Creatures from every corner of the forest came to peer into it. Some left silent, others questioning. Some returned again and again, hoping the mirror would one day confirm their certainty. It rarely did.

One spring, a flock of new birds arrived. They were vivid and loud, their songs catchy and bold. They called themselves The Justfeathers. The Justfeathers came not with questions, but declarations. Their songs were ballads of long-oppressed songbirds, denied the right to nest, driven from the canopy by talons and tyranny. They decried the hawk and his kin, who had long ago claimed a high branch and built a fortress of thorns. “He seized it,” they cried, “not with merit, but with violence!”

Their message was compelling, emotive, simplified, and perfectly orchestrated for maximum resonance. The forest, hungry for clarity in a chaotic world, nodded along. Their slogans, chanted more than sung, echoed through the trees. Their verses were emotional, their rhythm undeniable. But their harmony left no room for counterpoints.

The hawk’s descendants, the Sharpwings, tried to speak. They told of their exile from the Eastern woods, their nests burned, their kin scattered across dangerous groves where no tree offered shelter. “We came here,” they said, “because no one else would have us. We built not to conquer, but to survive.”

But their voices were rough with age and fatigue. Their truths, too complex for song, struggled to compete with the chorus of the Justfeathers.

Soon, the Justfeathers brought animals to the mirror, not to explore, but to explain. “Look,” they trilled, pointing to the pool. “There’s the hawk’s aggression. His talons. His might. This is the oppressor!” A possum mumbled, “But didn’t he build his nest after his own was destroyed elsewhere?” “Irrelevant!” snapped the lead bird. “We cannot allow past pain to justify present cruelty.”

One by one, the birds dropped leaves into the pool, covering parts of the reflection. Only select images remained: sharp beaks in mid-strike, nests collapsing, fear in wide eyes. They curated the truth, piece by piece, until the mirror no longer reflected, it reinforced.

Orla, who had been watching from above, descended quietly one twilight. Her wings stirred no wind, but her presence commanded attention.

“Why do you cover the mirror?” she asked gently.

The birds puffed their chests. “Because clarity is justice. There is one truth, and we will not dilute it with complexity.”

“But the forest is not one colour,” Orla said. “And no truth lives in isolation. Even the clearest song has dissonance.”

The birds bristled. “There is no room for nuance in oppression. To hesitate is to side with the oppressor.”

That night, a storm swept through the forest. Wind tore at leaves, rain flooded the pool, and the mirror washed clean. In the silence after the storm, the reflection returned, whole and unfiltered.

It showed the hawk, yes, defending fiercely. But also the wounds beneath his feathers. It showed the songbirds’ sorrow, but also their fury fanned by those who fed on rage. It revealed old betrayals, overlapping claims, histories not remembered but relived. No creature escaped unscathed. No tale was tidy.

By dawn, the Justfeathers had vanished. They had flown to another grove, one where mirrors were smaller and easier to manage.

The creatures left behind gathered around the pool. A young fox, barely more than a kit, turned to Orla. “Why do they fear the full truth?”

“Because,” she said softly, “it’s easier to fly in a straight line when you believe the world is flat.”

She dipped her wing into the water. The image rippled, bent, blurred, but only for a moment. Then it cleared. And the truth remained: fractured, painful, complex, and real.

Ben Kepes is a spokesperson for the New Zealand Jewish Council