Shireen Quaizar was plagued by doubt. The school psychologist has been active in the interreligious dialogue between Muslims and Jews for years, but the war between Israel and Hamas has shaken her.
“What do we do with talking to each other?” she remembered thinking, frustrated by a conversation about the exact number of Palestinians killed in an Israeli airstrike. “This does not work.”
But she decided to fight that thought and tackle the hard discussions again. Later, Quaizar, who is Muslim, met women like Aviva Seltzer, the daughter of a rabbi and a Jewish school principal who had grown up believing that “without the existence of Israel we would all be dead.”
The two had gathered for a conference in New Brunswick, New Jersey, convened by the Sisterhood of Salaam Shalom, an organization that seeks to build trust and friendships between Muslim and Jewish women.
These conversations are becoming increasingly difficult as the war and its polarizing consequences in America are testing and straining some interfaith relationships more than ever. For many, the losses are too personal, the emotions too raw.
The latest violence, sparked by the October 7 Hamas attack on Israel, is leading some to question the point of these talks – and how to conduct them – while strengthening others' determination to continue.
“We are very brave, you and I, because we don't stop talking,” Seltzer told Quaizar. “Once we stop talking, there is no hope.”
Quaizar nodded and said, “We're doing the hardest work right now.”
At the event, Sisterhood co-founder Atiya Aftab, a Muslim, told participants that just showing up was an achievement. Beside her, Roberta Elliott, Jewish and president of the nonprofit, said she could not have gotten through the previous weeks “without my Muslim sisters.”
They have seen the challenges increase.
There are “all these barriers that need to be brought to the table now,” Aftab said in an interview.
She wonders why she doesn't run away herself.
“Sometimes it seems insurmountable to have conversations with people who have a diametrically different point of view,” says Aftab. “Faith is what keeps me there – and hope.”
Some of the difficulty in discussing the war was underscored in responses to the organization's earlier public call for a ceasefire. Elliott said some Jewish women would have preferred if the group had advocated a humanitarian pause instead.
More recently, heated debates also broke out over what might be called Israel's military action. Tensions flared in members' WhatsApp groups.
“We've had to remind people to take a step back, to take a deep breath,” Elliott said. Still, she said: “This is what we have been preparing for… to try to be a comfort to each other and try to achieve something together.”
But in the Israeli-Palestinian context, some critics say many interfaith efforts are falling short. Opponents argue that focusing on Muslim-Jewish relations also risks inadvertently reducing the conflict to religion, ignoring all factors at play or overlooking the diversity of communities, including non-Muslim Palestinians and Jewish supporters of the Palestinian cause.
Aftab said delving into areas of disagreement is necessary for meaningful interactions, especially after trust has been built.
“This is not a religious conflict, but this conflict is sometimes clothed in religion,” she said. “I think our faith groups can inspire us to do the right thing, to right the wrongs, to stand up for justice, to stand up for life.”
Andrea Hodos, deputy director of Los Angeles-based NewGround, another Muslim-Jewish partnership, said religion is “not the whole puzzle” but is a piece of it, and that it is important to help people figure these things out to understand.
Some, she said, say, “How can you just talk? People are dying.' But “if we don't do our work to help people see each other, we all stay in our silos and it actually makes it more dangerous.”
It is difficult for some that the group does not take certain positions, said Hodos, who is Jewish, adding that political action is not its role.
“We try to ensure that people with differences of opinion can listen to each other.” That way, when they engage in advocacy, they can consider more perspectives and have compassion for their side and the other, she said.
The Kaufman Interfaith Institute held a meeting highlighting the challenges ahead, said Fred Stella, a member of the organization's advisory board.
“People were looking for explanations from us,” he said. “The question is: how do you respond to something like that without offending either party or simply uttering virtually meaningless platitudes?”
His group has focused mainly on combating anti-Semitic and anti-Muslim hatred, which has increased during the war. “I think the only thing we in the interfaith community can do… is continue to remind people of our shared humanity.”
Advocates of interfaith say they have also seen bonds – old and new – nourished.
“Even when people deeply disagree, there is a lot of good will and efforts to reach out,” Hodos said. “Not everyone can do it. Some groups have just been… very quiet and I think people have moved away from the table for the time being.”
Others are newcomers. In Teaneck, New Jersey, two high school students and friends — Rawda Elbatrawish, who is Muslim, and Liora Pelavin, who is Jewish — said they organized events for conversations and education about the conflict.
They wanted the participants to be comfortable with being uncomfortable. “The whole point … was to really understand the other perspective and why someone believes what they do,” says Elbatrawish, who was born in Egypt.
Pelavin — who has relatives in the Israeli military and a rabbi mother who has been involved in human rights organizations — said some participants praised the importance of interfaith events and the deeper connections of personal conversations.
She and Elbatrawish “come from different perspectives,” she said, but both want a ceasefire.
At the Sisterhood conference, Quaizar said communicating with Jewish members helped her through her anger. It's okay, she said, “that I mourn for my people and for people on the Jewish side.”
But she recalled that at one point before the conference she had difficulty sustaining such a dialogue. She then attended a Sisterhood Chapter meeting feeling in turmoil. Everyone was crying, she said. That gave her hope. “They didn't cry for Jews or Muslims or Israelis or Palestinians; they cried for people who suffered.”
On the sidelines of the conference, Quaizar told Seltzer, “I have a very unfiltered way of talking,” but I don't mean to cause pain.
Seltzer reassured her: “You talk unfiltered, so this is how we get to the core.”
Seltzer found the event an eye-opener.
“A number of speakers said you can hold two feelings in your heart at the same time,” she said. “I never knew I could do that.”
According to her, continuing to talk was crucial.
“You want peace; you want your family; you want your house; you want your children to grow up happy, just like me.”
At the end of the day, the two women hugged each other tightly.
“People are angry and people are hurting and it just keeps going around. … We have to find a way to stop,” Seltzer said. 'Otherwise there will be nothing left for our children.'
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Associated Press religion reporting is supported by the AP's partnership with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.