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A Palestinian educator, who was just nine years old when the 1948 Israeli-Palestinian war began, described how his father was killed by a sniper during the conflict. Raised by a devout Christian mother who taught her seven children never to avenge their father's death, he went to the U.S. to study and returned to his homeland to train pastors, educators, and community leaders. One of his sons currently leads a Palestinian organization devoted to nonviolent resistance and works closely with members of the Israeli peace movement.

A female activist born to a Lebanese father and a Palestinian mother spoke of how 30 of her Palestinian relatives lost everything in the 1948 war and fled to Lebanon to live in her family's three-bedroom home. Her up-close view of the traumas of displaced people inspired her to become a psychologist. Today, she works in a shelter for abused women and children. "As always," she reminded us, "where there is ongoing violence, poverty, and a sense of powerlessness, women and children pay the heaviest price."

A Christian educator with a doctorate in Islamic studies explained that one thing that unites all Muslims is their outrage at the injustices faced by Palestinian people who have lost their freedom, their land, and their way of life.

A Lebanese psychologist outlined the psychological impact of ongoing violence on children, as well as the emotional and social forces that push moderate believers — of any religion or ideology — toward radicalism and violence.

An international aid worker described the extreme poverty and desperation in the Gaza Strip, where many Muslims have joined the global masses that live on less than a dollar per day. Although Christians cannot talk about religion in the Gaza Strip, she made it clear that "our help is welcome."

A young Lebanese student recalled a childhood marked by "hiding in the bathroom, listening to soldiers firing guns outside, and never knowing if someone was going to open the door and kill me." He claimed that many of his friends who grew up with a similar history have "lost their minds." He told his story with a smile, which I did not understand until an older gentleman informed me that Arabs often hide their pain behind a smile.

On the last day of the conference, I sat at a desk in the middle of a classroom and wept. After the session, an Egyptian pastor embraced me and whispered, "Thank you for being here. Thank you for listening. Thank you for your tears."

The next day, as I rode to the airport for my flight home, a 67-year-old Jordanian grandfather described his decades of work with young people and his current work with destitute Iraqi refugees. When I tried to press a small bundle of cash into his hands, he said, "No, no, your visit here is more important than your money." In the end he accepted the money "for the refugees," but he genuinely seemed more appreciative of my commitment to pray for him. "Pray for safety and health," he said, "but mostly for continued vision. It's easy to get discouraged after working hard for so many years."

As I've spoken with friends and family since my trip, many have asked, "What can I do?" I find myself repeating the answers I received when I asked the same question in Amman.

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November (Web-only) 2008, Vol. 52