With knots in my stomach, I approached the group of more than 150 people who had convened to protest across from the pro-Israel rally taking place at the University of California San Diego on May 14. 

Just minutes before, these masked protestors were yelling at my friends and I in an aggressive
cacophony of blood boiling chants across a 50-foot, no-mans-land barrier separating our groups.

Richard Drury/Getty Images

The lighting was dim, but the sounds were anything but faint. Their leader’s large megaphone amplified her voice, guiding the group calls. And those calls were loud. Aggressive. Jarring. Difficult to hear. 

Behind their masks, who were these people? My curiosity was strong. As a former UCSD grad student, I knew the campus well, and I began navigating my way to where to where I could see the protest and rally from the pro-Palestinian perspective — literally. 

When I arrived, I felt a jumble of emotions. Exhilaration. Fear. Curiosity. Soon my curiosity took the lead, and I approached a knot of eight or 10 pro-Palestinian protesters standing to the side of the main event. Half wore masks. Minutes before, we were blocked by a barrier and 50 feet. Now we were face to face. 

I was alone. 

“Hi. Would it be OK if we had a respectful conversation?” I began in a calm tone. They seemed a bit surprised. 

“Sure,” a young African American man in his late teens or early 20s responded. 

“As you protest, what are you thinking and feeling?” I asked.

The young man paused before he answered. “35,000 Palestinians have been killed,” he said.

“That is tragic,” I replied. “Thank you for sharing. I appreciate that you’re open to speaking with me, an American Israeli.” 

A second young man, in his early 20s, spoke up. “I’ve never talked like this with someone with Israeli blood,” he said. He shared that he is Syrian American and lost part of his family in an Israeli battle. 

“How would you feel if that happened to you?” he asked, eyes heavy with pain.

“Unfortunately, it is not a theoretical question. I have lost family members too,” I said, speaking of loved ones lost in the Holocaust. 

Multiple people from the group expressed condolences. A few took off their masks. Without masks, I could see empathy in their eyes. I could see our common pain.

After thanking them, I asked, “Do you believe that Oct. 7 happened?” 

Everyone answered yes. I was surprised. 

By now, their leader, a woman in her early 20s of Middle Eastern decent, approached to join the conversation. Just minutes ago she had led the chants directed at my friends and me. Now, her megaphone at her side, she spoke in a composed, measured voice. 

“Many of the initial reports about babies on Oct. 7 were not true,” she said.

I agreed that although most reports about Oct. 7 were accurate, some initial reports were not 100% accurate. We continued exchanging our different perspectives. 

I forget who said it first – and maybe that’s the point — but we both shared our appreciation for each other’s respectful tone. 

No masks. No media. No problem.

As the protests wound down, I shook several of their hands. Our handshakes felt like a symbolic acknowledgment that we’d participated in something small yet meaningful — together. 

Walking away, I was reminded of something that I’d learned from psychology professor Eran Halperin years ago about anger, hatred and hope. The main difference between hatred and anger, he taught, is that in a case of hatred, a person believes that the other side cannot change; in a case of anger, a person believes that the other side can change. Hope requires us to see beyond a barrier. With hope, we see past the current, tangible reality to envision a brighter future. 

This reminded me of the protestors taking off their masks to speak with me. Their masks came down when we co-created a bit of safety and trust. 

All of us, at times, are prone to wearing another, figurative type of mask, a “belief mask” that allows us to hide behind our beliefs, fears and assumptions. When we take off our masks, we may just uncover a glimmer of hope. 

I’d like to thank the pro-Palestinian protesters for their kindness and for showing me that masks can be taken down. 

I wonder if our “little” conversation might springboard into a conversation in your home or community. Safety comes first, of course. Then, if you are not sure where to begin, I invite you to approach family, friends or acquaintances with questions like the ones that initiated my conversation.

Would it be okay if we had a respectful conversation?

What are you thinking and feeling?

After all, hope needs a chance to breathe.  

Drew E. Schwartz earned his doctorate in education from the University of California San Diego and his master’s degree in government and conflict — with a focus on the psychological barriers to conflict resolution — from Reichman University in Israel.