The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is often portrayed in stark, binary terms. Yet, within this landscape of division, individuals like Rabbi Hanan Schlesinger and Khaled Abu Awwad offer a testament to the power of human connection and the potential for transformative change, both individually and systematically. Their work, through the organization they co-founded, Roots—Judur—Shorashim, seeks to bring together West Bank Palestinians and Israeli settlers, sparking a quiet revolution of connection and offering a glimmer of optimism in a remarkably bleak landscape. The two activists came to Brandeis on Feb. 26 to share their individual journeys and the creation of Roots.

At the heart of Roots lies a profound recognition of the shared humanity between Israelis and Palestinians. Schlesinger, in his opening remarks, articulated this core principle: “Both of us come here tonight bearing the pain of our own peoples. [Abu Awwad] is bearing the pain of the Palestinian people, I am bearing the pain of the Israeli Jewish people. There’s no competition of suffering.” But, he added, this pain doesn’t preclude empathy: “In addition to bearing the pain of each of our people, I come tonight bearing also the pain of the other side, of the other people. I have room in my heart for Palestinian suffering and [Abu Awwad] has room in his heart for Jewish suffering, and we offer that to you tonight as a possible model for emulation. It is possible to bear the pain of both peoples at the same time.”

Khaled Abu Awwad’s life has been shaped by his family’s history of displacement. Born into a Palestinian family that had been exiled twice, he grew up with the legacy of loss and resilience. His family first lost their home in 1948, with the creation of the State of Israel, when his family members had to leave their village of Al Qubeiba, near Bayt Jibrin. They relocated roughly 35 miles east to Gush Etzion and started a new life, but during the Six-Day War of 1967, when Israeli military forces occupied Gush Etzion and the rest of the West Bank, their family fled for a second time, once again becoming refugees. After spending two weeks in Jordan, they crossed the Jordan River back to Beit Ummar, a town in the West Bank, beginning to rebuild their life in their home and their family for the third time.

These experiences fostered major resentment toward Israeli authorities within Abu Awwad’s family. In 1987, with the start of the First Intifada, the family channeled their emotions into both leadership and participation in the uprising. This nearly six year period of demonstrations and riots, both nonviolent and violent, was motivated by Palestinian anger after 20 years of Israeli military occupation of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. Led by his mother, Fatma, who was a regional leader of the Palestine Liberation Organization and worked closely with Yaser Arafat, Abu Awwad and his siblings became actively involved in the uprising, facing the intense violence and confrontations from both sides. Each family member spent significant time in prison, with sentences ranging from 18 months to six years, but when the 1993 Oslo Accords offered a path to peace, Abu Awwad and his family readily embraced the opportunity to end the fighting.

In 2006, Abu Awwad and his family experienced another devastating tragedy, one that threatened to shatter their fragile hope for peace, yet ultimately propelled them onto an unexpected path of reconciliation. His brother, Youssuf, a father of a three-year-old and a one-year-old, was killed by Israeli soldiers in Beit Ummar. Following the family’s traditional mourning period, Jewish Israeli neighbors extended their condolences and requested to visit. Initially overwhelmed by grief and anger, Abu Awwad and his family refused any interaction with the Israelis. However, their persistent messages of condolence and support eventually led the family to agree to a meeting. During this encounter, the two sides began to bridge their perceived division by recognizing their shared humanity and grief. Abu Awwad described the profound experience of seeing Jewish Israeli settlers — people he had always been taught to view as enemies — openly weeping alongside him in his own pain and tragedy, marking a significant step in his journey towards humanization.

Following this encounter, Abu Awwad, alongside his brother Ali, began to engage regularly with their Jewish neighbors, eventually becoming founding members of the Roots network. As these relationships deepened and communication lines opened, he was confronted with another harrowing narrative: that of an Israeli Jewish family who lost a young daughter in a Palestinian suicide bombing. This tragedy prompted him to confront the question of whether such acts, committed in the name of Palestinian liberation, were justifiable. “He did that in the name of Palestinian freedom, of Palestinian rights, of Palestinian justice and of Palestine,” Abu Awwad reflected. “Did he do that in my name? Do I accept that someone behaves like this, in my righteous name? And my answer to myself — I cannot accept this. This is violent and horrible behavior. We should love [them] and behave like they are human beings. It is not an excuse for us to go out and kill people left and right, based on that we are right. We are wrong. This is not the right way.”

While Abu Awwad’s journey was marked by external confrontations with violence and their moral implications, Rabbi Hanan Schlesinger’s transformation began with an internal quest for connection to his historical homeland and the unsettling reality of its already existing inhabitants. This quest was rooted in a sense of belonging to the Land of Israel, specifically Judea and Samaria, the historical name for the West Bank, stemming from his deep religious and historical convictions. Born in New York, he made “aliyah,” the act of Jewish immigration to Israel, fulfilling a lifelong dream of living in the Biblical heartland. He explained that moving to the West Bank at age 18 led to a “sense of jubilation of closing the circle.” For decades, Schlesinger resided in the West Bank, geographically surrounded by millions of Palestinian residents, yet emotionally and socially isolated from them. He lived within 500 feet of a Palestinian village, and yet never interacted with a single one of its residents. “For 33 years, I've been blind,” he said, before describing how one moment of revelation propelled him on a path toward a lifetime of reconciliation and humanization.

That moment of revelation occurred during a car ride with two evangelical pastors from the United States. These pastors, well-versed in the Old Testament, held a strong belief in the prophecies of Isaiah, Jeremiah and Zechariah, which spoke of the return of the Jewish people to their ancestral homeland after a long exile. They were eager to witness this fulfillment of prophecy firsthand. Schlesinger, sharing their conviction, took them on a tour of the region, showcasing the tangible signs of Jewish return: the roads paved, the farmlands cultivated, the settlements established, the yeshivas built and the synagogues reconstructed. He wanted to show them the fulfillment of the biblical prophecy they believed in. As they drove, they passed a few hitchhikers. Schlesinger picked them up, as is commonly done among Israeli Jews, especially in more rural areas. 

After dropping off the hitchhikers, one of the pastors, a man named Bob from Texas, remarked, “Hanan, you did a great thing. You taught us a lesson in Jewish ethics. You picked up hitchhikers. In Texas, we would never do that.” Schlesinger, initially taken aback, responded, “Bob, it’s not just me around here, we all pick up hitchhikers. We have a common vision. Just like everyone else, I do my very best to pick up every person who puts out his finger for a ride.” But as he uttered these words, a jarring truth struck him. “I realized that I was lying,” he recalled. “I was lying to Bob and Kevin, and even worse, I lied to myself. I really believed what I said, that I pick up every person, but you know what I should have said? I should have said I pick up every Jew.”

The realization was a shock to his system. He had been living in a bubble, blind to the existence of the people who shared the land with him — the people who made up 85% of the West Bank population. “I literally did not know that I'd never picked up a Palestinian person in my life, which means I didn't see them. I was blind. They were not human beings in my eyes.” This moment of self-awareness became a turning point for Schlesinger. He resolved to dismantle the barriers that had blinded him and to actively seek out encounters with Palestinians, and took it upon himself “to do something about it, to find a way to turn the Palestinians into human beings.” This goal was the genesis of his journey toward empathy, reconciliation and the eventual co-founding of Roots. 

Slowly, but surely, Schlesinger began to seek out his Palestinian neighbors, initiating encounters that would challenge his long-held perceptions of enmity. These initial meetings were small, intimate gatherings, a handful of individuals sitting together, sharing their stories and experiences. First, four people gathered in a room, then six, then ten, but eventually, dozens began to gather together. Eventually, Roots—Judur—Shorashim was born. Over the years, the organization has flourished, and now, in addition to monthly meetings, women’s groups, children’s summer camps, lectures, shared religious and cultural events, the organization has opened the first and only joint Israeli and Palestinian community center in the West Bank, called the Dignity/Karama Center. 

Schlesinger emphasized that the essence of Roots was not merely dialogue, but rather, a commitment to listening and quiet reflection. He distinguished their approach from the often-superficial exchanges that characterize many discussions about the conflict; instead of engaging in a rapid-fire exchange of opinions, Roots participants were encouraged to truly listen, to absorb what they heard and to allow it to resonate within them. They were encouraged to “stew,” to sleep on what they heard for days or weeks at a time, before responding. “We listened until it hurt and then we listened some more,” Schlesinger said.

What makes Roots different from other coexistence organizations is its willingness, indeed, its emphatic dedication to tackling one of the biggest hurdles to the conflict head-on: engaging with Israeli settlers. Schlesinger explained: “Many, many people think — know — that these settlers are the problem. And if the settlers are the problem, then the solution is to ignore them, they'll go away, right?” Roots rejects this approach. Instead, they operate on the principle that “if the settlers are the problem, then the settlers have to be part of the solution.” By creating frameworks for Jewish settlers and West Bank Palestinians to come together, Roots aims to transform the very individuals often perceived as obstacles to peace into agents of change, recognizing that any lasting resolution must involve those passionately invested in the land itself. 

Likewise with religion: while many see religion as a major source of division, Roots seeks to harness its potential for reconciliation. Recognizing the ineffectiveness of ignoring religion, Roots adopts a radically different strategy. “If religion is part of the problem, then let's make religion part of the solution,” Schlesinger said. This approach entails creating more spaces for Jews and Muslims to “come together and put the difficult texts out on the table and find ways to interpret them in a way that will allow us to live together in peace and reconciliation.” 

The work of Roots is not without its challenges. The conflict is thoroughly entrenched within both Israeli and Palestinian societies, and both communities are often taught to hate or to fear those from the other “side.” Schlesinger notes that “there are those on both sides who reject the possibility of reconciliation, who refuse to see the other side as the human beings they are.” However, Schlesinger and Abu Awwad remain committed to their mission, believing that even small steps can make a difference. “Our work before the seventh of October was important, and after, it is more and more important than before,” Abu Awwad said. “And so, we will continue.”