1 February 2026
Last night we participated in a historic gathering of Jews, Muslims and Christian citizens of Israel. Tens of thousands gathered to stand against the government’s failure to prevent crime and to protect residents of Israel’s Palestinian Arab towns and villages. The protest was called by the Higher Arab Monitoring committee and Physicians for Human Rights, Zazim, Combatants for Peace, and Standing Together.
The gathering began on the broad plaza of the Tel Aviv museum. Until Ron Gvili’s body was returned on January 26, the plaza was called Hostage Square, serving as the home base for families and communities to demonstate for the release and return of the men and women held captive by Hamas since October 7, 2023.
On Saturday night, January 31, the plaza was transformed by the arrival of over 140 busloads of families, young people and elders from from Israel’s towns and villages where the majority of residents are Palestinian Arabs. All, including children, were dressed in black, carrying black flags and signs with blood-red handprints and the proclamation in Hebrew, Arabic and English: Stop the Violence! Arab Lives Matter.
We met a three-generation family from Sakhnin, the site of a recent protest attended by representatives of the Israel Movement for Progressive Judaism. The crowds continued to grow.
We turned to a familiar spot on the plaza: for over two years, as the Shabbat sun set, Reform Israeli rabbis gathered folks for the ritual of havdalah. This week, our circle of candle-holders included a hijab garbed partner in peace work who shared her hopes for the success of our shared march. Then we sang the famliar words together: “Behold, God is my unfailing help; I will trust in God and will not be afraid. God is my strength and my song..” As each Shabbat ends, we remind ourselves that we’re going forth into the week fortified with faith: faith that we are connected to the Holy One as we face the unknown challenges of the week ahead. As the sun set, we sang, “I will not be afraid,” connecting with generations who have sought light in very dark times.
We then joined our neighbors, and began the quarter-mile walk to HaBima. I walked with my wife Nurit, whose Arabic was insufficient to translate the words of the chants that rose from the crowd, often led by young women with bull-horns. For me, the words seemed to echo our havdalah prayers: We are not afraid. We are here, together, demanding an end to violence, claiming connection, choosing hope.
We walked together from the Tel Aviv Art Museum complex to the home of the National Theater of Israel. From the plastic arts to opera to theatre, art has the power to bring people together in grief, to comfort mourners, and to imagine a different future. Throughout history, artists have attempted to wrest truth from pain, finding words and music and movement to express the longings—and hopes—that get lost in the pronouncements of politicians and the platforms of pundits.
It is rare to be part of such a mixed multitude with a clear, shared goal. I have participated in many pro-democracy protests here in Israel. Rarely am I privileged to walk with sisters in hijabs, or to stand with folks wearing kaffiyahs. This night was different. And powerful.
We spoke with a few folks with whom we walked, acknowledging the importance of being together in solidarity. As a grandmother, I was drawn to the children. I turned to their parents, choking back my tears: ”They are our shared future.”
We arrived at HaBima and joined in a few moments of silence to honor the 23 men, women and children who have been killed in Palestinian towns and villages since the beginning of this calendar year, including a murder in Lod that had taken place moments before our gathering.
Speakers shared their anger and their longing for sanity, compassion, justice. We were truly a mixed multitude: Muslims, Christians, Jews, all seekers who had come together in hope, in prayer, in the belief that there IS another way to live in this country, together.
I am privileged to be here now, amidst all the pain, as the Rafah Crossing is re-opened—may it become a floodgate for the thousands who desparately need medical care that is unavailable in Gaza. This week we Jews celebrated Tu’B’Shevat. My colleague Annie Lewis teaches: “Even as the cold makes us shiver, and the news makes us shudder, our Jewish calendar calls us to notice the life force flowing through us and around us, and to honor …new growth…and to image possible pathways for renewal.”
As we walked along the tree-lined boulevards of Tel Aviv, in step with our neighbors and praying with our feet, we were paving pathways of renewal.
