I arrived in Istanbul in early 2025 as part of the first cohort of the Rotary Peace Fellowship for the Middle East and North Africa at a time when the region was still engulfed in the ongoing war that followed October 7. As an Israeli, I was aware that I was entering a space defined by political and personal complexity.

In a cohort that included Palestinians, Yemenis, Somalis, Egyptians, and Jordanians, identity was  immediate, political, and often charged. I understood the context in which my presence would be interpreted, just as I understood the broader dynamics shaping those perceptions.

That awareness brought a certain tension in those first days. Not fear, but a clear understanding of the environment.

That perspective, however, began to evolve.

I came to understand that even this mindset, however grounded it may have felt, was still placing my own experience ahead of the purpose of the space. It placed my own perception, at the forefront of a space that was not about me.

Peace cannot begin from ego.

It cannot begin from the assumption that we must be understood on our own terms. It must begin with a willingness to step outside of ourselves and toward something larger, something shared.

So I made a deliberate choice. I entered that space not as an Israeli navigating perception, but as a human being committed to peace. I led with openness, with humility, and with a clear sense of purpose. I listened. I engaged. I built relationships not based on identity, but on intention.

That did not come easily.

It required a great deal of discipline, and there were difficult days. The fellowship took place during an ongoing war, and the weight of that reality was never far from the surface. As we lived and worked together, conversations inevitably extended beyond the formal structure of the program. Many of these discussions were not facilitated or endorsed by the fellowship itself, but emerged organically between participants.

They were often deeply challenging, at times nearly impossible.

We spoke about questions that cut to the core of the conflict, including the violence of October 7 and its aftermath, the framing of Israel’s response, the meaning and limits of armed struggle, and what justice looks like in a context where narratives diverge so fundamentally. Our discussions were personal, emotional, and at times profoundly uncomfortable.

Staying in those conversations, without retreating, without reducing the other, without needing to resolve everything in the moment, required constant self-awareness. It required choosing, again and again, not to center myself, even when it would have been easier to do so.

And yet, it was precisely in that difficulty that something meaningful began to take shape.

The lines that initially felt so rigid began to soften. We ate together, studied together, challenged each other, and learned from one another. By the end of the program, I was not leaving with a group of colleagues. I was leaving with a community. The same discipline, respect, and intentionality I brought into that space was met in return.

That experience did not erase the realities of the conflict. It did not resolve decades of history, trauma, or political complexity. But it revealed something essential. The greatest obstacle to peace is not only structural or political. It is deeply human. It is our attachment to identity as a fixed position, our need to defend it, and our reluctance to move beyond it.

That dynamic has also defined my own experience. As a gay, bi racial, Israeli, and Jewish individual, I have spent much of my life navigating spaces where I was too much of one thing and not enough of another. Too gay or not gay enough, too Black or not Black enough, too Israeli or not Israeli enough. Existing in the in between became my normal.

What once felt like fragmentation, I came to recognize as a form of positioning. The ability to engage across perspectives without immediate alignment, to hold competing narratives without collapsing into one,  is only learned through experience, and it is difficult to sustain.

I am not here despite my background. I am here because of it.

That clarity became even sharper during my recent humanitarian mission in Saint Louis, Senegal. In a context where nearly every aspect of my identity could have created distance or risk, none of it became central. Not my nationality. Not my sexuality. Not how I was perceived.

What mattered were the children sleeping in the streets, without food, exposed to disease, navigating survival day by day. Malaria, yellow fever, hunger, and neglect were not abstract concepts. They were immediate, visible, and relentless.

In that environment, questions of identity fall away quickly. There is no space for self definition, only for service.

Peace-building and Humanitarian work  is not about self expression. It is not about being seen or validated. It is about showing up, doing the work, and ensuring that support reaches those who need it most. At times, that requires adaptation. It requires restraint. It requires understanding that the work is not about you.

For me, that meant that aspects of my identity that might define me elsewhere became irrelevant in the face of urgent need. What mattered was not who I was, but whether I could be of use.

There is a teaching in Jewish tradition, articulated by Maimonides, that the highest form of giving is when the giver and the receiver do not know one another. It is an act free of ego, free of recognition, free of identity. You give because it is right.

That is the standard I try to hold myself to.

This does not mean identity is irrelevant. It means it cannot be the starting point if we are serious about peace.

Peace is often framed as the outcome of agreements or leadership decisions, rather than as a set of choices made consistently in practice.

We often speak about peace as something distant, as the outcome of agreements or leadership decisions. But peace is also a daily choice. It is the decision not to reduce others to symbols. It is the discipline of listening. It is the willingness to act without centering ourselves in every interaction.

I do not underestimate the scale of what we are facing. The scale of suffering, insecurity, and loss across the region is undeniable. But if we continue to approach these realities from a place of ego, of rigid identity, of needing to be right rather than willing to build something better, we will remain trapped in the same cycles.

Peace begins the moment we stop asking how we are perceived, and start asking what we can contribute.

In a region defined by conflict, that shift is more necessary than ever.

Peace is not about my narrative or yours, nor about me or you. It is about what we are willing to carry, to confront, and ultimately to build together for ourselves, for our communities, and for a region that is deeply embedded in all of our hearts.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)