Another Way

War. Massacres. Kidnappings. Grief. Revenge. Bloodshed.

A massacre of more than 1,400 Israeli civilians, the killing of 2,900 Palestinians, the forced displacement of hundreds of thousands of Gazans—we are witnessing violence unprecedented in the 75-year history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. A war the likes of which the Middle East has not seen in decades is looming, set to displace hundreds of thousands more and threatening to draw in other forces for a wider conflict.

It is a lot to take in. Yet I have not weighed in.

There are two reasons for my social media silence. First off, I don't have the time. I am too busy peering through the fog of war, attempting to tell fact from fiction, bringing stories out from Gaza with sympathy and empathy all the while trying to help colleagues navigate warzones where any small decision could be a matter of life and death.

Plenty of people have opinions right now. Plenty of people, rightfully so, are condemning Hamas’s massacre and the unprecedented and ongoing civilian deaths and suffering in Gaza wrought by Israel’s response. I too condemn the bloodshed. I too grieve with Israeli and Palestinian mothers. I fear for what comes next. My heart aches for the tragedies that have yet to come.

But I am not paid to have an opinion—personal or professional. I have a duty to not have an opinion. My duty is to report without fear or favor, with fairness and frankness. There is always room for activism and advocacy, but I believe that is a room for others and not for a journalist.

Sometimes in a world gone mad what we really need are neutral referees—referees with empathy and heart.

We need people elevating the unheard voices of average people, injecting reason into an echo-chamber dominated by politicians and militants. We need people bringing humanity to inhumane situations.

Truth is an antidote to terror. Understanding is the first line of defence against dehumanization. So for now I will let my work speak for itself, and, hopefully, speak to our better natures.

But I will relate one quick story which has nothing to do with Israel and Gaza and yet has everything to do with Israel and Gaza.

Six weeks ago, I finally had the chance to visit the El Ghriba Synagogue in Djerba, southern Tunisia, the oldest synagogue in Africa and one of the oldest in the world.

According to some, the synagogue was established as a sanctuary after Nebuchadnezzer II destroyed Solomon’s temple in Jerusalem in the 6th Century BC.

Each year El Ghriba sees a yearly pilgrimage of thousands of Jewish worshipers from Tunisia, Europe, Israel and across the world on the 33rd day of the Counting of the Omer (Lag BaOmer).

But this historic site saw tragedy this May when an extremist gunmen carried out a mass shooting near the synagogue’s entrance during the Lag BaOmer holiday, killing two worshippers, a tourist and two Tunisian policemen.

And yet the community of Djerbans, Muslims and Jews, banded together and denounced the attack. The nation mourned.

When I came to the mosque and the nearby Jewish neighborhood in late August, I found the bonds between Muslim and Jewish Tunisians were stronger than ever.

The Hara Kebira, the historic neighborhood, was full of Tunisian visitors lining up for Jewish-Tunisian cuisine from kosher restaurants, such as crispy fried brik pastries and grilled skewers.

At El Ghriba, while there were a handful of foreign tourists like myself entering the synagogue, the vast majority of visitors that day were Muslim Tunisians. Some had waited in the parking lot for hours to come in.

Inside the synagogue there were Tunisian mothers in hijabs, explaining to their toddlers about Judaism and the Abrahamic roots of their shared faiths. Jewish Tunisian staff welcomed people, handed out kippahs and shawls for those whose heads were uncovered, and guided us through the brilliant ceramic-tiled prayer hall around the ark and bimah.

One Jewish Tunisian told me “this is our home. We are Djerbans first.”

“We are one. One family,” a hijab-wearing shopkeeper, whose shop was at the edge of the Jewish neighborhood, told me. “We grew up together as neighbors and friends, just as our parents, grandparents and ancestors. We never ask or think about each other’s religion. We are all one family.”

“After all,” a Jewish Djerban said, “we are all under the same God. Our prayers are the same. Our blood is the same.”

Now that same blood is being spilt.

War is not inevitable. The killing of entire families and displacement of entire communities is not fate accompli. Coexistence is possible.

I say this as a Muslim who works for a church-affiliated newspaper. I say this as someone with family who are Christian, Jewish and Muslim. I say this simply as a member of the human race: it doesn’t have to be this way.

Equal rights, equal dignity, equal respect and equal sanctity of life no matter your nationality, religion, or struggles is not an ideal, it is a bare minimum within our grasp. Two peoples with differing histories and traumas can know peace, anyone who tells you otherwise is misinformed or trying to misinform you.

But there is a way to keep our shared humanity and prospects for a shared future intact, even amidst war.

There are people who are risking their lives right now to bring this path to you.

It’s called journalism.