The silence is deafening.” How many times since October 7, the most terrible day in Jewish history since the Holocaust, have I heard those words?

Pupils at non-Jewish schools speak of feeling shut out by classmates, excluded by a wall of silence.

Teachers and doctors tell me how in their workplace, “no one reached out; nobody said anything”.

Community leaders who have spent years fostering interfaith networks have admitted to me: “I feel like it’s all falling apart.”

Silence leaves us feeling alone in our pain, outcast and unwanted.

Worse, when partners we considered allies in interfaith or anti-racist work post hostile messages on social media, silence proves not to be silent at all.

We’re left questioning if the vision of a shared society was merely an illusion. We retreat into our own communities and watch the vast protests, wondering if we belong.

The space where Jews and Muslims met, often tentatively, but also with growing confidence, is at risk of falling empty. Instead, there is distrust, fear and anger.

The experiences of the war between Israel and Hamas we hear about from family and friends, let alone in the media, set us apart. Even within our own communities, responses are hugely varied. Everything is painful and raw.

In many places, relationships between Jews and Christians have suffered too. The very safety and coherence of multi-faith Britain may be at stake.

Yet, the scene is not all bad. Following the unspeakable atrocities committed by Hamas, I received many supportive messages from non-Jewish colleagues.

Most significantly, Shaykh Ibrahim Mogra reached out to me, leading to his denunciation of antisemitism and our joint condemnation of all religious hatred in the presence of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Amidst the wretchedness of the last weeks, there have been some remarkable developments.

Together for Humanity is arranging a second major event on Sunday, with its objective of creating a space for people to grieve for all civilians killed in this war — Israeli or Palestinian — and to share a vision of hope that people of different backgrounds and faiths can live in peace alongside each other.

In a model statement, which should be replicated by other cities and boroughs, St Albans Interfaith League wrote a letter to head teachers, signed by leading imams and rabbis, expressing their shared determination to provide “an environment to safely discuss differing views without hatred or the fear of suppressing speech”, adding that “no view which denies the right to existence of either side is correct or helpful”.

These courageous and heart-warming initiatives show that there are ways in which we can come together. We can’t simply ignore our feelings or our differences, and it would be unbearably painful to unrestrainedly air them.

But we can acknowledge each other’s pain, loneliness and fears.

The first and most important step is to recognise that we’re all hurting. Muslims, especially women, have told me that they too feel afraid and alone.

The very emotions which make us feel isolated may prove to be what we most share.

We may worry that this diminishes our loyalty, that we are betraying our own side in a time of war. I don’t believe this to be the case. Rather, it extends our humanity exactly when it is most needed, when there may be little else to bring us hope.

Even in wartime, we can maintain our compassion. An Israeli friend working for Road to Recovery told me: “I still speak to families in Gaza.

When possible, we call and ask each other: ‘How are you?’” If they can act like that there, we can do likewise here. Together, we must find the courage to do so, not just in private, but in public too.

Rabbi Jonathan Wittenberg is Senior Rabbi of Masorti Judaism