In the Middle East, there is no more room for hate and no path to peace through vengeance. Though Houston is more than 7000 miles away from Israel and Gaza, Houston is a city where 145 languages are spoken and many more than a few religions are observed and celebrated. In the most diverse city in the country, a reflection of America by 2050, we know how to make peace with our neighbors whose diversity is among our city’s greatest assets.

My next-door neighbor is a self-described cultural Muslim who cares deeply for the Palestinian people. I am a Reform Jew and a rabbi who leads the oldest synagogue in Texas, organized in 1854. I have studied in Israel and visited numerous times with groups and colleagues. How have we remained peaceful neighbors for all the years we’ve lived next door to each other?

Last year, the fence that stands between my neighbor’s property and mine fell down in a terrible wind storm. The sound of the posts cracking under the pressure of the wind was terrible. When my neighbor and I assessed the damage, we worked together to fix the fence, though not literally, because neither of us had the skills to do it. But we shared the experience, the decisions, and the outcome. When the jasmine plants he carefully grew along his side of the fence were damaged, my wife found new ones at a nearby nursery. She left them on his driveway for him. We were glad that he was able to enjoy the plants and their fragrance, again. The beautiful fence that stands between our homes, but not between us, is an all-too-obvious metaphor during this traumatic time.

After Hamas’s terrorist attack on Israel and Israel’s early response, trauma took root in many of us even far from the Middle East. This past week in the evening, my neighbor and I met, again. He welcomed me into his home. We shared a hug, we sat down together, and we talked. His children listened for a little while and his wife joined us. We listened to each other. We were patient with each other. We took turns to speak carefully and kindly. We were two peoples whose origins are different but whose outlooks, we agreed, both depended on seeing each other’s humanity, first. After that we talked about how to navigate the news, the politics, and the hopes of two peoples. Our goal wasn’t to reach conclusions except to acknowledge that sacred human lives were at stake. After nearly an hour, we hugged at the door and agreed to reach each other again and at any time with questions, concerns, and opportunities to talk.  

Without terror as a predicate, without anti-Zionism or anti-Palestinian as a subject, and without revenge as a verb, we modeled how the past, though not perfect at any time in history, can teach us how to accept the times we live in and what we must do to build anew with those who honor humanity.

Building a new fence is easy when you call on someone else to do it. But maintaining the fence and its purpose depends on both neighbors who live on either side. Because when it falls in the wind or decays over time, we have to look into each other’s yards and spaces and see a friend with whom we can build, again.

My prayer for my neighbor next door and more than 7000 miles away is for peace to take hold. It might be between neighbors on either side of new fences in the Middle East, but I pray that it can be a fence that neighbors build together to create private places to live and grow, to plant and harvest, and to laugh and play.

May the Eternal One to whom we pray, respectively, grant us patience and resolve to bring honor to the Land. May our generation be remembered for restoring peace with our neighbors and honor to all of its inhabitants.