“I wish more Palestinians thought like you”

Reflections on private struggles, public silences, and the complexity of Palestinian discourse.

One of the most common — and frustrating — comments I hear from well-meaning Jewish friends is some version of the statement, “I wish more Palestinians thought like you.”

I know that it’s meant as a compliment, but it’s not how it lands… at least, not fully.

Just like any other group, it’s good to remember that Palestinians aren’t a monolith.

Some think like me.

Some are more radical.

Some are more conservative.

Often, the only thing that binds us is the shared weight of a struggle that has defined our history and shaped our futures.

And right now, amidst the ongoing devastation in Gaza, most Palestinians, regardless of their positions, are simply struggling to find the words.

The silence of many Palestinians isn’t apathy — it’s grief, it’s anger, it’s exhaustion, but it’s also a human urge to ‘get behind the team.’

If this doesn’t make sense to you, think about how like most liberal folks, on September 10th, 2001, you might have been critical of the Bush administration, but by September 12th, most of us realized that this was not the time for public dissent.

And if you recall, it took over a year before that self-imposed silence began to lift.

A similar dynamic is operational now within the Palestinian community. Even those who believe in dialogue and coexistence are finding it difficult to speak up while bombs fall, and bodies pile up.

But that doesn’t mean that in private, the conversations aren’t rich, raw, and complex.

I was recently part of one such conversation with other Palestinians in a WhatsApp group.

Stemming from a discussion about Hamze Awawde’s new initiative, the Center for Palestinian Renewal, the conversation quickly expanded into a broader exploration of how we, as Palestinians, navigate the impossible terrain of advocacy, grief, and dialogue.

It was a heartfelt and deeply honest discussion that grappled with the central tensions that nearly all Palestinians face today: how can we balance the acknowledgment of injustice with the necessity of pragmatism, and how can we advocate for peace without being accused of betrayal?

For me, the conversation highlighted the ways that we, as Palestinians, wrestle with language, perspective, and perception.

Words like “normalization” have been utterly weaponized.

Used repeatedly this freights us with very real and almost primal fears of being misunderstood or accused of complicity.

To some, even engaging in dialogue can be seen as a betrayal of Palestinian suffering.

But to others, there is also a recognition that dialogue is not only necessary but inevitable.

Hamze’s words echoed throughout the discussion: “We have to always keep channels open and talks open… if we’re not ready for changing the structures and the paradigms that led to this war, we’re just going to have another.”

This duality — between fear of misinterpretation and the belief in dialogue — defines much of the Palestinian experience.

On one hand, there’s a profound awareness of the injustices we face. On the other, there’s an urgent need to engage, to talk, and to imagine a future beyond the cycle of violence.

And to be abundantly and ridiculously clear, I’m not advocating for glossing over atrocities or accepting the status quo.

I’m advocating for the hard work of building something new and hopeful, however hard it is to build, even in the face of (if not precisely because of) unimaginable loss.

A recurring theme in our group chat was the challenge of navigating purity politics. There’s a pervasive expectation, both within and outside the Palestinian community, that any deviation from a perceived ideological orthodoxy renders one suspect.

This kind of purity test is suffocating, especially when the stakes are so high. It’s as though any attempt to engage in dialogue — or even to speak in less-than-absolutist terms — is grounds for dismissal.

But while we argue about purity, the suffering continues.

Children in Gaza live under siege.

Families in the West Bank endure daily humiliation.

Words matter, but so do actions. And as someone in the conversation pointed out, the question we must ask ourselves is simple:

Are we working toward justice, or are we indulging in righteousness?

Because those are not the same thing.

Mutual respect, often dismissed as naïve, is essential. Respect doesn’t mean agreeing with the actions of someone you see as your oppressor; it means refusing to deny their humanity in the process of advocating for your own.

As Palestinians, we must demand justice without veering into fantasies that ignore the realities of Israel’s existence.

And Israelis who claim to want peace must create space for a Palestinian state that is not an open-air prison or a connected series of bantustans but a sovereign, viable nation.

The hardest truth is this: peace demands loss for both sides.

For Israelis, this means relinquishing the false security that comes from domination.

For Palestinians, it means grappling with the pain of compromise in the face of profound historic injustice.

Both sides lose something. But what both sides can gain — true freedom, dignity, and peace — will be infinitely greater than what they might give up.

Conversations like this and many others reflect a yearning for what comes next.

Sure, they can be brutally honest, raw, messy, and imperfect, but they are also deeply necessary.

They show that Palestinians are not waiting for permission to dream of a better future. We are wrestling with the questions, the contradictions, and the complexities in real time.

To those who say, “I wish more Palestinians thought like you,” I offer this: Many do. Many don’t. And that’s okay.

What matters is that these conversations are happening everywhere — in WhatsApp groups, living rooms, and private moments where trust and honesty can flourish. They are vibrant, diverse, and full of the kind of humanity that rarely gets acknowledged in the public discourse.

When I share these conversations, it’s not to meet anyone’s expectations or to align with anyone’s narrative.

It’s to remind the world that we Palestinians, like any people, are humans — messy, complicated, and full of contradictions.

And right now, what unites us is not a single perspective but a shared yearning for a future where our children can grow up in dignity and peace.

We don’t need a purity test for justice. What we need are practical, courageous steps toward equality and coexistence.

This isn’t about agreeing on everything — it’s about committing to the hard work of listening, understanding, and building bridges.

These conversations are not performative.

They are the groundwork for the only future worth fighting for: one where Palestinians and Israelis alike can live — not just exist — in dignity and security.

It’s a vision of the future born not of naïve optimism but of a deep belief in humanity’s ability to learn, to change, and to rebuild.

And that’s why I wanted to share this.

Because these conversations are happening.

They always have been.