The confluence of Thanksgiving and Chanukah seems to have brought more than the usual rush of madness to Chanukah, which has become a major holiday in the United States by virtue of its usual proximity to Christmas.

Although most Thanksgivukkah columns and posts have been at least a bit tongue-in-cheek (other than the ones with recipes, which all look either terrifyingly heavy, or not particularly appetizing), one article I saw recently castigated the Thanksgivukkah celebrants, pointing out that Thanksgiving was not, and is not, a celebration for Native Americans, who remember it a bit more as the beginning of the end of their cultures, a destruction of their peoples, and the beginning of the theft of their land.

Dare I say it? It's something for us to consider that people at the borders of cultures can see the very same thing quite differently -- and here's your dangerous aside: It's legitimate for Native Americans to mourn this day, just as we celebrate it, and it is legitimate for Palestinians to observe their nakba, or catastrophe, rather than Israeli independence -- without it meaning unending hatred of either side for the other -- only history that must be understood and moved forward from.

Native Americans and non-native America have a quieter but no less fraught relationship. Native Americans still suffer from poverty and violence. But they will never have full sovereignty of their original lands, which makes sympathy easier -- at least in part because we have no expectation that we will ever have to give up anything. But there was a time when Native Americans were portrayed as dangerous savages, people who would rape or steal your women, scalp you in your sleep, or enact a number of other stereotypes -- and everyone knew these things as truths.

Today, there are still plenty of places where stereotypes of Native Americans continue -- not the least of which is the noble tribal elder, or primitive wisdom hawker, no less than the shiftless alcoholic, and there are places and people who know these to be truths as well.

In the Middle East, our truths are just as hard, our stereotypes just as firm, and we are just as distant from seeing one another as people. But we also should have hope. Perhaps someday, Thanksgiving will come to be a symbol of overcoming years of prejudice and wrongs. and perhaps someday, there will be a day that Palestinians and Israelis, too, can celebrate together, remembering a time when we were enemies, but were able to make peace, and eventually became neighbors, and who knows--maybe even allies.

We are in a moment now when that could begin to happen -- if. If we are willing to step out of the stories that we know to be true, and take a breath for a moment instead of repeating the histories that are our own perspective. Not because they are wrong, but because at this time, in this moment, they are not helpful. They will be, someday, something we can talk about together, but when we come together to discuss how to make peace, they turn into a whose-victimhood-is-more-important contest.

If we stop insisting on the stories that we usually tell ourselves, and instead look toward the future we could build, then it could be no dream.

We can't be Pollyannas about it. On both sides, we will have to give things up. Not least of which is the idea that the Palestinians have given nothing up. Not least of which is the idea that all descendants of the Palestinians will be able to return. But it will be worth it, because the foundation of the world is built on peace, truth, and justice, as Pirke Avot reminds us, and it is in our hands to make those foundations firmer.

This article appeared previously in the Jewish Standard on November 21, 2013.