A ride of fate for co-existence

This story is about belief; believing in the nearly and sometimes impossible, and that everything happens for a reason.

It’s New Year’s Eve, the first time I am leaving my baby girl, Kedem, to meet some family and friends since her birth. I wear my peace bird necklace, a gift from my friend, symbolizing my wish for the year ahead: Peace in the Middle East.

I order a taxi, which is 12 minutes away after a 10-minute wait. I consider canceling for a closer ride but decide to stay with the one I have. The driver’s name is Mohammed. Since the events of October 7th, many passengers, myself included during the war’s early months, have canceled rides with Arab drivers—a sad fact I learn from several Arab drivers. Admitting this prejudice is the first step toward improvement, and acknowledging it publicly can actually foster change.

Upon entering the taxi, I recognize Mohammed from a ride at the start of my pregnancy. In that ride, we had discussed my dream to create an event featuring Arabic and Hebrew songs, art, and meditations. He then mentioned his wife is also pregnant, and we shared our hopes for the future.

Nearly a year later, Mohammed and I reunite in his taxi. I remind him of our previous meeting. Although he doesn’t remember, I encourage him to remember me next time.

We chat about our new roles as parents and the future. My daughter, Kedem, קדם, was born on November 9th, and his son, Omar, on November 23rd. The meaning of ‘Kedem’ in Hebrew is ancient. I learn Kadeem, قديم, is its Arabic equivalent. The strong similarities between Arabic and Hebrew serve as a constant reminder of our shared origins.

During our drive, Mohammed shares that Arabic has 14 million words, compared to 600,000 in English and 30,000 in Hebrew. The word for “lion” alone has 300 variants in Arabic. This fact, confirmed by the AI Claude, amazes everyone at dinner later.

As our drive nears its end, we share the challenges of childbirth that both his wife and I endured. We also touch briefly on coexistence and the futures we envision for our children. Mohammed observes that my kindness seems genuine, not just a façade. He mentions that God always watches over us, reminding me that it’s what’s in our hearts that truly matters, not just our outward actions—a sentiment that deeply resonates with me. Life isn’t merely a performance; it’s an endless flow of feelings.

As we reach our destination, I express my hope to meet him again. He chuckles and playfully suggests I should always order him, though we both know the Gett Taxi app doesn’t have such a feature. Even so, we share a hopeful smile, entertaining the slim chance it could happen.

Later, after dinner and a Hanukkah lighting, I end up at a friend’s birthday party in another part of the city. As midnight approaches, I urgently remind my husband to book a taxi because my phone is nearly dead. He is absorbed in the lively conversations, barely noticing the urgency. After several attempts, I take matters into my own hands and book the taxi myself, hoping my phone won’t die.

With pure serendipity, the taxi that arrives is Mohammed’s—no other but the one I had ridden with earlier. Bursting with excitement, I hurriedly bid everyone goodbye and dash with my husband to catch our ride. We marvel together at the coincidence. Though Gett Taxi has no feature for fulfilling New Year’s Eve wishes, in that moment, it seems as though everything is indeed meant to be. He told us at the end of the ride: “שום דבר לא קורה סתם”: Everything happens for a reason.

This encounter with Mohammed became a testament to my belief system. I found myself imagining a future where Kedem and Omar meet by chance at a bus stop, unaware of the story their parents share, yet bound to weave their own magical narratives. We must never cease to believe. We should always treasure even the smallest reminders of hope as the precious gifts they are.

This was my Hanukkah and 2025 miracle.