As yet another heart-wrenching episode emerged in the relentless and intensifying Iran-Israel discord, I found myself engaging in discussions that were fervent, passionate, and at times, uncomfortably candid. The individuals involved weren’t diplomats or academics; they were everyday people—men and women, of varied ethnic backgrounds, Jews and Arabs, Muslims and Christians—each passionately rooted in their own viewpoints, convinced they were not just advocating for an opinion but standing up for the truth.
One exchange, in particular, was especially memorable. It involved two men: a Jordanian Muslim and a Nigerian Christian. The Jordanian, fired up and charged with conviction, proclaimed resolutely that anyone who supported Israel’s military actions must either be uninformed or inhumane. “That’s the straightforward truth,” he asserted, as if all uncertainty had been eliminated. His voice quivered with the weight of historical memory, filled with sorrow and disappointment ingrained into his identity.
Conversely, the Nigerian, from the troubled North-Central region of his country, interpreted the issue from a starkly different viewpoint. To him, Israel’s actions were not simply justified; they were crucial. He perceived in Israel’s resistance a reflection of his own people’s fight against extremist violence, often justified under the guise of Islam. His existence revolved around survival against forces that claimed to represent a faith he now associated with disorder and suffering.
These two men hailed from drastically different regions, cultures, and backgrounds, yet both held tightly to what they perceived as “the truth.” Interestingly, neither was deceitful. Neither was definitively wrong. However, their conclusions, as incompatible as they were, arose from the distinct contexts that influenced them. That moment reminded me of a quote frequently linked to physicist Niels Bohr: “The opposite of a profound truth may very well be another profound truth—merely from a different viewpoint.”
A few years prior, I observed a similar conversation between Michael, an American Christian, and Hasib, a Pakistani Muslim. Michael expressed his beliefs with calm confidence: “Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through him.” For him, this statement was not simply doctrine; it was the foundation of his spiritual life.
Hasib, who grew up in a devout Muslim environment, regarded Jesus (Isa) with deep respect as one of Islam’s most revered prophets but ultimately held that Muhammad was the final and most complete messenger of God.
Both individuals were contemplative, earnest, and deeply dedicated. Yet, the beliefs they fervently defended likely had less to do with reasoned choice and more with their geographical origins and circumstances of birth. Had Michael been born in Karachi and Hasib in rural Georgia, their spiritual perspectives could have been remarkably different.
What we often refer to as “truth” doesn’t always arise from logical reasoning or divine revelation; rather, it is frequently the product of location, language, and heritage, the narratives and traditions inherited before we even learned to question them. In a world increasingly marked by absolutism and ideological confrontations, few inquiries are as urgent or as uneasy as this: What is truth?
We live in an era of competing truths. Our discussions regarding religion, politics, morality, and identity are less about dialogue and more about entrenchment. Each side, shielded in its paradigm, proclaims itself the exclusive guardian of righteousness. But what if truth is not singular? What if, more often than not, it is fluid, molded by our experiences, cultural contexts, and emotional landscapes?
It is essential to delineate between facts and truth here. Facts are objective, quantifiable, and verifiable. They represent the raw, neutral data of existence. Truth, however, is the narrative we craft around those facts, a story shaped by our beliefs, biases, histories, and profoundly influenced by perception. As someone aptly stated, “Facts are the stars. Truth is the constellation we draw between them.” Two individuals might gaze at the same night sky and observe entirely different constellations. The stars remain constant, but the meanings we attribute to them do not.
This is not merely an abstract concept; it has tangible implications. The ideological divide in American politics serves as a prime example. A conservative might argue that government regulation inhibits freedom, that gun ownership is a God-given right, and that taxation equates to theft. Meanwhile, a progressive might contend that true freedom encompasses access to health care and education, that gun control preserves lives, and that taxes are the cost we incur for a just society. These disagreements are not over facts but values. Each party is rooted in a distinct moral framework, constructing its own interpretation of truth.
The issue isn’t the disagreement itself, but the assurance that frequently accompanies it. Certainty captivates. It simplifies. It presents a clear, comforting division between right and wrong, good and evil. But when left un