Divided We Stand. A Path Back to Unity.

From the founding ideals to Twitter wars, democracies find themselves riven by factionalism.

We’re alike in all too many ways—yet we cannot seem to stand in harmony.

In Washington, D.C., members of Congress glare at each other across an aisle as wide as the Grand Canyon.

In Jerusalem, rival demonstrators draped in blue-and-white flags face off outside the Knesset, each side convinced the other is betraying the nation.

The United States and Israel—one the world’s oldest modern republic, the other a young democracy in an ancient land—are oceans apart, yet each is experiencing a bitter season of political tribalism (and has done for some time now). These aren’t the only countries with this ridiculous status.

Many now, in erstwhile free societies, find themselves wondering if “a house divided against itself can stand.”

How did it come to this, and what can be done to repair the breach?

Factions by Design and Default

“The common and continual mischiefs of the spirit of party are sufficient to make it the interest and duty of a wise people to discourage and restrain it,” George Washington warned in 1796.

The Founding Fathers of the United States, wary of the factional strife that had torn 17th-century England apart, pointedly omitted political parties from the Constitution. Alexander Hamilton dubbed parties “the most fatal disease” of popular governments. James Madison hoped the new Constitution would “break and control the violence of faction” through an ingenious system of checks and balances.

In other words, America’s institutional design was meant to tame divisive tendencies by pitting ambition against ambition and filtering popular passions through representative government.

It was a noble theory—with one glaring omission. Nowhere did the Constitution fully resolve the young nation’s so-called original sin: slavery. It had a surprising twist for the nation’s fate. The compromise to preserve a Union that was “half slave and half free” averted early disunion but planted the seeds of future social fragmentation.

Regional and moral fissures over slavery only widened in the decades after Independence, until they exploded into the Civil War. By 1860, the two-party system was firmly in place, and we have not seen our way clear of it yet.

Half a world away, the founding of Israel followed a different script but with familiar dilemmas. In 1948, when David Ben-Gurion declared independence, the new state’s survival hung by a thread; unity was literally a matter of life or death as Arab armies closed in.

Israel’s founders, like America’s, were idealists who forged a nation on lofty principles (a Jewish homeland offering freedom and equality to all citizens) while making pragmatic compromises to hold a fractious society together. They postponed drafting a formal constitution, fearing that irreconcilable rifts between secular and religious Jews (not to mention between Jews and the 20% Arab minority) would torpedo the fragile new state.

Instead, Ben-Gurion struck the infamous “status quo” deal with ultra-Orthodox rabbis: the fledgling government would defer to religious authorities on marriage, Sabbath observance, and education for the ultra-Orthodox, effectively exempting Torah scholars from military service. This stopgap compromise bought internal peace in 1948—but much like the American founders’ bargain with slavery, it stored up conflicts for the future.

Israel emerged as a democracy without a written constitution, with multiple tribes united under one flag but very different visions of what “Jewish and democratic” should mean. Early on, a dominant party (Ben-Gurion’s Mapai, progenitor of the Labor Party) ran the show in a “dominant party system” where elections, it was joked, merely decided who got to partner with Mapai in coalition. Yet beneath that veneer of unity were cleavages.

The institutional design of Israel’s democracy—a unicameral parliament elected by nationwide proportional representation—was in one sense radically inclusive, giving voice to every little group, but it also virtually guaranteed fragmentation from the start. Unlike the American winner-takes-all system that funnels politics into two big tents, Israel’s system said the more, the merrier to political parties.

By 1949, 12 parties sat in the first Knesset; today, after multiple attempts to raise the voting threshold and reduce splintering, there are still often about 10 parties in parliament, reflecting nearly every fissure in society. If the U.S. was built to dampen factions, Israel was built to accommodate them—perhaps too well for its own good.

Despite these structural differences, early history saw both nations enjoy periods of relative cohesion. In America, the late 18th and early 19th centuries were rife with partisan feuds (Jefferson’s supporters called John Adams “His Rotundity,” and Adams jailed Jeffersonian critics under the Sedition Act), yet the republic endured.

After 1812, the first party system gave way to an “Era of Good Feelings,” a brief political siesta before Andrew Jackson’s populist surge revived two-party combat by the 1830s. Similarly, Israel’s first three decades were dominated by a single party and a spirit of collectivist nation-building (with the notable exception of a violent schism in 1948, when a ship full of arms for a right-wing militia was shelled on Ben-Gurion’s orders, nearly causing an intra-Jewish civil war even as actual war raged on all fronts—an omen that unity could fray under extreme stress).

Both nations were thus born with intense internal contradictions, yet necessity forced a measure of unity. The U.S. gradually integrated its regions and grew into a continental power; Israel, under constant existential, external threat, cultivated a we’re all in this together ethos (at least among Jewish Israelis) that helped paper over internal rifts for a time. But in each case, once the immediate existential challenges ebbed, the sleeping fractures reawakened. The stage was set for polarization to accelerate as societies evolved.

Social Fragmentation and Identity Shifts

Fast-forward to the 21st century, and it sometimes feels like tribalism is the true national religion everywhere. The social fabric in many countries has been pulled at by demographic and cultural changes, turning what used to be cross-cutting threads into a clean tear right down the middle.

The United States has always prided itself on “E Pluribus Unum”—out of many, one—but in recent decades the “many” have been sorting themselves into hostile camps that barely recognize each other’s legitimacy as Americans.

Racial, religious, and geographic identities now align more tightly with partisan preference than perhaps ever before.

White evangelical Christians, for instance, have become a core base of the Republican coalition (about 59% of Protestant voters now lean GOP, up from an even split in 2009)—and many have even embraced an explicit Christian nationalist ideology. While the religiously unaffiliated (“nones”) and nearly two-thirds of American Jews—a historically liberal, urban group—identify as Democratic. Though, it seems this may be shifting somewhat.

The very geography of America has polarized: coastal and urban areas trend blue, rural heartlands and the Deep South blaze red. One party’s representatives now come increasingly from diverse metros, the other’s from homogeneous small towns and suburbs—with fewer and fewer purple swing districts in between.

Indeed, the once-solid Democratic South transformed into the solid Republican South after the 1960s, and the partisan “Big Sort” means we increasingly live among like-minded neighbors.

The result is that Americans not only disagree on issues; they increasingly inhabit separate social worlds divided by race, faith, culture, and zip code.

In Israel, the notion of a society of tribes is quite literal. In 2015, Israel’s President Reuven Rivlin warned that the country was split into “four tribes” with separate school systems and media: secular Jews, national-religious Jews, ultra-Orthodox Jews, and Arab citizens. (Ask an Israeli, and they’ll likely double that number – throwing in Russians, Druze, Ethiopian Jews, Mizrahim, etc. Everyone’s a minority in the Middle East’s tiniest melting pot.)

At independence in 1948, about 80% of Israel’s Jews were of Ashkenazi (European) origin—fleeing murderous pogroms and the Shoah. Today, Jews of Mizrahi/Sephardi origin (from the Middle East and North Africa) and their descendants form roughly half the Jewish population.

These Mizrahi Israelis, many of whom arrived in the 1950s as impoverished refugees kicked out of the neighboring Arab lands, often felt like second-class citizens under the old Ashkenazi Labor establishment. Over time they became the backbone of Likud’s rise—“the revenge of the underdog” at the ballot box.

As the core constituency of the socialist Labor Party (older Ashkenazi Jews) dwindled in relative terms, that party’s fortunes collapsed accordingly. Labor, which once founded the state and ruled for 30 years straight, won just 4 Knesset seats in the 2022 election—its worst showing ever.

The old secular left elite has been supplanted by a new right-leaning majority that skews more religious, more Mizrahi, and often more cynical about liberal niceties. Demographics are political destiny: Israel’s ultra-Orthodox Haredim, who have very high birth rates and traditionally vote as an ultra-conservative bloc, now make up around 13–15% of the population and that is only growing.

The national-religious camp (modern-Orthodox Zionists) has also swelled, with more Israelis identifying as religious Zionists in recent years.

Meanwhile, secular Jews—once the clear majority—feel their hold on the country’s culture slipping. Many secular Israelis watch with trepidation as ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods expand (where men in black hats live lives largely apart from mainstream society). Tensions over issues like mandatory military service for Haredim, or whether ultra-Orthodox schools should teach math and English, have only intensified.

When one tribe’s way of life (say, adhering strictly to Shabbat laws) bumps up against another tribe’s freedoms (say, running public transportation on Saturdays), the result is often political trench warfare. In short, Israel’s “many tribes” model has gone from a point of pride—the ingathering of exiles from dozens of lands—to a source of fragmentation, as each tribe fears being subjugated by the others.

Yet, just as in the U.S., the irony in Israel is that ordinary people are often less polarized than their politicians. Most Israeli Jews, for example, agree on more than one might think: a recent poll found 70% of Israelis favor a unity government of left, right, religious and secular, to focus on common goals.

Majorities across almost every party—except the most extreme—even agreed on several hot-button issues: they support drafting Haredi yeshiva students, oppose creating a Palestinian state, and support more religious pluralism in public life.

In other words, a broad Israeli center exists in values, but not in politics. Why? Because the tribal paradigm of politics locks everyone into warring camps despite the rich diversity of opinion.

In recent years, Israeli elections stopped being about classic issues and became referendums on one man—Bibi Netanyahu—effectively splitting the country into pro-Bibi vs. anti-Bibi blocs. This personalization of politics around a polarizing figure has been toxic. It’s a bit like if every U.S. election were only a thumbs-up or thumbs-down on Donald Trump (which, arguably, they have been lately).

In Israel’s Bibi-centric politics, long-time Likud voters who soured on Netanyahu found themselves “politically homeless,” joining strange-bedfellow coalitions with leftists and Arab-Israeli Islamists in the short-lived “Change Government” of 2021-22.

On the other side, Netanyahu’s loyalists now include ultra-Orthodox leaders and once-fringe ultranationalists who hold far-right views anathema to many in Likud—but all are united in keeping Bibi in power and the extreme left out.

The Netanyahu era has thus crystallized Israel’s tribal politics into two megacamps: one anchored by his Likud, and one desperate to unseat him (an uneasy mix of the far-left, some right-wing Bibi skeptics, and Arab parties). It’s Montagues vs. Capulets, and any move across the aisle is branded betrayal. Sound familiar, America?

Indeed, the U.S. has its own form of bloc politics. Republicans and Democrats may not represent ethnic or religious “tribes” per se, but they have increasingly taken on the character of mega-identities.

Each party is now a bundle of stances on culture, class, race, and faith that few dare mix-and-match. A pro-gun, anti-abortion liberal atheist or an evangelical environmentalist is about as common as a unicorn.

Instead, everything lines up: if you know someone’s stance on immigration, you can guess their views on climate change, Colin Kaepernick, and COVID masks with disturbing accuracy.

Political scientists call this ideological sorting—and it’s been accelerating since the 1970s. Parties have grown internally uniform and externally distant, like planets drifting apart in space.

In Congress, there are virtually no conservative Democrats or liberal Republicans left. As recently as 1971, there were at least 160 centrists in Congress across both parties; today there are maybe two dozen. Both parties moved away from the center, but Democrats veered much further left while Republicans edged somewhat right.

This mega-identity polarization fuels what scholars call affective polarization—a fancy term for the simple fact that partisans don’t just disagree, they dislike and even loathe each other. Surveys show Republicans and Democrats alike have grown far more negative in their views of the opposing party, to the point where large percentages would be unhappy if their child married someone from the other party. (Apparently, “mixed marriages” now refers not to religion or race, but Democrat-Republican weddings.)

Politics have become a zero-sum clash of tribes, each convinced that if the other side wins, “there goes the country.” The center—people who do not fit neatly in either camp—feels orphaned and frustrated.

As one Israeli observer wryly noted, so many people feel politically homeless that they could form a majority and build their own home if they only realized it. Yet, as long as the systems reward polarized camps, the center remains a ghost, and the narrative remains one of division.

How that narrative is constructed and amplified brings us to another parallel driver of discord: the media ecosystems that shape our perceptions.

Echo Chambers and Clickbait Outrage

In calmer times, the media was called the Fourth Estate—an informal check on power and a unifying national storyteller. Today, it often feels more like the fifth column, at least to anyone listening to the other side’s channels.

The West has seen their media landscapes shatter into echo chambers, each reinforcing its tribe’s worldview. Gone are the days when most Americans tuned in to a trusted, avuncular news anchor on one of three networks, hearing a more or less shared version of the facts.

Now we choose our reality à la carte. Conservatives trust only conservative-leaning sources; liberals trust mostly liberal or centrist sources, and never the twain shall meet.

In other words, the audience of Fox and the audience of MSNBC have almost no overlap and live in parallel universes of information. Each side has its villains and heroes: for the right, the liberal media is seen as a propagandist “mainstream” monolith, out to smear patriots and coddle enemies; for the left, the likes of Fox are viewed as dangerous fabulists whipping up fear and bigotry for profit. And on social media—the new Wild West of information—anyone can effectively curate their feeds to hear only echoes of their own beliefs.

Algorithm-driven platforms like Facebook, YouTube, and X (formerly Twitter) are designed to maximize engagement (and ad revenue), which unfortunately often means maximizing outrage.

The more extreme or emotionally charged the content, the more it spreads, pulling people further down their respective rabbit holes. It’s no wonder conspiracy theories flourish and even absurd claims can harden into article of faith within an echo chamber. (Remember “Jewish space lasers” or the idea that a certain Italian satellite switched votes in the 2020 U.S. election? You can’t make this stuff up—except apparently you can, and large numbers believed it.)

This balkanized media reality has enormous implications. It turbocharges partisan hysteria—when each tribe hears only the worst about the other, demonization becomes easy and empathy hard.

It also undermines any shared sense of truth or trust.

In the U.S., one poll famously found that Republican voters inhabit such a different narrative that many sincerely believe the January 6th Capitol riot was “mostly peaceful” or even a leftist false-flag, while Democrats view it as a violent insurrection incited by a sitting president.

In Israel, one side is convinced the other is literally destroying democracy by trying to hobble the courts; the other side, consuming different media, is convinced it’s saving democracy from unelected judges and that the protesters are pawns of elitist or foreign interests.

With social media, mis/disinformation adds gasoline: wild rumors and doctored videos race across WhatsApp groups and Facebook, faster than any fact-checkers could hope to catch up.

And foreign adversaries of “The West” have not been idle—Russian online operatives infamously fanned flames in U.S. social media around the 2016 election, posing as Americans on both far-left and far-right to intensify divisions. (One shudders to think what Putin’s trolls could do with Hebrew fluency—or perhaps they already have thanks to AI).

Europe provides its own examples of media fueling polarization—from Brexit battles fought through dueling tabloids in the UK, to Italy where television networks once controlled by Silvio Berlusconi routinely advanced his populist narrative, to the rise of hyper-partisan online outlets in countries like Hungary and Poland that parrot government lines.

The common thread is that the traditional referees in the public square—responsible media, consensus-seeking politicians—have lost credibility, and new outrage entrepreneurs have taken their place. As a result, political disagreements increasingly resemble a shouting match on cable news or Twitter, where scoring points and “owning” the other side counts for more than governing or solving problems.

When the Pillars of Democracy Wobble

In any democracy, a key source of stability (or division) is how the rules of the game are set—especially the role of courts, constitutions, and the perceived legitimacy of institutions. Here, the U.S. and Israel again present an intriguing study in contrasts and convergence. The United States enjoys the world’s oldest written constitution and a judiciary with strong powers of judicial review since 1803. Israel, by contrast, has no single written constitution (it operates under a series of “Basic Laws”) and only developed robust judicial review in the 1990s—almost by accident, as the Supreme Court there asserted authority to strike down laws that violated the Basic Laws.

Yet in both countries, the courts have landed smack in the middle of partisan firestorms. Why? Because when politics becomes a blood sport, every branch of government gets drawn into the melee, and courts—unelected, life-tenured or independent—become tempting targets for those who see them as bastions of the “enemy.”

Consider the United States: For much of the 20th century, the Supreme Court stood somewhat above partisan battles in the public imagination. Nominations were contentious but not open ideological warfare. Decisions were respected even if grudgingly.

That time is gone.

Today, the Court is effectively seen as a third political chamber, with its 6-3 conservative majority delivering victories for the right (from gutting Roe v. Wade on abortion to expanding gun rights and curtailing regulatory power) and prompting howls on the left about “illegitimacy” and even calls to pack the Court with additional justices to rebalance it. Republicans, for their part, still seethe over past liberal rulings—from school prayer bans to the legalization of same-sex marriage—which they view as judicial overreach imposing elite social values. This mutual distrust came to a head in 2016 when Senate Republicans took the extraordinary step of refusing to consider a Supreme Court nominee (Merrick Garland) from a president of the opposing party, holding the seat open for a year. Democrats retaliated in kind by abolishing filibusters on lower court judges (a move they later regretted when Republicans did the same for the Supreme Court). The once-arcane battles over judicial appointments are now primetime political theater. Each side regards control of the courts as essential to either preserving or overturning societal norms.

Unsurprisingly, with that backdrop, Americans’ trust in the judiciary is eroding. A sizable chunk of the public now sees the Supreme Court as just another political institution, rather than an impartial arbiter. When the Court overturned Roe in 2022, polls showed public approval of the Court plummeting among Democrats (and soaring among conservative Republicans). At the extreme, some states have flirted with openly defying federal court rulings, resurrecting talk of “nullification” not heard since the pre-Civil War era. A democracy where court orders are not respected is a democracy on thin ice.

Now look at Israel: If Americans are fighting over a 230-year-old Constitution, Israelis are fighting over one that doesn’t exist. There’s a paradox in Israel’s democracy—it has extremely strong formal majoritarian elements (if you win a parliamentary majority, you more or less can do what you want, since there’s no second chamber, no federal structure, and until recently no hard constitutional limits), yet historically that power was restrained by unwritten norms and the moderating influence of coalition partners. Over the past three decades, however, Israel’s Supreme Court (especially under Chief Justice Aharon Barak in the 1990s) assumed a much more assertive role, striking down laws and government actions it deemed incompatible with Basic Laws or with democratic principles. To its supporters, the court became a crucial check on executive and legislative overreach—a kind of stand-in constitution guarding civil liberties, minority rights, and the rule of law. To its detractors, the court became an elitist, activist club that usurped powers it was never formally granted, often handing down decisions aligned with a worldview at odds with the elected majority. This tension simmered for years, but it blew up in 2023 when Netanyahu’s government unveiled a sweeping plan to “reform” the judiciary. The plan aimed to give the ruling coalition more control over judge appointments and reign in the Supreme Court’s questionable power to strike down ordinary laws. Proponents argued it was necessary to restore democratic balance and curb an overweening court. The result was perhaps the largest protest movement in Israeli history—with both sides protesting the other. Israel was caught in a constitutional crisis without a constitution. Even now this simmers on the back burner—amidst the ongoing multi-front war, judicial reform is not the biggest priority.

When each side regards the other as fundamentally illegitimate—either “you’re undermining democracy by ignoring the majority” or “you’re undermining democracy by weakening independent law”—the very legitimacy of institutions breaks down. We have already seen ominous signs: government officials openly refuse to accept the authority of the Courts, hinting they might ignore its rulings. This is how democracies start to unravel—not just through one dramatic coup, but through a gradual erosion of the shared beliefs that both rules and facts matter and losers consent to the outcome.

Paths Toward Rebuilding Civic Cohesion

If you’ve made it this far, you might be tempted to despair. But take heart: virtually every country has faced down existential challenges before, and the West retains considerable strength—including majorities of citizens who aren’t actually extremist and who want their countries to function and thrive. The situation is serious, but not hopeless.

What might a way forward look like? There’s no magic wand to dissolve polarization—the forces driving it are real and, in some cases, rooted in legitimate differences. But history and comparative examples suggest a toolbox of shifts that could help turn down the temperature and rebuild trust.

Electioneering Reforms

Reforms like ranked-choice voting and proportional representation for legislatures could encourage more moderate or multi-dimensional politics. For instance, ranked-choice voting (already adopted in Alaska and Maine for certain elections) allows voters to rank candidates, so politicians have to appeal beyond their base to gain second-choice votes—this tends to reward more consensus-minded figures and penalize flamethrowers.

Independent redistricting is another needed reform: gerrymandering has created many one-party fiefdoms where the only election that matters is the primary, which empowers extremes. By having neutral commissions draw electoral maps (as is done in several states and most advanced democracies), more districts would be competitive, forcing politicians to appeal to a broader range of voters rather than pandering to the fringe.

Campaign finance reform—a daunting topic after the Supreme Court’s Citizens United ruling—could also help by reducing the outsized influence of hyper-partisan special interests who often fund negative ads and divisive messaging.

While America likely won’t ditch its two-party system entirely, it can certainly tweak the rules to reward cooperation. Even in Congress, small changes like bringing back earmarks (allowing legislators to trade support for bills in return for home-district projects) have, believe it or not, historically helped grease bipartisan compromise—a little horse-trading can be healthy if it buys some cross-party goodwill.

In Israel, there is a proposal to reintroduce regional representation: currently Knesset members are elected on national party lists, so no MK “represents” a local district. Introducing some constituency-based seats could make lawmakers more accountable to broader communities rather than narrow party activists.

Crucially, many voices in Israel (President Herzog among them) call for finally drafting a constitution or agreed set of Basic Law amendments that define the balance of powers—especially regarding the judiciary—so that each side’s worst fears are allayed. A grand bargain might involve enshrining judicial independence and rights protections (to reassure liberals) while also tweaking the judge selection process or jurisdiction to prevent perceived overreach (to reassure conservatives). For example, one compromise floated was a requirement of a supermajority of justices to strike down laws, coupled with a supermajority of legislators to override a strike—thus forcing a broader consensus for such dramatic moves. While forging a constitution in today’s polarized climate sounds quixotic, major national crises have a way of focusing minds. The horrors of the October 7 Hamas attack, for instance, momentarily united Israelis across politics in grief and determination; it has led to a unity war cabinet. In its aftermath, there may be a window for statesmanship—perhaps the formation of a post-war national unity government that brings opposition leaders in to rewrite the rules of the game together. When 70% of Israelis want a unity coalition, politicians might eventually follow.

Similarly, in America, moments of crisis (World War II, 9/11) have briefly unified the nation and led to lasting reforms. While no one wishes for crisis, leaders can use a sense of common threat (say, competition with a rising authoritarian China) to rally citizens together rather than divide them.

Building Bridges

Laws alone can’t fix what is essentially a social distrust problem. Societies need intentional efforts to weave the frayed threads back together. One promising area is civic education and national service. Younger generations could be given more structured opportunities to mix with peers from different backgrounds in pursuit of common goals.

In America, a renewed push for national service programs—not just military, but civilian service in infrastructure, education, health or environmental projects—could bring young liberals and conservatives, urban kids and rural kids, into teamwork. Shared sweat toward a noble task can melt prejudices; it’s harder to demonize someone you dug a trench with or taught schoolchildren alongside. Israel already has mandatory military service for most Jewish citizens (and some volunteers among minorities), which historically served as a great social leveler. However, with most ultra-Orthodox exempt and most Arab citizens opting out, the army is no longer a truly universal experience. Efforts are underway to expand national civilian service options for those groups so that everyone can contribute in some way.

Churches, synagogues, and civic organizations can also partner across the divide—e.g., pairing a predominantly Black church and a mostly white rural church for joint community service projects, or “twinning” cities in blue states with towns in red states to encourage cultural exchange. These might sound kumbaya, but they can chip away at the dehumanization that sets in when people never encounter those who disagree with them except as caricatures on TV.

Leadership and Narrative Change

Ultimately, turning the tide requires leaders with the courage to buck their own extremes and appeal to our shared humanity and values. This is perhaps the toughest fix, because firebrands tend to rise in polarized times, while healers get shouted down.

Yet history gives us inspiring examples: think of Lincoln appealing to the “better angels of our nature” even amid civil war, or Nelson Mandela in South Africa binding wounds with truth and reconciliation instead of revenge.

The electorate hasn’t been totally brainwashed—centrist or crossover candidates can still win in certain contexts. There is an appetite for pragmatic, unifying leadership if only it had more platforms. A politician who openly says, “Look, neither the far-right nor the far-left vision will work—let’s negotiate a sustainable interim arrangement and focus on internal unity” could attract support, though they’d face vitriol from purists. Key will be reducing the influence of the most polarizing figures—including fighting back against mis/disinformation foisted upon us by interests abroad.

Voters ultimately have to reject the politics of perpetual outrage if given a compelling alternative.

As a last resort, there’s always humor—a well-timed joke can remind adversaries of their shared humanity. Israelis have a saying, “the situation is terrible, but at least we’re not British.” (Okay, I made that up—they don’t actually say that. But they do joke about their own cacophonous democracy incessantly. One popular quip: “Israel: where two Jews have three opinions and form four political parties.” It’s funny because it’s true.) Americans, too, could use some self-deprecating humor across party lines—if you can laugh together, perhaps you can talk over a lunch together.

In the end, restoring civic cohesion, political legitimacy, and democratic function will be a long slog. It will require a bit of what Israelis call chutzpah and Americans call gumption—the audacity to try the unlikely. It might take a new generation rising who are simply tired of the nonsense and more interested in pragmatism. It definitely will require reinforcing the norms of respectful disagreement. Bringing back the idea that opponents are opponents, not enemies, and that compromise is not cowardice.

To circle back to the beginning: is a house divided doomed to fall? Not necessarily. A house divided can stand—if it’s built on a strong foundation that allows for internal walls that don’t reach the roof.

America’s founders and Israel’s founders, for all their differences, shared a faith in liberal values and the human capacity for reason. They believed in the West’s ideals of freedom, the dignity of the individual, and the rule of law under a higher moral order.

Those are classical liberal values worth fighting for, against any fanaticism of left or right.

Being pro-West and pro-liberal (in the philosophical sense) truly means believing that open societies with all their quarrels are still the best hope for humanity. It means believing that shared ethics, Enlightenment ideals, and democratic debate can ultimately overcome the forces of hatred and fragmentation.

Yes, it sounds lofty—but these values built nations out of chaos once, and can renew them again.

Polarization is not inevitable or irreversible. It is, at root, a human creation—the product of choices, incentives, narratives. And what humans have created, humans can change.

It will take visionary leadership, grassroots pressure, and perhaps most importantly, ordinary citizens deciding they’ve had enough of the chaos. Civic cohesion doesn’t mean everyone agrees or sings Kumbaya in unison (perish the thought in Israel—nobody even agrees on the tune of Hatikva or Am Yisrael chai without an argument!).

It means a critical mass of people remember that, despite all our differences, we share a common destiny and common principles that matter more than the latest Twitter feud.

If we can agree that a shared, secure future is better and remain open minded—though not so much that our brains fall out—we can find a way to make measured progress without hate and further fracture.