No Peace with Nuance

I haven’t even started writing, but I can already hear angry voices saying something is wrong with this article’s title. Israel and Palestine existing in the same sentence is enough to cause extreme frustration among some on both sides of this conflict. Perhaps you, my reader, have already labeled me a Zionist, an idealist, or a naive. I might sound overly cynical, but over the past few months I’ve realized that for some, something as simple as your word choice is complicity.

One of the most important qualities a person can possess is the willingness to alter their beliefs when confronted with new evidence. My interest in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict dates back to my middle school years when I first encountered Israelis, Arabs, Jews, and Palestinians in the same public school. Within the walls of my school, I witnessed a microcosm of peaceful coexistence rarely reflected in the media. I became obsessed with understanding the people and politics around me. In eighth grade, I had the opportunity to travel to Israel. As the plane descended through dense fog, the first glimpse of the landscape below revealed Palestinian villages surrounded by the barrier separating the West Bank from Israel. Throughout the entire trip, I was hyper-aware of the ever-present conflict around me.

I returned home and began reading nearly every book I could get my hands on. I started with Noa Tishby’s Israel, followed by Peter Beinart’s Being Jewish After the Destruction of Gaza and Omer Bartov’s Israel: What Went Wrong?, just to name a few.

In high school, I continued my research, culminating in a paper in which I ultimately concluded: “It is now time we as individuals with a voice rethink the ways we deal with the current conflict.” When I arrived at college, however, I began to realize that a person’s voice is too often used as a tool to shut down nuance.

I pride myself on having read the books, written the articles, and surveyed the ground. Yet, I still do not have all the answers. I watched my school’s most recent Pro-Palestinian protest, hoping I would be able to talk with protesters and better understand their demands. When chants of “No peace on stolen land” erupted, I couldn’t help but feel that the rhetoric was provocative and unwilling to address their own grievances. The protest ended with a female speaker addressing the crowd, saying, “Do not talk to Zionists.” I didn’t join their chants, and I held onto my beliefs. I believe that, in the eyes of the crowd, my silence was complicity, and that by extension I was just a “repulsive Zionist.” I didn’t feel welcome; the goalposts had moved beyond my reach.

Had I been able to speak with the protesters, I would have suggested they consider attending the many events with Israeli and Palestinian speakers on campus. In fact, the day before the protest, two peacebuilders discussed Rwanda, South Africa, and the lessons their histories offer for the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

My support for Palestinian statehood and self-determination has put me at odds with many voices within my own community. I actively engage with the Jewish community—my community—every day. While I get along well in any conversation, when Israel is mentioned, I feel a slight unease. Many prominent Jewish scholars agree: criticism of Israel is not inherently antisemitic. However, throughout my community, I’ve witnessed silence born from the fear that criticizing Israel publicly might fuel antisemitism. I fully understand the reluctance to criticize Israel in front of someone who openly expresses extreme or antisemitic views; I believe our community deserves spaces for open and honest conversation.

What I am trying to say is simple: talk to me. Understandably, it is easy to shy away from conversation and close off. However, it’s almost imperative that we engage in open and honest dialogue. There will be no change if there are no chairs at the table.