At the Antalya Diplomacy Forum, my experience as a rabbi showed that even small moments of dialogue can begin to rebuild fragile bridges between communities.
Walking through the halls of the Antalya Diplomacy Forum as a rabbi in a kippah, I stood out among ministers, diplomats and security officials.
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“I was not expecting to see a rabbi here,” a senior US official told me, not unkindly, but with some surprise.
Rabbis and Jewish communities are integral to Turkish history and to the Middle East. Twenty kilometers from Belek, the site of Side contains a seventh-century synagogue, excavated by Professor Feriştah Alanyalı of Anadolu University beneath a modern house. On its floor, beside an engraved menorah, an inscription in Hebrew and Greek records that Joseph of nearby Korakesion, today Alanya, renovated the synagogue in memory of his son Daniel, who died at two and a half. It closes with a single Hebrew word: Shalom.
The Jewish community at Side is named in Sefer HaChashmonaim, which preserves a 142 BCE Roman consular letter asking local rulers to protect the Jews under the high priest Simon. A rescue excavation in Kaleiçi, Antalya’s Old Town, recovered a marble colonette carved with a menorah, published by Mark Wilson in Adalya in 2020. The presence of Jews here runs from the second century BCE through late antiquity to the synagogue where I hope to read Torah this November.
Ben Azzai taught that one who is honored is one who honors others. My son Chaim and I were two of four Jews visible in the corridors. We had brought a Torah scroll; had a minyan gathered for Shabbat, we would have read from it. It did not gather.
The first hours were slow. The kippah registered. People looked, perhaps amused, frowned and walked on. That is not unfamiliar now, even in parts of Europe.
What shifted things was the Qatari delegation. When Doha’s ministers engaged with me openly, others read it as permission. By the second day, those who had avoided eye contact came over to introduce themselves.
Daniel Levy, the former Israeli peace negotiator, was a separate case. He had noticed me from the start and came over when he had the chance. Within minutes we traced shared synagogue connections in North London.
At a dinner graciously hosted by President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan and Foreign Minister Hakan Fidan, and throughout the Forum I engaged with leaders from across the region, among them the Emir of Qatar, President Sharaa of Syria, whom I thanked for protecting the Jewish community in Damascus from a recent bomb threat, and many others.
Some were not easy conversations. There was rhetoric that was difficult to listen to.
What I came away with was practical. I hope to return to Damascus and Doha soon. The Alliance of Rabbis in Islamic States already supplies kosher food to the Jewish community in Syria, and that work will grow. Doha has its own emerging communal needs. A dinner like this does not produce agreements. It produces the next visit.
Since October 7 and the war in Gaza, much has fractured. Relationships that once felt natural have gone silent. The suffering in Gaza shapes how many across the region understand this moment. In the West Bank, recurring violence against civilians has deepened fear and mistrust. These actions travel and erode what little trust remains. At times it feels as if the bridges between communities have been taken out one after another, like the bridges along the Litani in Lebanon.
In Belek itself, one kilometer from the NEST conference center, a modern religious complex built in 2005 includes a synagogue, alongside a church and a mosque. Jewish life in this region is older than the current conflicts. It has not ended.
In November, COP31 will bring tens of thousands of delegates to Antalya. I plan to be in Belek during the conference to provide kosher meals, welcome Shabbat in that synagogue, and, if a minyan gathers, read from the Torah scroll we carry. A space built twenty-one years ago will do what it was built to do.
After a ceasefire, there is a lull. Not peace, but a pause. In that pause, a simple question: what now?
Hillel asked this too: If not now, when?
Across Europe and the Middle East, that question is being asked in different languages. For many, the instinct is to withdraw.
We need to speak. Without speaking, there is no way forward.
But it cannot remain words. It must be followed by action. We are destined to live together, and we have a responsibility to make that possible.
During the days of the Omer we count toward Sinai. The counting is the discipline. You cannot skip ahead.
Ben Azzai taught: do not dismiss any person, do not disregard any thing. Every person has his hour. The teaching is not about agreement. It is about recognition.
On Friday evening at the hotel in Antalya, I welcomed Shabbat with an American Jewish journalist who has found a home in our Istanbul community. The next night we made Havdalah together. At that table were people who do not see every question the same way. The table held them anyway.
Rabbi Mendy Chitrik is Chairman and Founder of the Alliance of Rabbis in Islamic States; he himself serves as a rabbi in Istanbul, Turkey. The organisation includes rabbis active in Albania, Azerbaijan, Morocco, Turkey, Tunisia, Iran, Kazakhstan, Kosovo, Kyrgyzstan, the United Arab Emirates, Nigeria, Uganda, and Uzbekistan.