As we watch the violence and terror unfolding in Israel and Gaza, we as Americans should strive for nonviolence in our words and actions, instead of trying to be right.
Withholding sympathy for those killed and injured in Israel or Gaza will harden positions at the extremes and result in more bloodshed in this unprecedented moment. We must advocate for a cease-fire and the ability to get safety and aid to those in need.
Of course I want hostages returned safely, as well, but withholding insulin and anesthesia from Palestinian hospitals is not going to bring them back any sooner.
I know, for many, this will simply be dismissed as trying to support all sides and stay politically safe. It would be safer to say nothing at all. But being silent in the face of so much suffering is far more painful for me than speaking out.
I know what it’s like to inherit the legacy of brutal conflict. I am Jewish on my mother’s side, and her grandparents were lucky to leave Kyiv at the start of the deadly pogroms. They knew the incurable pain of being scapegoated and exiled as a community, and even threatened with systematic erasure, as we should reflect on now.
I am Hindu on my father’s side, and he and his family fled the part of India that became Pakistan with just the clothes on their backs. The Partition of India was the largest, bloodiest movement of people across a border in history, resulting in the death of 10 million people and the displacement and devastation of 30 million more.
My father never returned to Lahore to see that the legacy of his great-grandfather, credited with building the modern city, was maintained by the people of Pakistan a century later. He died embittered and angry, especially toward Muslims.
At some point, we have to set aside our parents’ bitterness and fight for the reality we want for our children.
Those stoking the conflict are seeking political ammunition to try to wipe the other side out. We cannot give them more ammunition, figuratively and literally, by choosing one group of innocent people over the other.
I have traveled through Israel and the West Bank and met young children with big dreams, elders who have devoted their whole lives to the cause of peace, people who have put themselves in harm’s way to forge relationships across divides. I did not meet a single person who wanted war and conflict with their neighbors, or even justified it.
In fact, many of the victim remembrances have highlighted humanitarians and bridge-builders. Yes, they were taken unjustly, but would they now want us killing innocent people in their name?
At the very least, we must create respectful space for each other, even if we disagree. I teach at Vermont Law & Graduate School and, this past week, I opened up a conversation with my students about the unfolding conflict. They shared personal and vicarious pain and trauma. No one tried to have immediate answers or dismiss the feelings of another.
Later, one of them emailed to say I was the only professor who spoke about the conflict at all, and the silence was hard for them to bear. If we cannot process our feelings without committing or receiving more harm, then the silence will breed resentment. We will retreat to our own corners of social media to feel justified in our growing rage.
Pain and death should not be a competition. These are open wounds, and pouring salt on them will not help. We should have enough kindness to offer to everyone experiencing grief, loss and sorrow — or we will foment more hatred.
Calling for a cease-fire while recognizing people’s right to exist does not mean we are on the side of Israelis or Palestinians; it means we’re on the side of peace over misdirected righteousness. When my daughter asks me where I stood, I want to be able to say I buried the bitterness with my father and sought a path to lasting peace.
