Friends know that I’m always on a mission to bring people of different backgrounds, races, and ethnicities together.
I know I can’t save the world and that there will always be some people who choose conflict over peace and love, but every soul touched moves the world toward a better place.
When I venture around the globe, though, friends often warn me I’m foolishly putting myself in danger.
Like in 2022, when I, as Jewish man, spent a week in Riyadh by myself, meeting and talking to ordinary citizens.
“Don’t go, Jeffrey. You could get kidnapped.” “Are you crazy?” asked another.
Or like in 2021, when I went to Turkey. “Stay away from Jewish sites. It’s dangerous.”
Or in 2018, when I visited Jordanian cities alone, and in 2023, when I walked the streets and alleys of Cairo by myself for hours on end.
“Are you out of your mind?” was a common reaction. Israeli border security even tried to convince me not to cross over alone.
People accused me of being absolutely bonkers when I danced in a nightclub in Ramallah or when I walked around Jericho without a guide.
Even this past summer in Accra, Ghanaians themselves told me I shouldn’t mosey around their outdoor market, the largest in Africa, by myself.
“Even I wouldn’t do it,” one wealthy lawyer in Ghana told me.
Each time, I ignored the advice of naysayers. And each time when I brought love with me, I was given love back tenfold.
The war between Israel and Hamas and the loud noises of hate across the world that followed make a lot of people feel it’s downright dangerous to interact with each other these days. That everyone is out to get each other.
I’m not naïve. I know there are some hateful and dangerous people out there. I’ve had to shrink my own circle of acquaintances and social media connections since the war broke out.
But I’m still not willing to accept that hate is the norm no matter how many times CNN and FOX report it. Remember, good people are rarely newsworthy for media companies who need viewership. It’s not a conspiracy. It’s about profit.
I decided to anecdotally test my love-over-hate theory for three days on a recent trip to Los Angeles.
I put on a necklace with a large, impossible-to-miss silver Star of David and called an Uber (well, technically a Lyft) to take me to the airport.
My driver had an Arabic-sounding name. Hatem. I googled it before he arrived. It means “judge” or “decisive.”
After I got in his car, we exchanged polite hellos and how-are-yous and began to chat.
“Where you are from?” I asked in an inviting way.
“Libya,” he responded with a cautious smile.
I had gone to a Jewish-Muslim joint program in Boulder, Colorado, several years prior, and asked him if he’d ever been to the Mosque there. “The Imam is from Libya,” I told him.
The driver hadn’t been yet but was happy I shared the information.
“I would love to visit Libya someday,” I continued. “I hear it’s beautiful.”
I then told him my own ethnic background, Jewish, and his demeanor brightened.
“We’re cousins,” he said as he gave me a friendly look in his rearview mirror. “We used to have a big Jewish community in Libya,” he said proudly. “My grandfather’s next-door neighbor was Jewish. They used to play chess together every weekend.”
We went on to chat, not about the war, but about food and kids.
When the ride ended, I told him, “Shukran, Mae alsalama,” which is “thank you” and “goodbye” in Arabic, and he wished me safe travels. I took six months of Arabic lessons from an Algerian woman via Zoom during COVID and knew enough to get by. Side note, my Arabic teacher was equally excited to connect with her Jewish cousin.
My interaction with Hatem reminded me of a Syrian Uber driver I met two years ago who shared that his father used to go to a Jewish doctor in Damascus. The family now owns a Syrian restaurant in Denver, and I’ve visited there a half dozen times since to eat delicious food. Always greeted with warm hugs. We’ve even exchanged phone numbers.
When I landed in Los Angeles, my Uber driver was also Muslim, from Pakistan. He immediately saw my large Jewish star as he helped me put the luggage in his trunk.
Shafqat was an older, bearded, religious man.
After we got to know each other a little, he was excited to tell me that before Halal meat was widely available in L.A., his father used to take him to the kosher butchers since kosher and halal are similar.
“For years, my father would buy all our meat there,” he said with pride.
He then gave me a recommendation on a good Pakistani restaurant in Los Angeles. Al Watan on South Inglewood.
We even broke polite-society protocol and discussed the problems in the Middle East. Without any nastiness. We both agreed that everyone needs new, braver leadership to figure out a way to share the land. There was no name calling. No hate. Just mutual respect.
He gave me a warm hug when I got out of the car. “So wonderful to meet you,” he told me.
On yet on another Uber ride while in Los Angeles, to head to Rodeo Drive to feed my fashion addiction, my driver was from Nablus. Palestinian.
Omar.
Admittedly, even in my state of brotherly love, I was apprehensive with everything going on. He saw my giant star and we sat awkwardly quiet in the car for the first few minutes.
I decided to break the ice and asked him where he was from.
“Palestine,” he said.
“That’s wonderful,” I said without hesitation. “I’ve been to Bethlehem, Ramallah, Jericho and several smaller villages.”
“I’m from Nablus,” he continued, surprised by my introduction.
“I love Msakhan,” I told him. The sumac-seasoned chicken dish, served with lots of caramelized onions on bread, is the national dish of his people.
He immediately smiled. “My grandmother makes the best.”
We didn’t talk politics, but the rest of our 45-minute ride we spent discussing delicious food, travels, his college studies, my job as a lawyer and the like.
He didn’t kidnap me. He didn’t abuse me. He didn’t invalidate me.
When the ride was over, I looked him in the eye and told him I prayed for a day of true peace.
“Inshallah,” he responded in agreement. God willing.
My three-day journey wasn’t a scientific study. But it mirrors my experience drinking mint tea in the homes of Jordanians who knew I was Jewish and alone in their country. Multiple Jordanians invited me into their lives with smiles.
It’s the same experience I had walking the streets of Tangier, where Muslims were excited to show me Jewish sites.
It’s the same wonderful experience I had in Uber rides in Riyadh where I told drivers in Arabic, “Ana Yehuda Amerikee.”
That I’m an American Jew.
More often than not, my intro invited a “We’re cousins!” exchange and interesting discussions about how our two cultures and practices were so similar. Always pleasant and respectful. Sometimes even gleeful. And many times humorous.
The same happened to me multiple times in Istanbul and Cairo.
When I was visiting a synagogue in Cairo that was being restored by the Egyptian government, an Arab Muslim construction worker who didn’t know one word of English, without my prodding, asked for my camera and went into a construction area I couldn’t go into yet and took pictures of the old synagogue for me.
He then gently took my hand and led me down several alleyways, used a key to open a door to a dilapidated building that I later learned had been set ablaze by Egyptian President Nasser, and showed me the remains of an old synagogue. The only thing not destroyed in the building was the place where Jews keep their Torah scrolls, the Ark. I got the chills. He didn’t have to volunteer to do any of this. I didn’t even know the synagogue existed since it wasn’t listed on Google.
It’s a similar interaction I’ve had meeting Arabs immigrants and visiting students in the U.S. From Kuwait, Qatar, Iraq, Tunisia, Sudan and Algeria. All kind and loving.
Of course, there are dangerous people. I’m not going to walk through Baghdad or Amman with a yarmulke on my head. I’m aware that there are numerous extremists who would love I not exist.
Hamas types don’t value anyone’s life.
But perspective is important.
There are over one billion Muslims worldwide, and I’m convinced the overwhelming majority care about the same things we all care about. Peace, health, security, livelihood, family and friends.
I never ran a study on any of this, but I keep replicating my inspiring experiences everywhere I go, without much exception.
Maybe it’s not a coincidence.
And maybe if here in America we took the same loving approach to our Black brothers and sisters, we’d find more peace at home as well.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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