Even without reading Hebrew, you can see that two letters are simply missing. By contrast, when Scripture discusses the toldot, the “generations,” of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the word always appears in full spelling. Only Ishmael’s toldot is doubly defective.
The pattern is now unmistakable. Just as Ishmael’s “princes” (nesi’im) are spelled with a missing letter to signal impotence, so too Ishmael’s “generations: (toldot) is spelled with two missing letters to signal a doubly hollow legacy. Ishmael will produce numerous descendants—the promise of multiplication is real. The numbers will be there. But the strength, the substance, the historical progress that should accompany such numbers will be absent. Many descendants, but no real power. Massive populations, but few lasting contributions to humanity.
The rock band Kansas captured Ishmael perfectly: “Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind.” Ishmael’s descendants are numerous. They are loud. They control international bodies like the United Nations. They fill the cities of the West with massive anti-Israel riots and protests. They possess demographic advantages that seem insurmountable. But they remain clouds without rain—impressive in appearance, empty in substance.
God gave Ishmael a “great nation” through quantity alone. Many people, extensive territory, political structures. But Israel? Israel is a great nation in an entirely different sense—qualitatively. “The Eternity of Israel does not lie” (1 Samuel 15:29). The people of Israel are eternal, indestructible, imperishable. Israel possesses an eternal quality that transcends arithmetic. We have never had numerical superiority. We have never had the demographic advantage. Yet we endure precisely because our strength isn’t rooted in numbers. We have substance where our enemies have vapor. While Ishmael’s hundreds of millions are clouds that drift and dissipate, Israel remains—small in number but indestructible in essence.
Israel has always faced overwhelming numerical odds. Abraham stood alone against an entire civilization of idolatry. Isaac was one son facing Ishmael’s multitudes. Jacob confronted Esau’s 400 armed men with only his immediate family. The Israelites at the Red Sea faced Pharaoh’s army. The pattern repeats throughout our history. The arithmetic has never favored us. Yet we not only survive, but somehow grow stronger.
The descendants of Ishmael are many, but they are nesi’im—clouds that promise rain but deliver nothing. The missing letter in their blessing signals the missing strength in their masses. They can surround us. They can outnumber us. They can rage and threaten like storm clouds on every horizon. But when the winds blow and the test comes, they dissipate into nothing.
Israel endures. Not because the math works in our favor. But because we carry something the clouds can never possess: substance, permanence, an eternal covenant that no amount of numerical superiority can overcome. The clouds will pass. They always do.
