Every year, I get together with a group of Jews, Muslims, and Catholics for the Jewish holidays. Our connection to Israel and Palestine brings us together.
If I only listened to the news, I’d believe that this tiny piece of land exports war, hatred, and death.
Why We Wrote This
Even during the thorniest of times, when deep divisions and hopelessness threaten to overwhelm, our writer reminds us that change and agency begin at home, at the dinner table.
But our gatherings tell a different story. The faces celebrating with us reflect our shared belief that Israelis and Palestinians have a right to live free from pain and harm.
Religion and birthplace alone are not reasons to hate each other, particularly when you break matza together year after year. Hate can’t survive across a dinner table you build together.
Is that naive? Maybe. But it’s those small moments of humanity that bind us. We all eat bread. We all love our children. We all want a place to call home that is free from bloodshed and bombs.
Peace doesn’t begin in a boardroom, on social media, or on a politician’s agenda. It begins at a shared table eating hummus with your children beside you.
My phone has been pinging all morning as we prepare for tonight’s feast.
What time do we start?
Does anyone have an extra prayer book?
Why We Wrote This
Even during the thorniest of times, when deep divisions and hopelessness threaten to overwhelm, our writer reminds us that change and agency begin at home, at the dinner table.
Everyone brings their favorite dessert.
Every year, I get together with a group of Jews, Muslims, and Catholics for the Jewish holidays. Our connection to Israel and Palestine brings us together. We’ve all lived in one or the other at some point, and now we live in Salta, Argentina, where we gather each year to celebrate.
This year, I’m bringing a brisket. Grandma Ruth’s recipe simmers in the oven. She passed away years ago, but the rich scent of her Boca Raton holiday kitchen now fills our house in South America.
“The secret ingredient is ketchup,” she always said. It’s not a flavor Argentines are accustomed to, but we all bring foods that aren’t from here. Honey cake. Hummus. Falafel. The tastes remind us of home.
In spite of what’s happening in Israel and Gaza, we rarely talk about war or politics at the table. Instead, food and family fill our conversations. The best hummus is from Nablus, in the West Bank. Our parents are getting older. Our children are leaving home – some to Israel, others to university in Argentina.
Though we may not say it aloud, the faces celebrating with us reflect our shared belief that Israelis, Palestinians, Argentines, and Americans have a right to live free from pain and harm.
When I look around, I see Rinat and Yuval, who moved from Israel to Salta after falling in love and marrying their Argentine partners. They’re very Israeli, expressing strong opinions in definitive voices.
Not once in 15 years have I heard Gustavo or Eleanora, the Salteño other halves of Rinat and Yuval, speak about Israel or Palestine. Instead, their actions speak for them as they support their spouses and adopt the Jewish holidays as their own.
Fayez is the only Muslim at the table this year. He moved from the West Bank to be with his Salteña wife, Mayki. Fayez speaks loudly and laughs easily and often, but underneath his joviality lies concern for his family. Are they all right?
My daughter Lila was 8 years old the first time we joined these families. She was shy and refused to talk to Fayez and Mayki’s son, Nasim. Our kids sat beside each other during dinner, mostly ignoring one another for years.
It wasn’t until they were ready to graduate from high school that they connected. Instead of sitting quietly staring sideways at each other with suspicion, they finally talked.
“We were scared of each other,” Lila told me. “I thought he didn’t like me, and he thought I didn’t like him.”
“Why did you think that?”
She shrugged as if the reason for their distrust was irrelevant.
“I was an anxious kid,” Lila said. “He might have seen my anxiety as hostility, but it turns out we have a lot in common.”
“Like what?” I asked. They like the same music. They’ve both traveled outside of Argentina. They love spicy food.
“We both have parents who aren’t from here,” she said. “We understand each other.”
If I only listened to the news about Israel and Palestine, I’d believe that this tiny piece of land, around 11,000 square miles, exports war, hatred, and death. When I watch people throw cruel barbs and accusations online, I wonder how we can expect to find a solution to a centurieslong battle between two communities when individuals can’t find a way to talk.
If we truly want a lasting peace, we must seek common ground. The grief and loss both sides have experienced make it harder to see. Each of us wants to protect ourselves and our families. No one wants to let down their guard. The fear of losing even more after so much has already been lost looms large for us.
Religion and place of birth alone are not reasons to hate each other, particularly when you break matza together year after year. Hate can’t survive across a dinner table you build together.
Is that naive? Maybe. I say it’s those small moments of humanity that bind us. We all eat bread. We all love our children. We all want a place to call home that is free from bloodshed and bombs.
Peace doesn’t begin in a boardroom, on social media, or on a politician’s agenda. It begins at a shared table eating hummus with your children beside you.