There is a kind of work that often goes unseen. The kind of work young people do when they sit with complexity, when they speak gently in difficult conversations, when they refuse to let conflict harden them. It is the work of listening, and listening well. 

For many who have taken part in the Bridge Builders Programme, this will feel familiar. The habit of sitting with difficult truths, of questioning without hostility, and of holding more than one perspective at once is something that quietly stays with us long after we leave the room.
 

There is a kind of work that often goes unseen. The kind of work young people do when they sit with complexity, when they speak gently in difficult conversations, when they refuse to let conflict harden them. It is the work of listening, and listening well. 

For many who have taken part in the Bridge Builders Programme, this will feel familiar. The habit of sitting with difficult truths, of questioning without hostility, and of holding more than one perspective at once is something that quietly stays with us long after we leave the room.
 

Being a Muslim in Britain is far more challenging than many people realise. At various points throughout my life, I have felt abandoned by the state, politicians, and government. Three generations of my family – my parents, myself and my children – have faced prejudice, racism and Islamophobia.

At the heart of every conflict lies a binary: us vs. them. These lines can grow, shift, or dissolve as alliances form and fracture, but the essence remains the same.

Today, we breathe such a deep sigh of relief at the news of a ceasefire and hostage-release deal. For over 15 months, the people of the Middle East have endured unimaginable pain, horror, fear, and profound loss that has reverberated across the region.