A Serious Discussion about Israel Between an American Jew and a Pakistani Muslim

By Yakov Nayerman

SAN DIEGO — A troubling sign of our times is the growing irreconcilability of viewpoints—even between the closest friends and family members. We saw this happen after the war in Ukraine began, then again during the heated debates between supporters and opponents of Trump, and most intensely in recent months over the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

People either avoid sensitive topics altogether or stop communicating entirely. But by retreating into circles of like-minded individuals, we risk proving a truth best expressed by Martin Luther King Jr.: “He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetrate it.” And when doubts creep in—when I wonder whether it’s worth raising difficult issues, or if it even makes a difference—I remember this story. And hope lifts its head again.

Several years ago, I found myself in Lahore—a hot, vibrant city in eastern Pakistan, just 30 kilometers from the Indian border. At the company where I worked, countries for business travel were divided into four safety levels: from “green”—places like Canada, most of Europe, Japan, Australia, and New Zealand—where travel was unrestricted, to “red”—Iran, Syria, Sudan, and Pakistan—where travel was strictly prohibited.

But it was in Pakistan that we won a major contract, and I was assigned as the lead project engineer. By agreement, all meetings were supposed to take place outside Pakistan. However, after several high-level engineers and executives visited us in San Diego, and after multiple rounds of meetings in Dubai, the Pakistani side informed us that to finalize the technical details, they needed about 20 of their specialists involved. Most of them didn’t have passports, so they insisted that we come to Lahore for a few days.
We had to agree.

My wife was strongly opposed: “Tell them you’re Jewish and your wife is Israeli—it’s far too dangerous for you to go to Pakistan!” But it was clear I couldn’t use that excuse. This was my project, and not everything had gone smoothly. I couldn’t, and didn’t want to, hand it off to someone else. To be honest, I was also curious—there was something thrilling about visiting a place I would never choose to go on my own.

At the Lahore airport, we were met by armed security arranged by the U.S. consulate: three guards and a security chief named Javaid. Unlike the other guards, who wore traditional blue shalwar kameez, Javaid wore a white shirt, a light blue tie, and a dark blue suit.

We traveled through the city in three cars—one ahead, one behind, and our white minivan in the middle. We stayed at the Pearl Continental, one of the few hotels that accepted Western guests, protected by armed soldiers.

This trip turned out to be a true adventure—full of discoveries, surprises, and tense moments.

Lahore is one of the oldest cities in South Asia. According to legend, it was founded over 2,000 years ago by the son of the god Rama. In medieval times, it became an important Islamic cultural center, and during the Mughal Empire, it flourished as a capital, with palaces, gardens, and mosques.

We were shown this incredible city… What impressed me most was Badshahi, a grand 17th-century mosque made of red sandstone and marble. Its massive domes and vast courtyard—big enough to hold a hundred thousand worshippers—seemed to stretch the boundaries of space and time.

As an engineer, I was especially fascinated by its four minarets, each 55 meters tall and tilted about 5 degrees outward—intentionally designed so that, in case of an earthquake, they would fall away from the mosque rather than onto the people inside.

Later, I discovered an interesting detail: these minarets have the same height and tilt angle as the Leaning Tower of Pisa, built three centuries earlier. Pisa’s tilt, of course, was the result of a mistake that became a marvel. In contrast, the tilt in Lahore was carefully planned. Officially, this is called a coincidence. But to be honest, I still have my doubts.

We were very lucky to have Javaid. He turned out to be much more than a security chief—he held a doctorate in history and theology and was a professor at a local university.

When I asked how a PhD ended up in private security, he answered plainly: with two wives and five kids, money was always tight. Besides, the university was on break, and protecting Americans paid about five times more than teaching.

I bombarded him with questions—about history, religion, and culture. Once he realized my interest was sincere and I truly valued his knowledge, he opened up. He even managed to get us permission to tour the city and became an excellent guide.

But we didn’t have much time for sightseeing. Each of the many Pakistani engineers wanted to prove their presence was justified—by pointing out errors in our drawings or at least asking insightful questions. We couldn’t finish everything by Friday.

The U.S. consulate had no weekend security coverage, and we couldn’t remain in Pakistan without protection. So we decided to fly to Dubai for the weekend and return to Lahore on Monday to complete the project.

When we flew back that Monday and stepped into the airport terminal, we saw a large group of men in white robes—thobes—gathered in customs, surrounded by soldiers.

With our American passports, we were ushered through a separate lane, then down a barricaded corridor to where our three cars were waiting.
As we stepped outside the airport, we stopped in shock: a huge, excited crowd had gathered to greet us.

Hundreds—maybe thousands—of people were cheering, reaching toward us, and showering us with flower petals.

At first, I thought maybe we were traveling with celebrities or dignitaries—but no, we were the only passengers exiting the terminal. The ovation was directed entirely at me and my five engineers.

People were trying to touch us, grasp the edges of our clothing, even kiss our sleeves. Many held bowls overflowing with petals, which they tossed over us with such joy that it felt almost embarrassing.

I realized I was completely unprepared for public adoration—especially when it came by mistake, from people who thought I was someone else.

We had no idea what was happening.

Luckily, Javaid and his team managed to break through the crowd. He shouted something in Urdu, and instantly the petal storm stopped. The crowd stepped back, and we squeezed into our white van.

As soon as we drove off, I asked Javaid who they had mistaken us for. He explained that the crowd hadn’t been waiting for us at all.

That day, the first group of pilgrims returning from the Hajj in Mecca was expected. In the first hours after their return, these pilgrims are revered almost like saints. People believe that touching them—even just being near them—can bring blessings or healing.

At the time, there had been a SARS outbreak in Saudi Arabia, so all flights from there were held up at the airport for screening. Those were the men in white robes we had seen in customs.

But we had flown in from Dubai, where there were no SARS cases, so we were allowed through right away. The crowd outside didn’t know that—and mistook us for the returning pilgrims. Apparently, the fact that we were wearing jeans and t-shirts didn’t raise any red flags.

By midday Tuesday, we had completed our technical negotiations and had half a day of free time left. Javaid was clearly open to conversation, so I suggested that instead of sitting in the hotel, we visit a nice restaurant—on the company’s expense, of course. He happily agreed but mentioned that protocol required him to bring along two security guards.

An hour later, we were seated on the balcony of a cozy restaurant housed in a historic building with typical Indian architecture. The guards sat at a nearby table. Indian music drifted in from the street, and the air was filled with a dizzying bouquet of unfamiliar aromas. Across the square, glowing under floodlights against a violet sky, stood—almost floating above the city—a bright pink palace. The scene felt like something out of One Thousand and One Nights.

Javaid told me that this palace had belonged to the first Maharaja of the Sikh Empire and now serves as his mausoleum. It is considered a sacred site, attracting Sikh pilgrims from around the world. He added, with a hint of sadness, that although the Indian border was just thirty or forty minutes away by car, many Indian pilgrims had to travel through Delhi, Istanbul, or other third countries to get there.

“We speak the same languages—Punjabi and Urdu—as they do in India,” he said, “but our writing systems are different: ours is Arabic-Persian, and theirs is Gurmukhi.”

When the conversation turned to the partition of India and Pakistan and the ongoing conflict between the two countries, Javaid—as expected—placed the blame entirely on Great Britain and India.

I admitted that I didn’t know much about the origins of the conflict but said it seemed like another example of how religion, rather than uniting people, often divides them.

At first, Javaid answered my questions politely. Then he became animated, passionately discussing Pakistan’s history, Lahore, Islam, and its traditions.
I asked whether it bothered him that I was Jewish.

“Oh no, quite the opposite,” he replied sincerely. “I’m actually pleased to speak with a real Jew. There are hardly any left in our country.”

He quoted not only the Quran but also the Torah—easily, fluently. His knowledge of Judaism clearly exceeded mine. I was surprised to learn that in the Quran, Jews are referred to as the People of the Book, and that Moses—Musa—is mentioned 136 times, while the name Muhammad appears only four times.

Javaid answered my questions about Sharia law openly and without hesitation. At one point, I jokingly said that while it was all very impressive, I would never convert to Islam.

“Why such certainty?” he asked seriously.

I needed to respond without offending him. So instead of generalizing, I spoke personally:

“First, I don’t believe in the absolute truth or exclusivity of any one religion. But every faith essentially demands that—complete belief and absolute adherence.

Second, there’s one law in Sharia that I find fundamentally unacceptable.”

“Which one?” he asked.

“The death penalty for apostasy. I believe that the most sacred gift God gives us is freedom of choice. Scripture talks about this, and I’m sure the Quran does too. People must be free to change their minds—especially children born into a religion without ever choosing it.”

Javaid nodded. “Yes, choice is essential. There’s a verse in the Quran that says: ‘Say: the truth is from your Lord. Whoever wills—let them believe, and whoever wills—let them disbelieve.’ But unfortunately, fanatics and many religious leaders distort the essence of Islam. In Pakistan, a person can be killed not just for converting, but even for behaving outside religious norms—not by the government, but by mobs of extremists. Very few countries are like Pakistan in this regard. Still, we’re an open nation. If someone doesn’t want to follow our laws, they’re free to leave for any country—except Israel.”

“Israel?” I asked.

“Pakistan doesn’t recognize Israel as a state,” Javaid explained. “Our passports say explicitly: This passport is valid for all countries of the world except Israel. No other country is singled out like that.

So traveling to Israel on a Pakistani passport is illegal. If someone goes anyway and comes back, they risk being arrested, losing their right to travel, or even having their citizenship revoked.”

“Why such extreme measures? What makes Israel uniquely ‘guilty’?” I asked.

“For one,” Javaid replied, “Israel persecutes Muslims. It is openly anti-Muslim. Second, out of solidarity with the Palestinians, whom Israel occupies. Israel’s policies amount to genocide.”

At that point, I couldn’t hold back.

“Wait… You’re an educated person. A scholar. Someone who values facts. Let’s take a closer look at those claims. Let’s start with how Muslims live in Israel itself. I’ve been there many times. Muslims are Israeli citizens, about 20% of the population. They have full civil rights. Israeli law guarantees freedom of religion and equality before the law. In matters of family and personal status, Muslims have Sharia courts—Qadis. Islamic holy sites—including Al-Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock—are managed by Islamic authorities. I myself wasn’t allowed into Al-Aqsa, because I’m not Muslim.

“Muslim holidays are officially recognized,” I continued. “Muslims vote in elections, are elected to parliament, and serve in government. Israel has Arabic-language schools that emphasize Islamic tradition. The government funds those schools, mosques, and cultural centers. Muslim women wear whatever they choose—hijabs, burqas—without interference.

“Now, genocide means the deliberate destruction of a people. But the Muslim population in Israel has grown—from about 100,000 in 1980 to 1.5 million today. In Gaza, the Palestinian population has grown from 500,000 to 2 million. If that’s genocide, it has a very strange outcome.

“Now look at other countries. In China, up to a million Uyghur and Kazakh Muslims have been held in re-education camps—just for being Muslim. There, people are tortured, forced into labor, and women are sterilized so they can’t have more Muslim children. The U.S. and several other countries have officially called it genocide.

“But Pakistan has strong ties with China, right?

“During the Chechen wars, Russia flattened entire valleys. Tens of thousands—some say hundreds of thousands—of Muslim Chechens were killed. But I don’t recall Pakistan ever breaking ties with Russia.

“In 1970, during ‘Black September,’ King Hussein of Jordan killed tens of thousands of Palestinians. That didn’t lead to any major protests from Pakistan either.

“In Syria, a civil war killed over 500,000 people—many simply because they were Sunnis rather than Shiites.

“In Yemen, a similar religious conflict led to a quarter-million deaths.
So tell me: why is only Israel singled out?”

There was a pause.

Then Javaid said, “I’m not ready to answer that. I can’t deny what you’ve said—especially your firsthand experience—but the information I have is very different. Let’s just change the subject.”

I paid for dinner, and half an hour later, we said goodbye in front of the hotel.

The next morning, on the way to the airport, Javaid and the three guards came with us, just like on our first day. When we got out of the car, Javaid pulled me aside. He looked embarrassed and exhausted.

“You know, Yakov,” he said, “I barely slept. I spent the night at my computer, checking everything you told me yesterday. I did my own research—even on Arabic and Muslim websites. And I have to say: you were right.
There’s no objective reason for Pakistan to treat Israel the way it does—certainly not when compared to how other countries treat Muslims. The only explanation I can offer is that our government follows the lead of wealthy Arab states, while our population remains largely uneducated and easily influenced. In such an environment, democracy struggles—and changing your mind, as I did yesterday, is incredibly hard. But I will try to share what I’ve learned. Thank you. As-salamu alaykum. Shalom. I hope we meet again someday.”

We hugged.

“Thank you, Javaid,” I said. “If more people were as open to new ideas as you are, the world would be a better place.”

I walked toward the airport building. My mood was bright—as if I had just won the lottery.

And as I passed the same fences where, just two days earlier, I’d been showered with flower petals, I suddenly thought: maybe, just maybe, I’d earned a few of those petals after all.

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Yakov Nayerman in his retirement is a freelance writer based in San Diego.