Today, I attended a gynecology conference in London to speak about DES—a topic I have explored in previous blog posts. I spoke about patient experience, medical harm, and the heavy physical toll women carry from decisions made before they could ever consent.

But the most striking encounter of the day did not happen during my own session.

It came from meeting two professionals from the Hillel Yaffe Medical Center, in Hadera, Israel: one Israeli Jew and one Israeli Arab. They work side-by-side in breastfeeding and midwifery, and had travelled together to present their work to medical colleagues in the UK.

There was something quietly extraordinary about them.

To understand why, you have to look at where they come from. Hillel Yaffe is a major public hospital that sits at a unique geographical and cultural crossroads. It serves a diverse population of over half a million people—stretching from coastal Jewish hubs like Netanya and Zikhron Ya’akov to the Arab towns of the Triangle and Umm el-Fahm along the Green Line. On any given day, its wards are a microcosm of the region’s complexity, bringing together Jews, Muslims, and Christians, veteran citizens, and new immigrants. Coexistence there isn’t a policy paper; it is the default operational reality.

Yet, seeing them in London, their partnership felt extraordinary. Not because their presence was theatrical. Not because it was framed as a grand peace project. And certainly not because anyone was pretending the world outside that conference room was simple.

It was extraordinary because it was ordinary.

Two colleagues. One field of care. One shared professional language. One mutual commitment to mothers and babies.

In an era where public conversation routinely reduces human beings to rigid categories, slogans, and existential threats, the sight of these two women working together in the most intimate field of care felt like a small act of moral clarity.

Coexistence, I realized, is not always a loud declaration. Sometimes, it is a handover on a maternity ward. Sometimes, it is helping a mother feed her baby. Sometimes, it is knowing that the person beside you speaks another language, carries a different history, and prays differently—or not at all—and still choosing to share the work.

Rabbi Nachman of Breslov famously taught: Kol ha’olam kulo gesher tzar me’od – the whole world is a very narrow bridge.

The traditional song finishes with the line: Veha’ikar lo lefached klal—and the essential thing is not to be afraid at........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)