Flood stories are the original global franchise.
Long before cinematic universes, ancient civilizations were independently workshopping the same plot: humanity misbehaves, the heavens respond with aggressive precipitation, and a small, carefully selected group gets a reboot.
The Mesopotamians did it. The Greeks optioned their own version. The Hindus added theological nuance. And then there’s Noah, the blockbuster edition, complete with divine instructions, a custom-built ark, and what might be history’s most ambitious immigration policy.
Two of every kind.
No exceptions. No quotas. No border disputes. Just a sweeping, all-species admission policy under emergency authorization.
Which brings us to a question that would likely derail any modern committee hearing:
Why are there no Israeli kangaroos?
Because if this were a literal operation, kangaroos didn’t just get in; they got in early enough to make the cut.
Think about the scale of this undertaking. Somewhere, somehow, two kangaroos received the memo. They left Australia, a continent not exactly known for its proximity to the ancient Near East, embarking on an intercontinental journey with zero infrastructure, no diplomatic clearance, and absolutely no explanation.
Meanwhile, today, we struggle to process a passport renewal.
But let’s not stop with entry. Entry is the easy part.
Just out of curiosity, exactly who did the offspring of these pairs of animals breed with when they achieved adulthood?
Joe Broadmeadow
The real miracle is what happened after.
Once the floodwaters receded, every animal appears to have complied with an unspoken but highly efficient global relocation program. No lingering populations. No jurisdictional disputes. No kangaroo diaspora setting up a small but vibrant community outside Jerusalem.
No debates. No policy papers. No twenty-year plans.
Just immediate, flawless redistribution.
Kangaroos back to Australia. Polar bears to the Arctic. Sloths—eventually—to South America. Each species returns to its designated habitat as if guided by an invisible zoning commission with absolute authority and zero bureaucracy.
It’s an outcome so smooth it would make any modern government deeply uncomfortable.
Because here’s the tension: when these stories are treated as metaphor, they offer insight about human nature, environmental catastrophe, and the moral imagination of early civilizations.
But when they’re treated as literal history, they raise questions that sound less like theology and more like a congressional hearing that nobody wants televised.
Questions like:
Who coordinated this?
How did they get there?
And again, why, after all of that, are there no Israeli kangaroos?
Not one fossil. Not one historical account. Not even a poorly drawn cave painting of a bewildered marsupial wandering through the Levant thinking, “This is not what I signed up for.”
Instead, what we see is a world that looks exactly like one shaped by geography, evolution, and long, messy timelines—not a single, perfectly executed rescue-and-return operation.
And yet the story persists, not because it answers every question, but because it speaks to something deeper: the human need to make sense of disaster, to impose order on chaos, and, occasionally, to imagine a system where everything—animals included—ends up exactly where it belongs.
Still, for a story that claims such precision, there’s one loose thread that refuses to stay tied down.
It hops.
And until someone can explain the travel history of two very determined marsupials, the question isn’t going anywhere: Why are there no Israeli kangaroos?
P.S, Just out of curiosity, exactly who did the offspring of these pairs of animals breed with when they achieved adulthood?
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