Since the deadly Hamas attack on Israel on October 7, 2023 and the brutal Israeli military response in Gaza, we have been inundated with images of war: cities reduced to rubble, children pulled from debris, hospitals overwhelmed, and families shattered. These aren’t just numbers or headlines – they are cries from the heart of a region in endless turmoil.
Millions of videos and photos continue to circulate, each more devastating than the last. As Israeli forces re-enter Gaza with all guns blazing, the cycle continues, deepening our collective fatigue. For some, the images have become numbing; for others, unbearably painful. I confess, I am among those who can no longer watch. After more than three decades of reporting from conflict zones – covering terror attacks, suicide bombings and communal violence – I know the stench of war, the smell of blood in the air, the sight of limbs that no longer resemble the humans they once belonged to. Those memories never truly leave you.
‘War Fatigue’
And now, watching the relentless coverage of Gaza, I feel a new weight. I start reading a story about a child in a hospital, or a mother searching through rubble, and I stop. I try to watch a video, just seconds in, and I shut it down. It’s not indifference. It’s a kind of war-weariness that burrows into your soul. Even journalists on the front lines are testifying to this emotional exhaustion. It’s what many now call ‘war fatigue’.
This is not to look away from suffering. On the contrary, I believe deeply in bearing witness. But increasingly, I find myself drawn to another kind of story – one rooted in resilience, in coexistence and, yes, in hope.
Much of the world’s media attention (and rightly so) is focused on the devastation in Gaza and the aggressive expansion of Israeli settlements in the West Bank. The headlines are filled with war, extremism and dispossession. But amid this fire and fury, a quieter story is also unfolding, bit by bit, however invisible it may be: Israelis and Palestinians, Jewish and Arab citizens within Israel, and a few cases spilling over to the occupied West Bank, working to build a shared and peaceful society.
The ‘Oasis Of Peace’ On A Hillock
Six years ago, I visited Israel on a reporting assignment. Outside of my assigned work, I was seeking signs of peaceful coexistence, however faint. And I found one – on a hillock between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, in a village called Wahat al-Salam-Neve Shalom, literally meaning “Oasis of Peace.” The name is hyphenated, intentionally, in both Arabic and Hebrew. Here, families from both Muslim Arab and Jewish communities live side by side, not by accident, but by design.
The village, founded in the 1970s by both communities, runs bilingual schools and peace education centres. Children learn together, not just from textbooks but through shared experiences – music, dance, play. I watched as Arab and Jewish children sang and danced to Bollywood songs, their laughter indistinguishable. It was hard to tell who was who, and that, perhaps, was the point.
Even now, amid the worsening conflict, the village continues its mission. The parents, teachers and children of Wahat al-Salam are holding on to something precious: a belief that peace begins not in treaties, but in classrooms.
Look Closer
Elsewhere, grassroots initiatives – from Arab-Jewish cultural centres in Haifa to shared civic organisations in Jaffa and Lod – are trying to hold on to the fragile threads of coexistence. These aren’t big, headline-grabbing movements. But they are real.
Take Hand in Hand, a network of integrated bilingual schools across Israel. Their motto is simple: “In Israel, Jews and Arabs live in separation, fear and violence. We’re on a mission to change that.” They bring children and families together to learn, communicate and understand. In today’s climate, it’s not just revolutionary, it’s radical.
Or consider Givat Haviva, a civil society organisation dedicated to building a shared society through education, dialogue and community initiatives. Their vision is anchored in mutual respect, pluralism and intrinsic equality between citizens. They work in towns where mistrust runs deep, yet still believe in the power of daily human interaction to change hearts.
These efforts face daunting odds. These organisations complain that the political winds in Israel are increasingly becoming hostile to the idea of coexistence. Segregationist policies, nationalist rhetoric and alleged discriminatory laws have widened the gaps. For many Arab citizens of Israel, full equality remains somewhat elusive. And for many Jewish citizens, fear – exacerbated by attacks like that of October 7 – breeds insecurity and suspicion.
But what if we looked closer? Beyond the checkpoints, beyond the settlements, beyond the walls?
The Story Of Budrus
Fifteen years ago, there was a village that quietly made history. Budrus, nestled in the occupied West Bank, became a symbol of something the world rarely associated with this region: non-violent resistance. In 2003, when Israel began constructing a separation barrier that threatened to sever the village from its olive groves and farmland, the people of Budrus chose not to respond with rage or rockets – but with resolve.
Week after week, villagers gathered in peaceful protest. Women and girls marched on the front lines. Members of rival Palestinian factions, Fatah and Hamas, stood together in rare unity. And by their side were Jewish Israeli activists, risking backlash from their own society to join hands in a shared cry for justice. In total, they held 55 demonstrations over 10 months and, remarkably, they won. The Israeli government re-routed the wall, preserving access to 95% of the village’s land.
This quiet triumph was captured in the powerful documentary Budrus, directed by Julia Bacha of the nonprofit group Just Vision. I met her and her team in Washington DC shortly after the film began circulating through festivals and private screenings. Young, bright-eyed Palestinians and Jewish Israelis sat together, still moved by what they had documented. When asked why her team chose this story, Bacha offered a simple answer: “People kept asking, where is the Palestinian Gandhi? Why don’t Palestinians try non-violence?”
Gandhian Ahimsa
Her response was the film itself – a testament to the fact that they had. That they do. That somewhere, in a region too often flattened into a binary of victim and aggressor, there are still those who believe in the stubborn power of peaceful resistance. They believe in ahimsa – the Gandhian principle of non-violence – not as a moral luxury, but as a strategic necessity.
The story of Budrus offered a glimmer of what might be possible. Its villagers later joined similar campaigns in other towns. For a moment, it felt like a model that could spread – that peace, however fragile, might be contagious.
But today, after the months of war, that hope feels distant. The massacre by Hamas and Israel’s devastating response have deepened the chasm. The philosophy of ahimsa feels cornered and defeated – overwhelmed by the sheer force of violence and retribution.
And yet, perhaps it is in these darkest of moments that stories of peace matter the most. Not because they offer quick fixes or easy redemption, but because they remind us of something fundamental – that even when the world is engulfed in flames, people can still choose another way. History offers us quiet reassurance. Wars that once seemed endless have often given way to reconciliation. The so-called ‘Hundred Years’ War between Britain and France eventually gave way to centuries of peace and partnership. In the 1960s and 70s, the United States dropped an unthinkable arsenal of bombs on Vietnam, devastating cities and villages, scarring generations. And yet, today, the Vietnamese – while they have not forgotten the horrors – have chosen to move forward. This isn’t amnesia. It’s an act of will, a decision to live beyond the ruins.
These feeble efforts may not end the war. They may not even bring a ceasefire. But perhaps they can remind us, and those in power, what peace once looked like, and what it could look like again. Petitioning for peace is not naïve, it is the need of the hour. As the English war poet WH Auden once reminded us: “We must love one another or die.” The choice is ours. Years of war have not helped us so far. Give peace a chance.
(Syed Zubair Ahmed is a London-based senior Indian journalist with three decades of experience with the Western media)
Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author