Breaking Barriers and Finding Common Ground

Not too long ago, I had the chance to join a group of women, seven Palestinians and seven Israelis, on a trip to Cyprus. The program, funded by an EU initiative focused on women, peace, and security, aimed to create a space where women from both sides of the conflict could speak honestly, listen deeply, and begin to imagine a different future. We weren’t politicians or negotiators, we were women, many of us mothers, daughters, and professionals, each carrying heavy stories shaped by our shared region.

As a Palestinian woman and a Jerusalemite, my reality is shaped by constant struggle. Every time I cross a checkpoint, I face an added layer of discomfort, one that my Israeli counterparts rarely, if ever, experience. I’ve been through molestation and intrusive questioning, moments that leave me feeling violated and small. Travel that takes an Israeli an hour can take me two or three, simply because of who I am.

But the weight isn’t only in the movement, it’s in identity. As a Palestinian Muslim in Jerusalem, I can’t freely enter my own holy sites. Whether I’m allowed to pray in my sacred spaces depends on how "secure" the other side feels that day. Meanwhile, Israelis walk in and out as they please. Sometimes, the very places that ground my faith are closed so others can observe their rituals. It’s painful to be treated as a threat in your own city.

Before Cyprus, all this shaped how I saw Israeli women. How could I open up to people who seemed to be part of a system that erased my rights, my freedom, and even my presence? The checkpoints, the denial of religious freedom, the long hours just to move from place to place, they hardened me. Israelis felt like they were on the other side of an unbridgeable wall.

But something shifted in Cyprus. In that space, away from the noise and tension of home, we started talking, not as enemies, but as women. We shared stories that weren’t filtered through news headlines or political slogans. I heard about Israeli women’s fears, about their exhaustion, about how they, too, wanted peace, for their children, for their communities, for themselves.

It was the first time I truly heard them. Not because our pain was equal, but because I began to understand that empathy doesn’t require perfect symmetry. Even if our histories differ, even if the occupation affects us in profoundly different ways, our humanity overlaps. We are all navigating systems of power and conflict that have long ignored women’s voices. And yet, here we were, using those very voices to build understanding.
This journey cracked something open in me. I stopped seeing them only as “the other side” and started seeing them as women, some privileged, yes, but also burdened in their own ways. The conflict didn’t disappear, but the emotional wall did. And that has made all the difference.

Now, when violence flares, I think of the women I met in Cyprus. I remember the way we cried, laughed, argued, and held space for each other. It reminds me that there are Israeli women who reject injustice, just as I do. That gives me strength. That gives me hope.

The EU women’s initiative that brought us together believed in the power of female leadership in peacebuilding. I’ve lived that truth now. Real change doesn’t just come from agreements at the top it grows in rooms like the one we were in, where women listen, challenge, and begin again.

Peace still feels far away, but Cyprus showed me it’s not impossible. We don’t need to be the same to care. We just need to see each other. And sometimes, that starts with a conversation across a table, between women who’ve had enough of the pain.

Jumana Article