Since the tragic events of October 7, 2023, and the harsh Israeli military actions in Gaza that followed, we’ve been inundated with images of war. Cities reduced to rubble, children rescued from the debris, hospitals overflowing; these aren’t just numbers or headlines. They resonate deeply, echoing the sorrow and confusion in a region trapped in chaos.
Countless videos and photos emerge, each one more devastating than the last. With Israeli forces re-entering Gaza, the cycle of violence seems to spiral further, leaving many feeling paralyzed, while for others, the pain is just too much to bear. I must admit, I’m among those who are struggling to look at the images anymore. After decades of reporting from conflict zones, witnessing suicide bombings and communal violence, I know well the horrors of war – the metallic tang of blood, the sight of limbs detached from their owners. Those experiences linger, and they don’t truly fade.
“War fatigue”
Now, whenever I come across reports from Gaza, I feel an added heaviness. Stories about children in hospitals or mothers searching through rubble hit differently. I find myself wanting to watch videos, only to click away a moment later. It’s not indifference but rather a profound exhaustion brought on by endless warfare, something many frontline journalists echo as “war fatigue.”
This isn’t about ignoring suffering. Quite the opposite; I firmly believe in giving voice to those enduring these trials. Yet, increasingly, I am drawn towards alternative narratives — those that center on resilience, coexistence, and, yes, hope.
Global media attention (and understandably so) tends to focus on the destruction in Gaza and the aggressive growth of Israeli settlements in the West Bank. Headlines scream of war, extremism, and land confiscation. Yet, amid this fury, quieter stories emerge, revealing Israelis and Palestinians, Jews and Arab citizens within Israel and the occupied Jordan Valley, striving for a shared and peaceful society.
“Oasis of Peace” on the Hill
Six years ago, during a reporting trip to Israel, I sought aspects of peaceful coexistence beyond the confines of my assignments, and I found them. On a hill between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv lies Wahat al-Salam Nev Shalom, which translates to “oasis of peace.” This name is deliberately hyphenated in both Arabic and Hebrew. Here, Arab and Jewish families live together, not by mere chance but by choice.
Established in the 1970s by both communities, the village features bilingual schools and a peace education center. Children learn collaboratively, engaging through music, dance, and play instead of just textbooks. I was struck watching Arab and Jewish kids singing and dancing to Bollywood songs, often hard to identify who belonged to which group, and that’s likely the point.
Even amid escalating conflict, this village persists in its mission. Parents, teachers, and children in Wahat al-Salam share a precious belief: that peace begins with education rather than formal agreements.
Please take a closer look
Across the region, grassroots initiatives, such as the Arab Jewish cultural center in Haifa and cooperative civic organizations in Jaffa and Lod, are doing their best to preserve the slender threads of coexistence. These may not attract the media spotlight, but they are genuinely impactful.
Hold Hands is a network of integrated bilingual schools in Israel. Their simple motto states, “In Israel, Jews and Arabs live in separation, fear, violence. We aim to change that.” They unite children and families for learning and communication. In today’s environment, that’s not just revolutionary; it’s radical.
Then, there’s Givat Haviva, a civil society organization working to promote a shared society through education and community dialogue. Their vision emphasizes mutual respect, pluralism, and fundamental equality. Operating in a community where mistrust runs deep, they still believe in the potential of everyday human interaction to influence minds.
Yet, these efforts face significant hurdles. Organizations express concern over a growing hostility in Israeli politics toward coexistence. Nationalistic rhetoric and contentious discriminatory laws are widening existing gaps. For many Arab citizens in Israel, true equality feels elusive, and for many Jewish residents, anxiety stoked by violence only compounds their fears.
But what if we were to draw closer? What happens if we crossed the checkpoints, crossed the settlements, crossed the walls?
The Story of Budrus
Fifteen years ago, a village quietly made history in the occupied West Bank. Budrus emerged as a symbol of non-violent resistance, often overshadowed by the region’s turmoil. In 2003, as Israel began erecting a barrier threatening to sever access to vital farmland and olive groves, the people of Budrus opted for peaceful protest over violence.
Every week, they gathered for non-violent demonstrations, with women and girls leading the charge. Even factions like Fatah and Hamas put aside their differences, uniting for this cause. Jewish Israeli activists also risked backlash from their own community, joining in solidarity. Over ten months, they staged 55 demonstrations, ultimately convincing the Israeli government to reroute the wall, preserving access to 95% of their land.
This understated triumph was captured in the documentary *Budrus*, directed by Julia Bacha from Just Vision. I met with her and her team in Washington, D.C., shortly after the film had begun showing at festivals. The youthful, enthusiastic Palestinians and Jewish Israelis portrayed in the film were visibly moved by their story. When asked why they chose to tell it, Bacha answered simply.
Gandhian Ahimsa
Her reply reflected the film’s essence — a tribute to what they have achieved. In this often oversimplified region, defined by victims and aggressors, there are still those who maintain faith in the profound power of peaceful resistance. They adhere to Ahimsa, Gandhi’s principle of non-violence, not merely as a moral ideal, but as a practical strategy.
The story of Budrus offers a glimmer of hope for what might be possible. Villagers inspired similar movements in other towns. For a time, it seemed like a model that could spread, suggesting that peace, though fragile, could be infectious.
However, today, months after the conflict reignited, that hope feels fragile. The violence has only deepened rifts, making the philosophy of Ahimsa feel cornered, overwhelmed by raw power and vengeance.
Yet, perhaps these bleak moments highlight the urgent need for peace narratives. They don’t present overnight solutions or simple fixes, but they can remind us of a fundamental truth: history can provide a quiet reassurance. Prolonged conflicts often transform into reconciliation. The so-called “Hundred Year War” between Britain and France eventually led to lasting peace. And in the wake of the Vietnam War, despite the devastation, the Vietnamese people chose to look forward, not in amnesia, but through an act of will and determination.
These modest endeavors may not halt the conflict or create an immediate ceasefire. But they could remind both the public and those in power of what peace resembles and what it can become again. Advocating for peace isn’t naive; it’s essential. As a British war poet once said, the choice remains ours. The protracted wars haven’t benefitted us. It’s time to consider giving peace a chance.
