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This week brings a sobering end to the fasting month of Ramadan, a month of discipline, sacrifice and prayer. But as Muslims look forward to Eid, the world is also marking 6 months since Hamas’ attack on Israel, the horrific deaths, violence and the subsequent war in Gaza. Thousands of Palestinians now dead, injured or missing and the families of the Israeli hostages held captive by Hamas, still waiting and wondering what has happened to their loved ones. The relentless tragedy of this war has divided families, friends, communities and nations. But amidst so much pain, I’ve come across stories of those who have reached out across the divide. Israelis and Arabs, Jews and Muslims who used their art, their writing and the power of storytelling to hold onto each other’s humanity; those who realised that weapons never build bridges and so found strength in their friendship and some solace in hearing and bearing each other’s grief. This isn’t easy because fear and resentment can be all consuming. It takes courage and empathy to have a vision which goes beyond the immediate trappings of revenge, blame and counter-blame. Art in all its forms can’t bring back the dead, or give real consolation, but it can help us reimagine the world – away from a gaping wound to a healing scar. The job of the artist isn’t to linger on destruction or grief, but to think past it and be a source of inspiration for others. Their work doesn’t lie on the margins but is central to the development of thought and culture, of rebuilding society. The English historian Arnold Toynbee believed that civilizations are always confronted with challenges and that societies either flourish, or flounder and ultimately fall based on whether a creative minority can give the right responses to the challenges. Literature and art share a collective responsibility in being the prophetic voice which can show another way, a better way. As Toni Morrison expressed so eloquently about the need for artists in moments of crisis: This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language, that is how civilisations heal. It’s difficult to know what Eid may mean to so many. Despite aid trickling in now, Gaza is hungry and broken. But sometimes a ritual can act as a pause, allow all sides to see that for all the rage and hurt, letting in even a little hope could be transformative for everyone.