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How I Found FAIR
I’m discovering that political tolerance isn't an invitation for relativism and immorality—but a pathway to understanding and peace.
I was impatiently swiveling in my chair, waiting for my creative writing class to begin, when my classmate across from me said she didn’t believe Hamas was a terrorist group. I had just returned from studying abroad and was sharing stories from my travels in Belfast at her request. The Israel-Hamas war had torn Northern Ireland apart, and the atmosphere was tense when I visited. I had seen freshly painted murals of Palestinian plane hijackers wrapped in Irish flags. Candidly sharing these reflections with my classmate was my first big mistake. I would soon learn the sad lesson that, at my Historically Women’s College, it was safer to keep conversations light and superficial with friends. Lipstick, mini skirts, and highlighters were safe topics; terrorism—or "terrorism"—was not.
Actually, this wasn’t the first shocking encounter I had with a classmate since Hamas’s attacks on Israel on October 7th, nor was it the most horrifying. On the morning of October 7th, I awoke to a call from my Israeli long-distance boyfriend: terrorists were in Israel, and it was very bad. By nightfall in Dublin, 700 Israeli deaths were recorded. I posted a popular infographic circulating on Instagram from StandWithUs. In white font on a red background, it read “Israel Under Attack” and announced the death toll. Immediately, my friends from school began direct-messaging me. A good friend replied, “Really?” with a sad-face emoji, then unfollowed me. Another close friend asked why I was suddenly “playing the victim.” In the days that followed, I lost hundreds of followers. I never expected these reactions, especially from people I knew well. Like many Jews around the world, that day marked the beginning of a period of severe depression and isolation. We had to mourn the brutal murders of our family and friends while facing a harsh reality: many don't empathize with our loss, and some even justify the brutality.
As time went on, it became difficult for me to function and perform daily responsibilities. My boyfriend and friends joined the reserves. A childhood friend of mine was murdered while patrolling the Old City of Jerusalem. Protests and vigils blanketed campus with offensive slogans like “Violence Under Oppression is Justified,” “Glory to Our Martyrs,” “From the River to the Sea,” “Globalize the Intifada,” and “By Any Means Necessary” appearing everywhere. I struggled to go to class, complete assignments, and sleep. Paranoia set in, making me suspicious of everyone I passed on the street. Eventually, I became sick with flu-like symptoms—a sickness I’m certain was stress-induced.
This period of mourning and fear also became a time of ideological transition. I started questioning ideas I had once considered unquestionable. A lifelong leftist, I had placed my trust in the progressive community, believing they had my best interests at heart. In high school, I was a cancel culture enthusiast, quick to point out how my classmates’ behavior or words were problematic. Now, I found myself isolated from that same community, semi-canceled by my friends. I began to notice hypocrisies all around my politically homogeneous, leftist college. At my school, language had the power to be “violent,” yet when it came to language about Jews, anything went. Unlike other forms of hatred, antisemitism was easily disregarded, invalidated, gaslit, or ignored. It seemed to be the one prejudice that, when claimed by those affected, became even more disputable.
They say outsiders are the best at accurately describing an environment. After "outing" myself as an Israel supporter on Instagram, I found myself ostracized. But with that came a certain clarity. From the outside, I saw fear, hatred, and logical inconsistencies in progressive ideas that I had never noticed before. I saw clearly that my peers shared an understanding of a “hierarchy of oppression,” where the most oppressed are the most righteous. The least oppressed (or some would say the most oppressive) are the most evil. Jews, I noticed, fell on this list in their own category. We are viewed as the most oppressive, the least oppressed, have the highest capacity for evil, and our opinion holds the least amount of weight.
Before October 7th, I had actually never identified as a Zionist. My Israeli long-distance boyfriend and my Jewishness were the most Zionist things about me. I had always been quick to criticize the Israeli government and had long wanted peace for Palestinians and an end to their suffering. In high school, I attended a progressive Jewish day school, where I even challenged our already left-leaning administration, asking why we celebrated Israeli Independence Day when it was a day of mourning for so many Palestinians. But it wasn’t until the horrors of this year that I realized I was a Zionist: I wholeheartedly believe in Israel’s right to exist and that Israelis have the right to safety and basic security. Yet all of this was irrelevant to many of my peers, who were quick to label me ignorant and bigoted.
Before my Israeli boyfriend, I had a Palestinian one. I met Ahmad in Jerusalem one summer, and we stayed in touch for years, even discussing marriage at one point. On Israeli Independence Day this year, I texted Ahmad asking if he was doing anything for the Nakba. While Israeli Independence Day is a day of celebration for many Israelis and Jews around the world, it’s also known as the “catastrophe” to many Palestinians who mourn their mass displacement. He responded to my text by saying that his “Nakba” was November 28th—a date I recognized as the day I had blocked him on WhatsApp the year before after a small dispute. I could not stop smiling when I read that text message. I replied with three laughing emojis.
Ahmad’s response touched me deeply. Many of my peers, despite having less personal connection to the land of Palestine, criticized me with a vigor that felt far more extreme and hateful. Ahmad’s reply, aside from being romantic and boosting my ego, gave me hope. It reminded me that love is more powerful than war, politics, and hatred. In just a few months, I had watched many of my classmates turn a blind eye to my suffering, ostracize me and other Jews, and spout hate speech and misinformation. Some even justified brutal violence, murder, and rape. These were the same friends I had long considered righteous and morally correct. In one year, I had become a very angry, paranoid, unforgiving person. But Ahmad’s response stopped me in my tracks. It invited humor, love, and mercy into a space that had been filled with darkness. I realized I couldn’t let the events of October 7th or the world’s responses radicalize me. I needed to continue seeing the humanity and goodness around me, resisting the trap of simple, reductionist, reactionary thinking. Otherwise, the cycle would never end.
One night, after another frustrating antisemitic incident at college, I called my mom in tears. I confessed my paranoia: I felt surrounded by people who hated me, fearing that everyone would turn on me if something terrible happened. I kept thinking about the likelihood of a second Holocaust. I imagined that in this scenario, a person sitting next to me in a lecture might harm me or betray me. My mom advised me to change my perspective. "The person sitting next to you could be someone who saves you," she said.
My mom has a favorite quote from Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian that complements her advice. Alexie wrote, “The world is only broken into two tribes: The people who are assholes and the people who are not.” Ahmad had expressed a similar sentiment when I discussed my frustrations about feeling isolated at school. He told me, “Everyone knows there are bad Jews and good Jews, bad Arabs and good Arabs.” By Jews, I assume he meant Jewish Israelis. His straightforward way of putting it was comforting, even though I didn’t agree at all that everyone was on the same page.
I found FAIR at the end of the 2024 school year while searching for an organization that matched the values I was adopting: one that sees the good in all people without endorsing moral relativism, supports radical optimism while being honest, and is committed to protecting free speech, fighting discrimination, and bridging divides in our increasingly polarized world. After interning with FAIR over the summer, learning about their work, and meeting interesting people from across the political spectrum, I’m feeling much more at peace and distanced from the rage I felt this year. I’m discovering that political tolerance isn't an invitation for relativism and immorality—but a pathway to understanding and peace. Much like a Chinese finger trap, it’s the harsh resistance that keeps us stuck. When we relax, we can slip free. Immersing myself in a nonpartisan space with diverse beliefs has become a liberating escape from the trap of division and anger, of intolerance and hatred. With the help of FAIR, I feel I am learning to unstick myself.
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Welcome to FAIR, Hana! I actually disagree that the world is split up into two tribes, assholes and non-assholes. I think that leads us right to where we are, with everyone assuming they're the "good guys" and anyone who disagrees must be the "bad guys." The truth is, sometimes *we're* the assholes, and the worst part is that we often don't know it.
When things are difficult, I try to remind myself of a few quotes that always help me course correct:
"Let no man pull you so low as to hate him."
— Martin Luther King, Jr.
“I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.”
— James Baldwin
"I intend to destroy segregation by positive and embracing methods. When my brothers try to draw a circle to exclude me, I shall draw a larger circle to include them."
— Pauli Murray
These sentiments, I think, encapsulate FAIR's mission and method perfectly. It is very, very difficult for us to live up to them, but it is imperative that we do. The only way forward is to see one another as fellow human beings—as the products of our experiences, environments, educations, upbringings, parents, peers, and psychology—and as fellow travelers in this crazy thing we're trying to do called living.
As you mentioned, it doesn't mean being morally relativistic. It doesn't mean not standing up for our beliefs, or standing against things we believe are wrong. It means engaging in a different way, because we recognize that very few people are consciously attempting to make the world a worse place to live. Most people, most of the time, are doing what *they* believe is good, right, and just—or at least justifiable, given their goals. And their goals can always be explained, based on their perspective, in a way that makes them out to be doing the right thing (even if they're wrong).
Never give up, and never forget that we're all in this together. That recognition is our greatest strength, and the greatest source for compassion and optimism.
Looking forward to seeing what you do next!
Viktor Frankl, a psychologist who survived the Holocaust, said "There are two races of men in this world, but only these two ... the "race" of descent man and the "race" of indecent man. Both are found everywhere; they penetrate all groups of society. No group consists of entire decent or indecent people." Alexander Solzhenitsyn said that "The line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties - but right through every human heart."
Those tribalists, authoritarians, political manipulators, and useful idiots who would chant slogans and march for the destruction of any people would do well to remember both of these quotes.