Since the deadly Hamas attack on Israel on October 7, 2023 and the brutal Israeli military response in Gaza, we have been inundated with images of war: cities reduced to rubble, children pulled from debris, hospitals overwhelmed, and families shattered. These aren’t just numbers or headlines – they are cries from the heart of a region in endless turmoil.
Millions of videos and photos continue to circulate, each more devastating than the last. As Israeli forces re-enter Gaza with all guns blazing, the cycle continues, deepening our collective fatigue. For some, the images have become numbing; for others, unbearably painful. I confess, I am among those who can no longer watch. After more than three decades of reporting from conflict zones – covering terror attacks, suicide bombings and communal violence – I know the stench of war, the smell of blood in the air, the sight of limbs that no longer resemble the humans they once belonged to. Those memories never truly leave you.
And now, watching the relentless coverage of Gaza, I feel a new weight. I start reading a story about a child in a hospital, or a mother searching through rubble, and I stop. I try to watch a video, just seconds in, and I shut it down. It’s not indifference. It’s a kind of war-weariness that burrows into your soul. Even journalists on the front lines are testifying to this emotional exhaustion. It’s what many now call ‘war fatigue’.
This is not to look away from suffering. On the contrary, I believe deeply in bearing witness. But increasingly, I find myself drawn to another kind of story – one rooted in resilience, in coexistence and, yes, in hope. Much of the world’s media attention (and rightly so) is focused on the devastation in Gaza and the aggressive expansion of Israeli settlements in the West Bank. The headlines are filled with war, extremism and dispossession. But amid this fire and fury, a quieter story is also unfolding, bit by bit, however invisible it may be: Israelis and Palestinians, Jewish and Arab citizens within Israel, and a few cases spilling over to the occupied West Bank, working to build a shared and peaceful society.
Six years ago, I visited Israel on a reporting assignment. Outside of my assigned work, I was seeking signs of peaceful coexistence, however faint. And I found one – on a hillock between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, in a village called Wahat al-Salam-Neve Shalom, literally meaning “Oasis of Peace.” The name is hyphenated, intentionally, in both Arabic and Hebrew. Here, families from both Muslim Arab and Jewish communities live side by side, not by accident, but by design.Elsewhere, grassroots initiatives – from Arab-Jewish cultural centres in Haifa to shared civic organisations in Jaffa and Lod – are trying to hold on to the fragile threads of coexistence. These aren’t big, headline-grabbing movements. But they are real.
Take Hand in Hand, a network of integrated bilingual schools across Israel. Their motto is simple: “In Israel, Jews and Arabs live in separation, fear and violence. We’re on a mission to change that.” They bring children and families together to learn, communicate and understand. In today’s climate, it’s not just revolutionary, it’s radical.
Or consider Givat Haviva, a civil society organisation dedicated to building a shared society through education, dialogue and community initiatives. Their vision is anchored in mutual respect, pluralism and intrinsic equality between citizens. They work in towns where mistrust runs deep, yet still believe in the power of daily human interaction to change hearts.
These efforts face daunting odds. These organisations complain that the political winds in Israel are increasingly becoming hostile to the idea of coexistence. Segregationist policies, nationalist rhetoric and alleged discriminatory laws have widened the gaps. For many Arab citizens of Israel, full equality remains somewhat elusive. And for many Jewish citizens, fear – exacerbated by attacks like that of October 7 – breeds insecurity and suspicion.
Leave a Reply