A priest, a rabbi and a sheikh stand together against Zionism in Istanbul

The gathering in Istanbul was neither ordinary nor familiar. Nothing about it felt routine. On the shores of a city whose history is still being written in blood and in conscience, a priest, a rabbi and a sheikh came together not to debate theology, but to affirm a shared moral position: opposition to Zionism, rejection of genocide, and resistance to ongoing efforts to erase the Palestinian cause.

I was honoured to be among nearly 300 Palestinian, Arab and international figures who gathered under the banner of a conference organised by the Jerusalem International Institution and its partners. Three hundred faces, three hundred lives, three hundred different journeys—yet all guided by a common compass pointing towards Jerusalem, and by a shared sense of responsibility toward Gaza and Palestine.

What unfolded was striking in every sense. Religious leaders from the three monotheistic faiths sat side by side, not to argue doctrine, but to reaffirm a moral covenant. A Christian priest who spoke of Jerusalem as the conscience of faith itself; a Jewish rabbi who publicly rejected Zionism in the name of Judaism; and a Muslim sheikh carrying the trust of the Ummah in both word and bearing. Together, they laid bare a truth too often obscured: this is not a religious war, despite how it is frequently framed, but a struggle between justice and a colonial settler project that instrumentalises religion as cover.

At a pivotal moment, Dr Mohammad Salim Al-Awa read the final statement on behalf of the assembly. Its message was unequivocal: a categorical rejection of normalisation; an unequivocal denunciation of all schemes aimed at liquidating the Palestinian cause; clear condemnation of the ongoing genocide; and a firm commitment to pursue accountability through legal, political and media avenues worldwide. This was not a symbolic declaration, but a renewed moral contract—made consciously, and in full view of history.

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Yet one individual in the hall stayed with me long after others blended into the crowd. He had travelled from southern Thailand. Distance marked his face, but resolve filled his eyes. He had come for Jerusalem, for Gaza, for Palestine, as though geography dissolved once justice became the destination. He listened intently, present in every sense, as if Jerusalem were not distant, but inherited.

During a short break, news arrived that a devastating cyclone had struck his region, destroying homes and livelihoods. The message on his phone was devastating. I, like others, expected him to excuse himself, to leave immediately, to say that his people needed him. Instead, he remained. With a quiet, wounded smile, he said simply: “Gaza is also in a cyclone right now.”

In that moment, it became clear that he had not come alone; he had carried his homeland with him—its pain, its storms and its grief.

That encounter reinforced a fundamental truth. Palestine is not the cause of Arabs alone, nor of Muslims alone. It is the cause of all free people. It is the mirror in which the world’s moral character is reflected. Those who stand with Palestine stand with their own humanity; those who abandon it lose themselves before they ever lose Palestine.

No one in that hall harboured the illusion that a single conference could end a war, or that one statement could dismantle an entrenched system of occupation. We understand that the road is long, that principled positions carry a cost, and that words alone do not stop bloodshed. But we believe in cumulative impact. Every gathering adds another stone to the architecture of global awareness. Every public stance weakens the Zionist narrative. Every act of witness shifts the balance, slowly, but irreversibly.

Such conferences do not transform reality overnight, but they do change its direction. They do not bring down walls in one blow, but they fracture them, piece by piece. They help build transnational networks of conscience and forge a shared moral language across religions and cultures, anchored in one clear principle: no to genocide, no to occupation, no to the distortion of truth.

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Inside that hall, Palestine was not an abstract issue or a discussion point. It was a presence—felt in every speech, carried in silence between rows, and echoed in the unspoken question that followed each intervention: what more must we do? Mere condemnation is no longer sufficient. The world is facing a defining moral test, and neutrality has become little more than a polite form of complicity.

I left Istanbul with a renewed conviction that Gaza does not stand alone, even when it is left isolated on the battlefield. There are those who carry its voice into conference halls, its image into public discourse, and its blood in their conscience. There are those who pursue accountability through legal systems when politics fails, and who defend truth when media narratives falter.

In Istanbul, it was not only a priest, a rabbi and a sheikh who stood together against Zionism. Consciences converged. Divides narrowed. Moral compasses aligned. And the world -if only in a whisper- signalled that silence is no longer sustainable.

These gatherings are neither intellectual indulgences nor ceremonial performances. They are battles of another kind: battles over narrative, over legitimacy, over memory. With each meeting, the stones continue to gather along a long road—a road that may be obstructed, delayed, even bloodied, but one that will not disappear.

The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.