Istanbul, mid-December 2025. The global interfaith organization* of which I am currently the president organized, for the first time since October 7, 2023, a meeting of its Middle East – North Africa branch, with 50 participants chosen from among the leaders of the many “cooperation circles” that the organization has in these regions, for 4 full days.

They came from Israel, Palestine, Jordan, Iraq, Yemen, Morocco, Tunisia, Lebanon, Egypt… There are Sunni Muslims, Shiite Muslims, Jews (Orthodox and Reform), Orthodox Christians, Coptic Christians, Protestant Christians, Druze, Baha’is, a Scientologist.

I was, how can I put it, a little anxious about having Israeli Jews and Palestinians, and other worthy representatives of the Arab world, in the same room. I was wrong.

You don’t learn about the world through the media, whether social or otherwise. You learn by traveling, and for the past two years, Israel and Palestine haven’t been among my destinations. You also learn by listening to people who live what you want to learn about. And I learned so much in four days.

Everything that happened in Istanbul is shrouded in secrecy for the safety of the participants, especially regarding their identities. That is why I will primarily use fictitious first names.

From anti-Jewish fighter to peacekeeper

One of us, Amin, came to tell me his story. He’s in his fifties, slim, with an elegant bearing, a weathered face, and dark eyes that sparkle with life. Amin has lived in a refugee camp in Palestine, seemingly his whole life. He told me that when he was younger, he was a “fighter” against Israel. He was convinced that a good Jew was a dead Jew, and that he would earn his place in paradise by killing the enemy. Until the day he met our interfaith organization, fifteen years ago. In short, this encounter made him realize that he could talk to a Jew. And that if he could talk to him, it meant that the Jew was also a human being. With this realization, he understood that he had been lied to all his life, and he decided to dedicate his life to helping people see their humanity as something that transcends all prejudice. “  We are first and foremost human beings, before we are Jews, Muslims, Christians, or anything else,  ” he told me. “  Without that, we are nothing, and war begins .”

Not only has Amin come a long way, but in his refugee camp, he faces daily the influence of Hamas and others who don’t share his view of the enemy’s humanity. He also has to deal with the abuses sometimes (or often, depending on who I listen to) committed by Israeli soldiers, which only complicate matters. But he remains steadfast. He explains that he teaches young people how to pass checkpoints by observing Israeli soldiers and imagining them at home, with their families, at the beach—anywhere they would find a human image, regardless of the soldiers’ behavior. The result, he tells me, is often (though not always) miraculous. It’s the soldiers who then change their attitude and become, in effect, more humane.

His analysis is this: each of the two groups (Israelis and Palestinians) sees the other as something devoid of humanity. If one of them infuses humanity into their gaze, then the other receives it and becomes what they have always been: human. It’s not much, but it’s all they have to fight for, and ultimately, it’s all that can make a difference in this part of the world. For him, that’s a divine mission.

The enemy children

Steven is a devout Israeli Jew who runs an organization in Tel Aviv that teaches dialogue for peace to young people. When the October 13th massacre occurred, he felt compelled to do something to prevent succumbing to hatred. He knew that nothing would ever be the same again, and even before, things weren’t great… So he launched a project for the young people who followed him—Palestinian Muslims and Christians, and Israeli Jews, Muslims, and Druze—to preserve and strengthen what he calls “the connection beyond divisions.” Through writing, young Israelis and Palestinians collaborate to express their suffering, their difficulties, their hopes, their resilience, and their courage—the courage to imagine a future of peace where the present seems to contradict them. Two books have already emerged from this project.

Yet his project was not universally accepted. Many of his students’ parents called him to criticize the fact that their children might sympathize “with the enemy.” He, too, remained steadfast. Often, it was the children themselves who convinced their parents of the merits of the approach, and of the “lack of merit” in the enemy’s rhetoric.

Do they hate it a little, a lot, passionately, or not at all?

One day, I asked Mohamed, a Palestinian from Bethlehem, if it was true that people in the West Bank hated Israelis. A somewhat silly, naive question, but if I didn’t ask him, who would I ask? Mohamed was Muslim, but he told me he didn’t really practice. He didn’t really care about practice. For him, God doesn’t express himself through practice. To each their own path. He replied, ”  That’s true, but not only that. You have to understand that for many Palestinians, all they know about Jews are the soldiers, those they encounter at checkpoints, those who regularly mistreat them, those who have sometimes killed children in their neighborhoods. Before, there were more Palestinians who went to work in Israel and had more opportunities to interact. Since October 2023, that number has drastically decreased, and the divide has widened even further.” So yes, many people hate Israelis. Perhaps you would hate them too if you were in their situation. And then there’s the propaganda. Propaganda has a field day. It dehumanizes Jews, and every time a Jew commits a wrong here, it wins. There’s only one solution: dialogue and the recognition of our shared humanity. This shared humanity comes up like a recurring theme, day after day, conversation after conversation.

Equal height and equal rights?

Then there’s Karin, an Israeli journalist, who manages to speak to me privately. She tells me I absolutely must talk to Sara, a young Baha’i woman from Jordan, because she’s convinced that a solution in the Middle East might come from the Scientologists and the Baha’is, because the Jews (including herself), Muslims, and Christians are too entangled in these age-old conflicts; they’re trapped in existential struggles that prevent them from seeing things from a broader perspective. They want to save their own skin, and to do that, they have to destroy “the other.”

So I talk to Sara, who is absolutely fantastic. Every day she takes five hours on trains (yes, trains, not just one) to help children in a refugee camp on the border with Palestine. Once, I ask her if Baha’is face discrimination in Jordan. She immediately says no, but when I ask her a little more, I learn that they don’t have the same rights as others (which, of course, is the very definition of discrimination). The difference in rights, from what she tells me, mainly concerns family rights, but the more I talk to her, the more she shows me that they are, in fact, discriminated against. We get used to everything, to the point where we don’t even see the problem anymore. She says she loves her country, and that for that reason, she’s willing to accept the hardships. I tell myself that I love my country too, but that doesn’t change my rejection of discrimination. I think we’re being taken for a ride when they manage to make us believe we have to accept the unacceptable in the name of some kind of patriotism. But anyway, it doesn’t matter, Sara is brilliant and full of genuine kindness.

There’s also Kamal, a Lebanese Druze. When Kamal learns that I’m friends with Sheikh Bader Kasem, a prominent figure in Druze Islam (who lives in Israel), he wants to learn more about Scientology . When he learns that I, too, believe we are immortal spiritual beings who pass from body to body, life after life, he’s happy because he’s no longer alone.

All these religions are a breath of fresh air.

There’s also Mina, a Christian from Egypt, a renowned professor of medicine, who didn’t even know my religion existed. It’s the first time he’s heard its name. He knows me, but it had never occurred to him. So, he starts talking about it while we’re all gathered together. And everyone begins discussing how there’s nothing better than learning that there aren’t just five major religions in the world (Christianity, Islam, Druze, Judaism, and Baha’i). They want me to tell them about all these religions they know so little about. It’s a breath of fresh air for them. The world is vast, diverse, and rich. It reinforces their belief that the most important thing is that we are all human. Hallelujah.

Adar, for his part, is Kurdish, from Iraq. He talks about Mandaeism , an ancient religion that now only has a few thousand followers, mainly in Iraq. I ask him if he practices it; he says no, he’s Christian. But he says that in Kurdistan, everyone does what they want. I doubt it, but I don’t really know. So he invites me, along with his two companions, one of whom is part of the Kurdish government. I said I’d go. And I will.

The other’s language

And then there’s Shlomo. Shlomo is Jewish, but he taught Arabic in Israel his whole life. For him, language is the gateway to peace. If you speak the language, you understand. If you understand, you don’t wage war. He published a Hebrew/Arabic dictionary, which has been reprinted several times. He explained to me that his parents, in his younger years, were very disappointed with his life path. Teaching Arabic, you have to be a little crazy. But anyway, he became the National Inspector of the Arabic Language, a lecturer at the Faculty of Education of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and Israel’s representative to the European Committee for Reading and Literacy. So they were forced to admit that he had made something of his life, and they changed their minds. Shlomo seems not to care; he’s old and he’s seen it all. And yet he is still present at all the gatherings, even at over 80 years old.

Mariam, from Hebron in Palestine, is a Christian. She speaks a grating Arabic, not because it isn’t beautiful, but because she speaks so loudly and always seems to be yelling at you, even when she smiles and you understand that she likes you. She complains. She complains about Israel, which “makes her life miserable.” She complains about Hamas, which “makes her life miserable,” she complains about the Palestinian Authority and its “corrupt President,” which “makes her life miserable.” But she pats everyone on the shoulder, Jews included, with an energy that knows no bounds.

She also tells me about the Israeli settlers. She says that in many places the settlers and the Palestinians get along very well. They live together and work together. Why am I surprised?

Peace?

Understand this clearly: these are not pro-Israel Arabs. They are not pro-Palestine Jews. They are not eccentric dreamers from some beatnik fantasy. These are people who have lived through the harsh realities of war, and who continue to grapple with them, but who have not lost their intelligence or their humanity.

Finally, on the last evening, we celebrated Hanukkah, lit the candles, and listened to the prayers in Hebrew. No photos, please; it’s not like we’re having a village festival. And taking photos is dangerous. But we celebrated anyway. Together.

And then everyone went their separate ways. On the group messaging app, which some had to leave and delete from their phones before returning to their countries, the conversations continued for several days. Everyone went back home, to the fight, the fight for a better world, for a better region, for a better neighborhood, for better people. We promised we would see each other again. And we did.

And we know. We know that peace is possible and that those who say otherwise are, deep down, the ones who don’t want it. We know that war is not inherent to humankind, because, precisely, humanity is the solution to war. From the moment we see it, recognize it, and grant it its humanity. Does that sound naive? No, it’s a flower nourished by the blood of victims, which, despite everything, has grown, and which defies the status quo.

* This is the world’s largest grassroots interreligious organization, with over 1,200 affiliated groups in more than 110 countries. Founded by the former Episcopal Bishop of California, Reverend Bill Swing, it celebrated its 25th anniversary last year. Beyond its creation and scale, these 25 years have primarily demonstrated the strength of its model: decentralized interreligious cooperation, driven by local actors themselves. URI has enabled very diverse communities to meet, overcome religious and cultural divides, and work together for peace, reconciliation, education, equality, social justice, and the care of the Earth. By prioritizing inclusion, shared governance, and concrete action over rhetoric, it has helped to embed interreligious dialogue in daily life and make it a genuine driver of lasting social transformation.

This article was first printed in French, on Rebelles. It is reprinted with permission.

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Now he’s back in the news seeking legal acceptance for the cultivation, sale and consumption of pot. (Read down in the article if you are curious about the tolerance levels for marijuana in the Middle East.)

“It is time to allow for the cultivation of marijuana, and to drop the right to issue arrest warrants against people who work in this field,” the veteran Druze leader recently Tweeted.

According to the French news agency AFP, Lebanon had generated hundreds of millions of dollars from marijuana cultivation during the country’s civil war (between 1975 and 1990) before the government began to put a lid on the pot industry.

AFP now reports that, in recent years,  Lebanon’s cannabis growers say business has boomed in large part to the Syrian war which has deflected government attention from drug crimes. Demand for the drug in Syria has jumped more than 50 percent since 2012, a year after its civil war began, and porous national borders enable Lebanese producers to meet growing demand. Good news for “farmers”.

So what’s the word on weed across the rest of the Middle East?

The Middle East’s appetite for Marijuana is negligible compared to North America or Australia, but the drug has a string following and – along with hashish – is broadly acceptable given a centuries-old link with communal cultural ritual within some faiths.

The deal on marijuana in the Middle East

Marijuana is technically illegal in Egypt, but use is widespread and widely accepted and convictions for personal use is rare.

Israel allows usage of medicinal cannabis, and recreational use – while illegal –  is relatively decriminalized,  with little or no penalty for convicted first time violators.

Marijuana cultivation, sale and use is not legal in Jordan, but enforcement for personal users is relatively lax.

Lebanon outlaws pot possession, however, large amounts are grown within the country and recreational use, so long as it is discrete, is rarely an issue.

Saudi Arabia cracks down on use and possession for personal use of any recreational drug.  If caught, you face up to six months jail time. Dealing and smuggling drugs usually result in harsher prison time or even execution. Foreigners who use drugs face deportation.

Syria similarly bans recreational drugs and, under Bashar al Assad, many cannabis offenses, from simple use to trafficking, are punishable by life in prison. Despite the risks, there are reports that people living in areas controlled by Kurdish separatists increasingly cultivate marijuana as one of the few means to create income in this Syria’s debilitated economy.

Tunisia outlaws weed altogether.  Don’t grow, sell, buy or smoke unless you want a stint in prison.

Turkey‘s laws prohibit possessing and using pot. Get caught and face 1–2 years in prison; or opt for a rehabilitation program and/or lengthy probation. for up to three years. Supplying and selling the drug is punishable by 5–10 years in jail, and growing and trafficking get you a minimum term of 10 years. Thinking of a Turkey toke?  Suggest you re-watch the old movie Midnight Express.

United Arab Emirates laws belie it’s modernist reputation: even the smallest amounts of the drug can lead to a mandatory four-year prison sentence.

Got some real-life perspective to add to this survey? Drop us some comments and let’s begin a dialogue. What’s the real word on marijuana in the region?

Image of Walid Jumblatt and son (AFP Photo/Joseph Eid)

The post Legalize pot, sez leader of Lebanon’s Druze Walid Jumblatt appeared first on Green Prophet.

I stood in a golden wheat field some five miles north of Acre in Israel. Paul Nirens of the Galileat organization had arranged a demonstration with a local farmer, to show us how the Druze traditionally roast green wheat for freekeh.

To reach the field, we’d driven over a ditch of teeth-rattling bumpiness, part of the foundation for a railroad that will soon divide that field. Spring lingers in the cool Galilee. There was still enough green wheat to make freekeh worthwhile.

Golden oats, blue chicory and lacy green fennel made colorful spots among yellow mustard flowers in the verges of the field. A breeze rustled the swaying wheat. In the distance, a grove of olive trees completed the perfect picture of a small Druze farm.

Salman Nijim Abu Heissam dragged a pitchfork full of dry thorns to a bare patch of earth, away from danger to the growing crops.

Thorns catch fire easily, make a high flame and plenty of smoke, but it burns out quickly. This is necessary to avoid burning the wheat past the point where it’s edible. It should come out of the fire only somewhat charred.

The green wheat had dried in the sun for several days. Heaping it on top of the thorns, Abu Heissam set it on fire with a cigarette lighter.

I was surprised to know that the Druze also roast green oats, just as they do wheat. “But oats yield less grain than wheat, so we plant less of them,” explained Abu Heissam.

The Druze take their wheat, whether roasted or fresh, to the mill to make – not flour, but bulgur. “Wheat is our basic food,” Abu Heissam said. “We Druze can’t exist without bulgur, and olive oil. Just as King Solomon’s throne was protected by a lion at the right and at the left, so we have bulgur and olive oil. Every Druze family stores enough olive oil and bulgur for two years.”

Make freekeh for the future

Some say that making freekeh is a way to guarantee that at least part of the crop is saved for the future. The fire drives out insects and field pests, and kills insect eggs too. The kernels’ high moisture content prevents them from burning, but the fire dries them. So they’re less likely to rot in long-term storage. According to chef and food historian Moshe Basson, this is how Joseph of the Bible kept seven year’s worth of wheat in good shape for the seven lean years to come after.

Abu Heissam explained that this small demonstration of how to make freekeh is just a sample of the real harvest. “About a month before the wheat matures, we harvest a determined percent of our crop with the combine harvester. Then we set the green wheat in the sun to dry for several days, and it shrinks. We light our bonfire with a gas torch. It’s a big family project, with everyone out in the field.”

The freekeh fire burned down in a few minutes, leaving ashes and the charred wheat stalks.

The stalks cooled down quickly. We picked them out of the ashes with our bare hands and threw them onto a tarp.There were some stalks that had burnt through, and those we left on the ground. The good ones with future freekeh looked like this:

We carried the tarp full of roasted wheat to a field shed where a mulberry and fig sycamore tree provided leafy beauty and more shade over a water point. Abu Heissam washes his hands with his own home-made soap made from olive oil.

In the shade there, Abu Heissam showed us that to become freekeh the wheat gets rubbed through a series of sieves, first the finest sieve and proceeding to the ones with coarser and coarser weaves.

I was surprised again, thinking that it would be the other way around, but understood when I saw how the straw and chaff separate from the kernels as they’re rubbed on the surface of the sieves.

“Freekeh” means “rubbed.” The English word “friction” comes from the Latin fricare, but I wonder if it goes back even further, to the Arabic freekeh. It was a pleasant thing to think of.

But the work of rubbing wheat stalks onto the harsh fabric of the sieves to make freekeh isn’t easy on the hands.

The farmer wore heavy gloves to work the stalks back and forth over the old hand-made sieves.

The freekeh kernels, freed from their stalks, fell through the sieve’s holes. We collected them and turned the sieve over to receive them from the deep side.

I ate some freekeh kernels. They were nutty and chewy, with the expected smoky flavor. The freekeh wheat’s sweetness came through a second later. The occasional charred kernel tasted like popcorn.

The next step was winnowing the freekeh kernels by moving them around a tray while standing downwind. The regular motion of wheat bouncing around made a rough sound, like fine gravel on the tray. It seemed to say, chaff, chaff, chaff.

“I’m not very good at this,” said Abu Heissam. “This is women’s work.”

But I thought he winnowed very well.

The railroad works crosses Abu Heissam’s fields. It will cut off access to the fields from the highway, unless a bridge is built over it. The community has requested a bridge many times, but no one in the government has taken notice, not even the Druze MK. In the meantime, a neighboring farm has two bridges to allow their cows to cross its property. Abu Heissam also needs a second water point for irrigation, but the water company hasn’t responded to his requests.

Just about now, or in a week, the farmer will walk to his field again and taste the ripe wheat to judge if it’s ready for harvest. He’ll sell most of it, but the small amount left for home use, his womenfolk will process for bulgur.

Abbu Heissam is an ex-army officer and besides Arabic speaks fluent Hebrew. Like most Druze men who have served in the Israeli army, he’s well versed in the various cultures of Israel, comfortable in the company of any well-meaning person. But his soul is rooted in the earth, which in the Druze religion is considered holy in and of itself.

“The Druze learned that an army career grants benefits and a pension,” he said. “But we don’t eat from that income. We eat from the money we make selling what we grow in our own fields.”

Need it be said that GMO doesn’t come near the fields of the Druze and their freekeh?

Why is freekeh uncool?

Freekeh, like many traditional Druze foods, is considered uncool by the younger generation. It’s sad, but the art and craft of freekeh is mostly in the hands of old folks these days. I hope that the young ones wake up to the beauty of the seasonal food traditions and love of the earth that their grandparents are keeping alive.

Read more from our archives on freekeh:
The ancient grain freekeh spurs boutique recipes
Freekeh recipes from around the world

More about Druze culture in the Galilee, Israel:

• Celebrating The Olive
• Foraged Wild Greens And Fatayer Turnovers
• Cherry Tomato Tabbuleh And Eating With The Druze In The Galilee
• Gamila, Druze Soapmaker

All photos by Miriam Kresh

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