The Bookworm is Worried: When Stories Teach Half-Truths

On my recent trip to visit family in America, I spent a blissful afternoon in one of my favorite places: the library. Now, don’t misunderstand me. I love my life in Israel. Every day I wake up grateful to live in the Land that God promised to Am Yisrael (the people of Israel). But when I go back to America, there is one thing I savor, the English-language library. There is something about the rows of books, the atmosphere, the chance to wander and choose a story. The library near my parents’ home is beautiful, and my children lose themselves in the children’s section with its coloring tables, shelves of picture books, and friendly librarians.

But as I wandered through the children’s section one afternoon, I stumbled across a book that left me unsettled. It was the story of a Palestinian refugee in Lebanon whose family had left in 1948. The book described the hardships of camp life and how the family managed within it. The central character’s resilience was inspiring, she started a food truck and created opportunity in the midst of struggle. That part I appreciated. What disturbed me was not the protagonist’s innovation, but the way the story was told. The words were carefully chosen to leave children with the impression that Israel is the ultimate cause of her suffering. A simplified, one-sided story, flattened into villains and victims.

So I found myself asking: What does the Bible say about speech that wounds? Where is the line between free expression and words that mislead, words that harm?

The Bible offers a vivid example of the destructive power of words in the story of the meraglim (spies). Sent to scout the Promised Land, they returned with a report laced with fear:

What they said was not entirely false. Yes, the inhabitants were formidable. Yes, the land demanded strength to settle. But their account twisted truth into despair. Their words ignited panic. The people wept, refused to enter the land, and condemned themselves to forty years of wandering.

This is the power of selective truth. Words need not be fabricated outright to wreak havoc. All it takes is exaggeration, omission, framing, to turn truth into poison. The spies’ report shows us that distorted speech can be more dangerous than the sword.

That lesson is codified into law. The Ninth Commandment is clear:

Bearing false witness is not only lying under oath. It includes testimony shaped to mislead, stories told without context, narratives designed to make one side look guilty and the other innocent. The Bible demands integrity of speech because words have consequences.

That is why the children’s book I encountered disturbed me so deeply. It told only one part of the story. It spoke of displacement in 1948 but did not mention the wars launched against Israel by surrounding Arab states, the calls from Arab leaders urging civilians to flee temporarily so invading armies could sweep Jews into the sea. It did not mention that Arab countries then refused to integrate Palestinians into their societies, trapping them in permanent camps for decades, denying them citizenship and equal rights. It did not mention the hundreds of thousands of Jews expelled from Arab lands at the same time, absorbed by Israel with no UN agency dedicated exclusively to their welfare.

It did not mention the growing radical Islamic movement, one that oppresses women, silences dissent, and crushes personal freedom. Nor did it mention the rise of terrorist organizations that not only target the Jewish people, but also inflict suffering on Muslims across the world.

By omitting these facts by way of a one sided narrative, the book leaves children with an accusation disguised as compassion. And the Bible is clear, a half-story that distorts reality is false witness.

And here is where my heart truly trembles. I have a Master’s Degree in Early Childhood and spent a decade teaching preschool. I can imagine exactly how this would go down in a classroom. A classroom in New York, in Colorodo, in California. The teacher, whether innocently or not so innocently, reads this story aloud as part of a unit on hardships or foreign cultures. She pauses, looks at the circle of wide-eyed children, and asks: “What do you think it means to be surrounded by walls? Why do you think she can’t go back to Palestine?”

And just like that, the seeds are planted. “Palestine” becomes the name of a lost homeland, while the word “Israel” is never spoken, or worse, implied as the thief. Young children, without context, absorb the suggestion that Jews took what did not belong to them.

Would this same classroom ever dedicate a unit to Jewish history? Would the children learn about exile and pogroms, about ghettos and the Holocaust, about the miraculous ingathering of exiles back to Zion? Would they learn that Israel is not a colonial project but the ancient homeland of the Jewish people, restored after two thousand years? The technology, innovation, and humanity that has emerged from the State of Israel?

I doubt it.

This is how indoctrination begins. Not with shouts, but with stories. Not with open hatred, but with curated omissions.

The Bible teaches that words create reality. They can mislead, they can inflame, they can wound, or they can build, heal, and restore. God places before us a choice:

Choosing life includes choosing how we speak.

The book I picked up at the library reminded me that the battle for truth is not only fought on the battlefield or in the halls of diplomacy. It is fought in classrooms, libraries, bedtime stories, and children’s imaginations. Words can carry sympathy, but sympathy without context can be a trap.

The Bible commands us to seek truth. That means resisting the temptation to accept a story simply because it stirs compassion. It means asking what has been left unsaid, what details have been omitted, and what perspective has been silenced. Half-truths are dangerous precisely because they sound convincing.

So let us be researchers. Let us be seekers of truth. Let us measure every story against the full picture, not the part that is easiest to hear. Because the next generation will not only inherit the stories we tell, they will inherit the world those stories create.