The world is on fire. The Doomsday Clock stands at 85 seconds to midnight. We have not been this close to Armageddon since the clock began ticking in 1947, in the aftermath of World War II.[i]
This moment feels, at least in part, like a religious war among Abrahamic siblings.
I have been a keen student of the West Asian-Middle Eastern region - its history, its people, its religions - for many years. Yet I continue to grapple with fully understanding the complex interplay of politics, ideology and economics at work.
Eighteen months ago, I was invited into a Jerusalem-based peace initiative led by Jewish and Muslim social activists, supported by intellectuals and conflict-resolution scholars in Canada. This experience brought me closer to the heart of the situation. I participated in conversations that openly acknowledged the enormity and difficulty of their noble endeavor - situated at the epicenter of the crisis.
It inspired me to go deeper - to read more, to listen more. I was still left feeling both anxious and confused - perhaps even more so because I was now part of the process. The initiative has since stalled for various reasons - and as the war escalates in the region, I find myself deeply concerned for those involved.
I decided to write this article as a way to make some sense of things for myself - and perhaps to invite others into what I believe is a crucial conversation, given the very real threat facing our world.
I write from a Buddhist perspective - an inquiry-based narrative grounded in my current understanding. As such, I may be making incorrect assumptions or misjudgments about what is unfolding.
I am also aware of the inherent contradiction in this stance. My roots are Sri Lankan. I lived through the violence of insurgencies and the brutal 30-year war between the Tamil separatist movement and the Sri Lankan government - conflict often framed through a Sinhala Buddhist narrative that stands in stark contrast to the principles of ahimsa (do no harm) and compassion.
Is it part of the human condition to forget these principles in times of perceived threat - real or imagined?
I am acutely aware of the root causes of the Sri Lankan conflict: the historical separation between Tamil and Sinhala communities, compounded by post-independence “Sinhala Only” policies that alienated minorities - Tamil, Muslim, Malay and Burgher communities. These policies eroded social inclusion and psychological safety, fracturing what could have been a unified, multicultural nation.
Having said that, I want to shift focus now - to us as earthlings facing a shared and dire situation. This is a moment that calls for all of us to engage, to reflect, and to speak - not as divided identities, but as fellow Homo sapiens, sharing the same air, sustained by the same earth.
Perhaps we can pause. Take a deep breath, say observe, and exhale.
In that pause, we may transcend the left hemisphere of our survival-driven brain - where fear narrows perception and drives self-righteous action - and allow the right hemisphere to open space for context, perspective, and deeper understanding.
What are we really fighting for?
Part of this inquiry is to ask a more fundamental question: what is it about the human mind that predisposes us toward violence at one end of the spectrum, and unconditional love at the other?
What allows us, at times, to access truth, beauty and goodness - and at other times, to abandon them?
While I acknowledge this neuroscience perspective - how the brain and body mobilize under stress - in this article I will focus primarily on the religious dimensions of the crisis, in an attempt to make some sense of what is unfolding.
Formative Years
This inquiry emerges from my formative years- spent among multiple cultures and religions coexisting in relative harmony. That place was a village on the outskirts of the hill capital of Kandy in Sri Lanka - Siyambalagastenne (also known as Weerakoon Gardens, named after the landowners of the village).
It was a Catholic neighborhood, enveloped by the 100-acre grounds of St. Anthony’s College, abutting the Mahaweli River; with St. Anthony’s Church at one end, the Carmelite Convent at the other and a Buddhist temple at the center - overlooking a scenic rice paddy field.
My parents were anglicized Sri Lankans, born as Buddhists, who strived to live according to the Five Precepts - grounded in ahimsa (do no harm to self and others) - and the Noble Eightfold Path (the Middle Path). This path combines mindful concentration with the cultivation of right understanding - recognizing the unsatisfactory and impermanent nature of life - while living ethically and virtuously.
At the same time, I was deeply influenced by my neighborhood - the “love thy neighbor” ethos - and by my education at St. Sylvester’s College and St. Anthony’s College. Both institutions were founded within the Roman Catholic monastic tradition, shaped by Franciscan and Benedictine influences.
Growing up in this catholic neighborhood, I came to appreciate the importance of community life and the schooling instilled focus and discipline. As a child who roamed freely through the village - my first ‘education’ - I was later confronted with rules and boundaries, often enforced with a cane, when I entered St. Sylvester’s College at age six.
Moving to St. Anthony’s College at age nine, I encountered an education shaped by spiritual and social formation. Looking back, it was a holistic education - imparted by caring priests and teachers - where structured discipline supported our moral and ethical development, balancing academics with character and shaping us to be responsible citizens of the world.
In parallel, I was increasingly exposed to Buddhist teachings. My parents were not ritualistic Buddhists who simply recited stanzas in temples - they lived the Dhamma. Central to this was a mindfulness-based, meditative and reflective practice grounded in affirming the Buddha, the Dhamma and the Sangha. Along the way, I was introduced to the foundational principles of Buddhism.
These teachings pointed me toward a practical path - one that sought to understand the human experience and reduce suffering. It was presented less as a system of belief or doctrine - unlike the “thou shalt not…” I often heard in Christian contexts, or the structured rules I observed in Islam. At the time, I found myself confused about Hinduism.
Through observation and deep inquiry into existence, the Buddha recognized that life includes stress, dissatisfaction, and suffering - expressed in pain, anxiety, restlessness, and a sense of never being fully satisfied. I began to see a distinction between Buddhism and Christianity - particularly in the emphasis on personal responsibility for one’s actions, governed by karma as a direct cause-and-effect relationship.
I was also taught that there was a way out of this cycle of suffering - through the Noble Eightfold Path.
The practice of mindfulness stood out to me, especially as a twelve-year-old - overactive, impulsive and emotional. I began to experience the benefits of paying attention to my mind, using the breath to steady it. It seemed to calm me.
This practice was not foreign to me. I had observed my father sitting in meditation - his quiet, calm demeanor, a reflection of that discipline. I rarely saw him angry. As I continued practicing into my teenage years, I began to understand its importance in governing my thoughts and emotions.
This became even more tangible in my martial arts training at age fifteen - the realization of the space between impulse and action and the importance of that space in bringing perspective, especially when my mind tended towards anxiety and fear.
As my understanding deepened, it became clear that suffering arises from how we cling - to the body and mind, to identity, to loved ones, to possessions - while knowing, at some level, that all of it is impermanent. In essence, craving (tanha) leads to suffering (dukkha) and clinging - to ideas, identities, and possessions - generates conflict both within and beyond the mind.
With this understanding, I sought to live ethically - continually training the mind to become freer, calmer and more compassionate, rather than endlessly searching for something beyond.
This orientation has helped me find relative contentment - to strive to live in the present moment as fully as possible, even within this modern techno-industrial-AI world, which often seems at odds with these teachings. The contradiction is not lost on me - especially having spent significant time in the Christian West.
While I was exposed to Christianity, Islam and Hinduism in Sri Lanka, I encountered Judaism for the first time as a teenager in Canada - through meeting Jewish people and beginning to understand their traditions and perspectives.
Jew–Bhu Monks
I had not initially realized the curious connection of many Jewish people being drawn to the Buddhist path. My first indirect exposure came early in life - I knew of Venerable Nyanaponika from about the age of six, only to later learn that he was a German Jew who had fled Germany in the 1930s as Adolf Hitler’s fascism was rising. He eventually settled in Sri Lanka, influenced by another German Jewish monk, Venerable Nyanatiloka, who had arrived there as early as 1910.
In my early twenties, living in Toronto, I experienced this connection more personally through a friendship with Bhikkhu Vannasaro - author of Wind Not Caught in the Net - a British-born Jew who had given up an affluent life in his twenties to become a monk.
Over time, I came to meet others like him. While only a minority of Jewish people have turned toward Buddhism, those who have - often referred to as “Jew-Bus” (Jewish Buddhists) - tend to be disproportionately visible. It appears to be shaped as much by cultural and historical affinity as by religion itself - though both clearly play a role.
Judaism carries a long tradition of questioning and debate - of textual study, interpretation, and intellectual rigor grounded in inquiry. It fosters a mindset that is comfortable asking “why?”, challenging assumptions, and engaging deeply with ideas. Buddhism invites a similar approach, as reflected in the Kalama Sutta, where the Buddha advises: do not believe something simply because you are told - test it through your own experience.
In that sense, many Jew-Bus I have encountered remain culturally or ethically Jewish, while adopting Buddhist practices - especially meditation - as a path of inner inquiry that aligns naturally with the Jewish habit of questioning.
This creates a unique synthesis:
Jewish - heritage, ethics and community;
Buddhist - practice, psychology and meditation.
There is also an ethical resonance between the two traditions. In Judaism, there is a strong emphasis on justice, responsibility and the repair of the world (tikkun olam). In Buddhism, the emphasis is on compassion, non-harming and awareness. Both traditions take human suffering seriously - though they frame and approach it in different ways.
World War III Looms - Judaism and Zionism
Given the current conflict - one that threatens to engulf the world - I find myself wanting to better understand the relationship between Judaism and Zionism, as it appears to be one of the drivers of what is unfolding.
Judaism is, at once, a religion - rooted in beliefs, laws and a covenant with God; a peoplehood- shaped by shared history, culture and ancestry and a broader civilizational identity.
Zionism, by contrast, is a modern political movement. It draws on ancient Jewish connections to the land, but it is not the same as Judaism itself. In fact, Jewish perspectives on Zionism have always been diverse.
At its core, Judaism is grounded in the idea of a covenant between the Jewish people and God - often associated with figures like Moses and the giving of the Torah. It carries a deep historical and spiritual connection to the Land of Israel.
Zionism, however, emerged in 19th-century Europe, most closely associated with Theodor Herzl. It was a response to rising antisemitism, the surge of nationalist movements and the desire for Jewish self-determination and safety. This movement ultimately culminated in the creation of Israel in 1948.[iii]
Zionism draws, in part, from religious narratives - the Babylonian exile and return, the centrality of Jerusalem, the idea of a Promised Land and a messianic hope of restoration. These themes, rooted in the Hebrew Bible, have been reinterpreted in political terms.
For supporters, Zionism represented both a solution to centuries of persecution and a fulfillment of historical longing. For others - both religious and secular Jews - there have been significant reservations. Some believe that a return to the land should not be forced before divine redemption. Others hold that Judaism is fundamentally a religion, not a nationality and that Jews should integrate within their home countries.
In that sense, Zionism sits at the intersection of history and politics - drawing selectively from religious themes while operating in a modern geopolitical framework.
What I find particularly complex - and at times confusing - is the intersection of Judaism, Zionism and evangelical Christianity, especially in the United States. This fusion of religion, politics and theology is difficult to fully grasp.
Christian Zionism refers to strands of evangelical Christianity that strongly support the State of Israel, believing that the modern return of Jews to the land fulfills biblical prophecy. This support is not merely theological - it is expressed politically, financially and at times militarily. The U.S. evangelical movement sits at the center of this dynamic.
This, in turn, appears to shape U.S. politics in profound ways. Christian Zionists represent a significant lobbying and voting bloc, advocating for pro-Israel policies and aligning American foreign policy with Israel’s interests - even when not all Jews agree with those policies.
There is, however, a deeper tension here. Traditional Judaism often views the covenant and any return to Israel as something unfolding through divine will - independent of non-Jewish frameworks. Christian Zionism, on the other hand, tends to interpret Jewish presence in Israel through an “end times” lens.
This creates a subtle but important unease: Jews can be positioned as “actors” within a Christian eschatological narrative - rather than as a people with their own independent agency and self-understanding.
This mix of political alliance and theological agenda complicates both Jewish identity and diplomatic positioning.
There are many paradoxes at play. While Jewish concerns often center on homeland, survival and self-determination, Christian Zionist perspectives are anchored in biblical prophecy.[iv]
Even where U.S. support for Israel is framed as strategic or political, the underlying theological influences raise questions about the balance between political leverage and true autonomy. At times, it can feel as though Jewish identity and destiny are being woven into a broader story that is not entirely their own.
All of this sits in my mind as a kind of quagmire - full of contradictions and unresolved tensions. Perhaps this confusion - combined with divided loyalties and a relatively superficial public understanding - creates fertile ground for more jingoistic approaches, often reinforced by the interests of the military-industrial complex.
In this context, while Christian Zionist movements in the United States provide strong political and financial support to Israel, their theological framing - seeing Jews as part of a prophetic narrative - may also complicate the relationship between Judaism, Zionism, and genuine Jewish self-determination.[v]
Abrahamic Faiths: Conflict, Coexistence, and Hope
I am trying to make sense of this in the context of a generational-long struggle among the Abrahamic religions. Why is it that these “siblings” - Judaism, Christianity and Islam - find themselves in recurring cycles of conflict, sometimes catastrophic, when they share such a deep common ancestry?
I approach this inquiry from a Buddhist perspective - through the lens of attachment, desire, and identification.
All three spiritual traditions trace their lineage to Abraham:
- Judaism → Isaac → Jacob → the tribes of Israel
- Christianity → emerging from Judaism, following the line of Abraham → Isaac → Jesus Christ (recognized as the Messiah)
- Islam → Ishmael → Muhammad, while also acknowledging Abraham and Jesus as prophets[vi]
Despite this shared origin, history shows that these traditions have repeatedly come into conflict - over land (Jerusalem and the Holy Land), over identity and legitimacy (who is the true covenantal community or final messenger), over resources, power and governance - and over differing interpretations of scripture and law.
From a Buddhist standpoint, this begins to make a certain kind of sense. As explored earlier, craving (tanha) leads to suffering (dukkha) and clinging - to ideas, identities and possessions - generates conflict.
When applied to Abrahamic conflicts, this becomes visible in several ways.
There is, first, the attachment to land and sacred sites - places like Jerusalem, Mecca, Hebron, and Bethlehem. These are not merely geographic locations; they carry immense symbolic and spiritual meaning. Over time, that symbolic value can become existential - something to be defended at all costs - fueling cycles of violence.
There is also the attachment to identity - the deeply held conviction of “We are God’s chosen” versus “We are the true community.” Religions, like individuals, can become attached to being “right.” In Buddhist terms, this is a form of ego-clinging - where suffering arises when identity feels threatened.
Layered onto this is history itself. The schisms, conflicts, and violence across generations have created what might be understood as a kind of “karmic chain” of collective suffering - where past actions, rooted in attachment, continue to shape present realities and future cycles, unless there is a shift in awareness.
This dynamic is further compounded by attachment to power. Political leaders have often used religious narratives to mobilize loyalty, justify conquest and maintain control. What begins as individual attachment becomes collective, then institutionalized - interwoven with political, social and economic systems.
At that level, greed and power begin to reinforce each other. Profit becomes a driver, morphing into economic power within systems where entities - such as limited liability corporations - can exert significant influence over political processes through lobbying and financial contributions. Those elected to represent the people can, over time, become more aligned with corporate interests than with the citizens they serve.
As we witness the current conflict, the stakes feel existential.
Nuclear weapons, terrorism and geopolitical rivalries now threaten not just regions, but planetary survival. Each side increasingly perceives the other as an existential threat - intensifying attachment to territory, belief and identity.
From a Buddhist point of view, when attachment fuses with collective identity and fear, suffering does not just persist - it escalates, often beyond comprehension.
A Buddhist Path to Understanding (and Compassion)
I approach these principles not as a religious prescription, but as a psychological practice - a way to understand the mind, its tendencies and how attachment and fear shape human behavior -offering humble possibilities to navigate and overcome the current quagmire.
1. Recognize shared humanity – All three traditions are teaching systems aimed at addressing human suffering. Different paths, yet with a common origin.
2. See attachment clearly – Observe how ego, identity, land, and belief become triggers for conflict.
3. Practice compassion – Even our so-called enemies are beings clinging to craving, ignorance and fear, suffering just as we do.
4. Let go of fixed ideas – This does not mean passivity. It means reducing the mental attachment that fuels cycles of retaliation and prolongs suffering.
5. Engage wisely – Work toward peace and understanding, rather than insisting “we are right, they are wrong.”
The wars among Abrahamic siblings are not merely political - they seem to be the fruits of collective attachment, fear and ego. Just as an individual suffers when clinging to desires, societies suffer when clinging to land, beliefs and identity.
Conflict is predictable when attachment remains unexamined. True peace - whether personal or societal - is possible only when suffering is understood and attachments are loosened.
A Practical Reflection for Leaders and Observers
While many participants in conflict may believe they are defending God or justice - a battle often seen as noble - there is another possibility. If we can reduce attachment to being “right” and cultivate wisdom and compassion, could the current war transform toward peace?
A strategy for peace begins with inner clarity and purpose grounded in what is truly human: empathy, compassion, and altruism. These qualities create the space for forgiveness, understanding, and the possibility of reconciliation.
The concept of Baraka fits beautifully into this reflection because it offers a spiritual and ethical lens capable of unifying insights from Buddhism, the Abrahamic traditions and the urgent need for wise, transformative action.
What is Baraka?
Baraka is an Arabic term often translated as “blessing,” but its meaning runs deeper than simple good fortune:
- It is a divine presence or flow of grace that inspires growth, wisdom and positive transformation.
- It is not merely personal luck; it can be felt, cultivated and shared with others.
- In Islamic thought, Baraka is linked to spiritual centers, righteous actions and people or places of holiness.
- In Judaism, Baraka can be seen as divine favor or blessing that flows from living ethically, fulfilling mitzvot (commandments) and engaging in acts of justice and kindness. It is connected to covenantal relationship with God, community and the sacredness of life.
- In Christianity, Baraka resonates with the concept of grace - God’s favor and presence that transforms hearts, inspires virtuous living, and fosters love, mercy, and service toward others.
Jerusalem as a Spiritual Pivot
Jerusalem occupies a unique position as a spiritual nexus, sacred to Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike. Its long history of devotion - and conflict - makes it both a flashpoint and a source of inspiration.
If ego and the desire for land and power dominate, the city remains a source of suffering. Yet, if approached mindfully, Jerusalem’s sacred presence can inspire prayers, pilgrimage, and meditation, offering vast potential for transformative peace among the Abrahamic siblings.
The Bahá’í faith, emerging in the 19th century as a religion of unity, also deeply honors Jerusalem and emphasizes the oneness of humanity. Its teachings reinforce the possibility of reconciliation, interfaith harmony and ethical action across boundaries - reminding us that even in a region scarred by centuries of conflict, there are spiritual pathways toward collective flourishing.
From a Baraka perspective, Jerusalem can be seen as a wellspring of blessing - flowing when human activity aligns with wisdom, compassion, and ethical action.
Spiritual Integrity
- Focus on inner purification: mindfulness, ethical conduct, compassionate intention.
- Leaders, diplomats, and religious figures embody and model this integrity.
Wise Action
- Decision-making guided by long-term benefit, not short-term gain or revenge.
- Policies, education, and diplomacy serve as vehicles for Baraka.
Shared Blessing
- Interfaith engagement recognizing Jerusalem as a spiritual center for all humanity.
- Projects that promote life, learning, and coexistence, rather than domination.
Ripple Effect
- Just as Baraka flows from a righteous person or act, peaceful initiatives in Jerusalem can radiate globally.
- Attachment transforms into generosity, fear into courage, and division into dialogue.
Why This Is Profound
Approaching the crises of our time through a Buddhist lens reminds us that much of human conflict - individual or collective - arises from attachment, fear, and unexamined ego. Mindful awareness of these patterns, even amid the most complex struggles, opens space for reflection, compassion and wise action.
Jerusalem - sacred to Jews, Christians, Muslims, and deeply honored in the Bahá’í faith as a religion of unity - offers a rare opportunity to translate inner clarity into outer transformation. Seen as a wellspring of Baraka - divine blessing, grace and ethical potential - it can inspire leaders and communities to align actions with awareness, compassion and responsibility.
For me, this reflection is personal. Growing up amidst multiple faiths in Sri Lanka, practicing mindfulness and witnessing both human suffering and resilience has shown that ethical intention and inner awareness shape how we respond to conflict.
My encounters with Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Bahá’í and Buddhist practitioners and my engagement with peace initiatives in Jerusalem, bring this vision of possibility from philosophy into lived experience.
From this alignment, Jerusalem can become a center where centuries of attachment-driven conflict are softened and transformed, radiating coexistence, wisdom and compassion for the world. It is a humble hope - not ideological or superior, but a simple human wish: that insight, ethical action and care for one another guide us away from destruction and toward shared flourishing.
May there be the wisdom to find a path away from war. May we avoid World War III. May we avoid nuclear annihilation. May all beings be well and happy.
[i] https://thebulletin.org/doomsday-clock/
[ii] https://channelmcgilchrist.com/home/
[iii] https://israeled.org/topic/zionism-and-other-jewish-history/
[v] Controversy Over "Damaging Ideology": In January 2026, the Patriarchs and Heads of Churches in Jerusalem issued a joint statement warning that "Christian Zionism" is a "damaging ideology" that sows confusion and harms the unity of their flock
[vi] https://www.britannica.com/topic/Abrahamic-religions
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