When I was a junior in my Jewish, pro-Israel high school, I participated in a club called Seeds of Peace, focused “on dialogue that shifts attitudes and perceptions and builds respect and empathy.” In this club, we spoke on Zoom with Arabs and Muslims in the Middle East. We spoke to an Arab in Saudi Arabia who dreamed of Jews and Muslims in the Middle East living as brothers and sisters, not as enemies. We heard from a gay Muslim in Egypt who struggles to feel accepted in his community. And we listened to a Muslim teenager in Gaza recount the extremely painful conditions she faces. 

The club’s student leader, who attended the Seeds of Peace summer program in Maine, shared that it was the hardest summer of her life. She had to grapple with her friends falsely accusing her of being a murderer and supporter of genocide. Yet through it all, she saw hopeful glimmers of humanity shine. To her, the key to this humanity was a mutual acceptance of shared suffering: She cried with her friend whose sibling was killed by the Israeli Defense Forces. She cried with her friends whose families were kicked out of their hometown in 1948. At the same time, her Palestinian friends cried with her as she spoke about her family friend, an 18-year-old from Boston, who was murdered by Hamas terrorists in Israel when he was driving home from a day of charity. They cried when she explained that her extended family was forced to flee from their hometown in Morocco in 1948.

The model of a liberal arts university promotes thoughtful discourse and critical conversations in pursuit of some ever-elusive truth. At this critical juncture in world events, the Yale student body has failed. Our dialogue has devolved into haphazardly designed posters and thoughtless removal of content from opposing views. Have we forgotten the Socratic dialogue? Have we forgotten our class discussions, once conceived to be a prototype for lifelong discourse? Our humanity has been shot by emotion and our nuance lost by one-liners. Yale students have failed to acknowledge the pain of others. This includes not being pained by Palestinian civilian deaths, and this includes ripping down flyers of kidnapped Israeli women and children. This includes not asking your Jewish suitemates and friends if they are doing okay and if they have any family or friends that were murdered or kidnapped in Israel on Oct. 7, and this includes not checking in on your Arab and Muslim friends and asking about them and their families’ wellbeing.

Yale students with no ethnic, religious or cultural connection to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict have been caught in the crossfire of different events and rallies that try to throw statistics or emotional lassos at them. Where is our discourse, commitment to truth and shared humanity? Two monologues do not make a dialogue. We need to attempt to revive the floundering art of liberal dialogue. We need to talk. 

On Dec. 4, a few students and I started a table on Cross Campus with big posters saying, “Let’s TALK about Israel.” In just the first few hours, dozens of students came and talked with us. They shared their experiences, pain and thoughts, and we shared ours. We then continued this throughout the week and engaged, every day, in dialogue with dozens of students. It was challenging, it was thought-provoking and it was progress. We didn’t leave the table agreeing with each other, but we left realizing the pain of the other and with a different perspective. 

One of the students who helped me organize told me that the event had challenged him to go home and do some more research so he could better articulate what he thinks. Another student who has attended every rally in favor of a ceasefire sincerely thanked us and shared that he had never heard this other perspective and narrative. My own devotion to the land that my ancestors and I have turned toward thrice daily in prayer for millennia and for the nation where I stayed for two years before coming to Yale — and where I hope to live one day — hasn’t changed. But I have gained a greater appreciation for my fellow students’ perspectives and pain. 

On Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year in Judaism, we pray: “To Man are the forces of the heart, and from God is the response of the tongue. God, open my lips!” This marks one of the most universal truths of human experience: emotions are easy, words are hard. And challenging ourselves is even harder. It is easy to get lost in the depths of our emotions, and there is something essential and deeply human about that. But there also comes a time to think and to share. I implore you to try. I implore us all to connect. Let’s talk. 

EYTAN ISRAEL is a sophomore in Saybrook College. Contact him at eytan.israel@yale.edu.