I recently met again with Mehmet and Ayşe, neighbors of the old synagogue in Kilis, a town in southern Turkey near the Syrian border. The synagogue building has recently been restored by the Turkish authorities, although no Jews remain in the town today.
They remembered the Jewish families who once lived there. They told me something simple: “We miss our friendship.”
They remembered how the Jews of Kilis behaved during Ramadan. They refrained from smoking in public while their Muslim neighbors were fasting. No law required it. No authority enforced it.
It was simply what decent neighbors did while their fellow citizens were fasting.
A Muslim couple preserving the memory of Jewish courtesy across the silence left by an absent community. This too is what neighbors do.
Stories like this matter, especially now. As Muslims around the world complete the final days of Ramadan and prepare for the coming celebration of Eid al-Fitr, which this year coincides with the first day of the Hebrew month of Nissan, our region once again finds itself in the shadow of widening war.
In a recent article I wrote about other neighbors, in the Old City of Damascus, who helped Jewish families observe the Sabbath. They lit stoves, switched on lights and checked in before nightfall.
These were not acts of diplomacy or dialogue. They were simply what good neighbors did.
Since that article appeared, I have received messages from Muslims across the region who remember similar moments of shared humanity. These memories are not nostalgia. They remind us of what remains possible.
I have seen the same spirit in other places as well. Through ChabadAid, Jewish volunteers have distributed more than 100,000 Ramadan food packages in Nigeria and helped dig wells in poor Muslim villages that lack running water. These are not diplomatic initiatives. They are simply acts of neighborliness. This, too, is what neighbors do.
Dr. Mustafa Ceric, grand mufti emeritus of Bosnia and Herzegovina, responded thoughtfully to my earlier article. He expressed the hope that if Jewish and Muslim leaders speak honestly, naming pain without weaponizing it, acknowledging wrongs without defensiveness and affirming rights without negating the other, a new chapter may yet be written.
That aspiration deserves respect. Faith traditions call us toward truth and moral courage.
Yet the present moment poses a difficult challenge. Acknowledging suffering does not determine its cause. In times of conflict, responsibility is understood through competing narratives that resist easy resolution. Recognizing pain does not necessarily mean agreeing about what caused it.
Still, compassion cannot wait for agreement.
Compassion beyond competing narratives
In moments of conflict, communities often ask others not only to recognize suffering but to adopt the narrative that explains it. Many in the Jewish world have asked Muslim leaders to name and condemn the violence of October 7 in clear terms. In turn, many Muslims have asked Jewish leaders to describe the suffering in Gaza using language that reflects their understanding of what is happening there.
These appeals arise from genuine pain and from the human need to feel that one’s reality has been seen and named correctly. Yet dialogue between communities cannot depend on agreement about narrative. Compassion does not require a shared verdict.
The wrongs of the present unfold amid raw grief, immediate fears, and narratives that often stand in direct opposition. In such moments, debates over blame can harden positions rather than heal wounds. Calls for condemnation, or refusals to condemn, can deepen hostility and carry anger far beyond the conflict itself. When condemnation becomes a test of loyalty, dialogue quickly becomes fragile. Communities encounter very different portrayals of the same events, reinforcing mistrust and competing realities.
Time often settles the dust of war. What appears certain in the heat of conflict may later be understood differently. But compassion cannot wait for that clarity.
Solidarity with human suffering cannot depend on resolving political disputes. The tragedies of our region extend far beyond one conflict. Protesters in Iran risk their lives for greater liberty.
Civilians are caught in widening tensions across the Gulf. Devastating wars continue in Sudan, Libya, Yemen, and elsewhere. Among the displaced and the bereaved in each of these places there are faces that look like ours. Recognizing suffering in one place does not diminish suffering in another.
At a time when this old yet intensifying war appears to be spreading across the region, we cannot demand that everyone stand on the same political side before compassion is extended.
Coexistence will happen regardless of whether we share the same political views or interpretations of events. Jewish and Muslim communities are destined to live together in the Middle East, in Europe, and across the Western world. Our futures are intertwined not by agreement but by reality.
Religious leaders are often asked to condemn the actions of their co-religionists. Such calls may arise from a sincere desire for accountability, but they can also reflect the asymmetries of public attention rather than the full landscape of human suffering. Faith leaders cannot determine policy, command armies or resolve competing historical claims. Their responsibility lies elsewhere. It lies in protecting human dignity and preserving the moral space in which people can continue living together.
Dialogue cannot require the confirmation of one narrative as a precondition. At times, it means acknowledging deep disagreements while choosing not to argue about them endlessly.
Religious tolerance is not built on mutual declarations of faith. Religious convictions are, by their nature, absolute. What allows societies to function is something deeper. It is the recognition of shared realities, shared interests and civic responsibilities that exist beyond our differing beliefs.
We can instead focus, modestly but meaningfully, on what remains possible. We can protect the vulnerable, preserve human dignity, and sustain the conditions that allow neighbors to continue living side by side.
But compassion cannot remain only a sentiment. It must take the form of action.
It begins with simple encounters. Extending a hand. Giving charity. Sharing a cup of coffee. Visiting one another. Listening and learning. These small gestures widen horizons and remind us that the person across from us is not an abstraction but a neighbor.
The memories of neighbors helping neighbors, lighting a stove or refraining from a cigarette out of consideration for a fast, are not relics of the past. They are reminders of what remains possible, preserved sometimes by the very people for whom those gestures were made.
Peace between people rarely begins with agreement about history. It begins with recognizing that the humanity of the other does not depend on our agreement.
Eid Mubarak and Hag Pesach Sameah.
The writer is chairman of ARIS, the Alliance of Rabbis in Islamic States.