Content
INTRODUCTION: Surrounded by Conflict
PART I: THE TANGO OF CONFLICT AND COLLABORATION
CHAPTER 1: Elevating Out of Conflict
CHAPTER 2: Is It Possible My Understanding Is Flawed?
LOVING CONFLICT PRACTICE: The Pause That Changes Everything
PART II: THE FIVE PRINCIPLES OF LOVING CONFLICT
PRINCIPLE 1: Engage with Presence
STEP 1: Let’s Get Real
STEP 2: You Are In Charge Of You
STEP 3: Have a Cup of Tea
LOVING CONFLICT PRACTICE: Keeping Present During Conflict
PRINCIPLE 2: Assume Nothing
STEP 1: There Is Enough
STEP 2: Notice It, Name It, Express It
STEP 3: We Are All Doing Our Best
LOVING CONFLICT PRACTICE: Question Your Assumptions to Truly See Others
PRINCIPLE 3: Listen to Understand
STEP 1: Start with Awareness
STEP 2: Don’t Just Listen—Hear
STEP 3: No Solutions Required
LOVING CONFLICT PRACTICE: Listen to Understand, Not to Respond
PRINCIPLE 4: The Art of Questioning
STEP 1: Be Deliberate
STEP 2: Ask the Interested Question
STEP 3: Question Together
LOVING CONFLICT PRACTICE: Ask from Curiosity, Not Certainty
PRINCIPLE 5: The Rule of Us
STEP 1: Pop the Bubble
STEP 2: Let’s Play
STEP 3: It’s Okay to Share
LOVING CONFLICT PRACTICE: See “Us” Instead of “Them”
PART III: WHEN CONFLICT BECOMES COLLABORATION
CHAPTER 3: Finding Our Shared Humanity
CHAPTER 4: Developing the Skills of Loving Conflict
EPILOGUE: Tango as a Mirror: Lessons in Conflict, Collaboration, and Freedom
FURTHER READING
Introduction: Surrounded by Conflict
Anya was born to a Jewish family living in what was then Soviet Ukraine. It was the late seventies, and life had brought many challenges for her parents. Russian culture had been imposed, and members of ethnic minorities like Anya’s parents often faced pressures to conform. Resources were scarce and anti-Semitism was quietly present in both state policies and in society itself.
As Ukrainian Jews, Anya’s parents experienced a unique mix of cultural assimilation and discrimination. Russian culture and language were deeply entrenched in schools, workplaces, and public life, making it difficult for them to openly express their Ukrainian identity or Jewish traditions. While speaking Ukrainian or practicing Jewish customs wasn’t outright forbidden, it was certainly not encouraged, as the Soviet state prioritized a Russian-centric identity. Anti-Semitism added another layer to their lives. Jewish people often encountered barriers in housing, education, and employment.
Anya grew up knowing what it meant to wait. She remembers standing with her mother in endless lines, holding her hand tight while they waited for milk, for bread, for whatever was available that day. Even as a small child, she understood there were things you said out loud and things you kept to yourself. The world beyond their borders felt like something from a fairy tale, unreachable and mysterious.
While this environment made it challenging to fully embrace their Ukrainian-Jewish heritage, her parents found ways to preserve their identity in the privacy of their home. They passed down their culture, history, and traditions, quietly maintaining their heritage despite the subtle pressures around them. They found quiet ways to keep their sanity and joy alive and vibrant.
Anya became part of a rich communal and cultural life due to the conscious efforts of her parents. They, with their large group of friends, artists, musicians, writers, and university professors, organized parties every weekend. Anya grew up hearing the sounds of a guitar, people singing and harmonizing, grown-ups reading poetry in the midst of laughter and friendly joking, and dancing would last all night long.
Anya was told she was beautiful. Her mom, Svetlana, somehow intuitively understood the importance of self-love and self-confidence, and fed it to Anya in generous portions daily.
Anya’s father, Kim, sprinkled humor everywhere he went as a way of coping with the very unsettled and difficult life he was dealt. He would often teach his children, “Question everything and everyone. Don’t follow the status quo. Especially don’t follow the crowd.”
This type of thinking was actually dangerous at the time. It was not wise to stand out, to question the government. Yet Anya’s parents did. They read forbidden books, listened to music that was not approved by the authorities, discussed the history of religions and philosophies, and even became entrepreneurs before it was allowed for people to do so.
So, in spite of her surroundings, Anya grew up with an understanding of open-mindedness, ideas about freedom of expression, and the notion of radical questioning as her normal.
But when she was sent to kindergarten at the age of four, imagine her disbelief when every morning started the same way. The school director had all the kids line up. She then said, “Children, let’s all answer this very important question in one voice: Who is the biggest, most horrible villain in the world?”
And all fifty kids would chant loudly: “Ronald Reagan! Ronald Reagan!”
Anya was mortified. First of all, she knew there was no way she was joining in. At just four years old, she was not sure why, yet she knew that what they were doing was wrong.
And she had lots of questions: “Who is Ronald Reagan? Why is he the most horrible villain in the world? Where does he live? Can I go meet him?” No one at the kindergarten wanted to answer her questions. She felt alone with her queries and sensed she didn’t quite belong with the rest of the kids who were happy to join in with the chanting.
Yet, her natural curiosity, friendliness, and warm heart tugged at her to connect with the others in spite of how she felt. To connect with the people who saw her as someone other and different from them. Even at that early age, thanks to the love she received at home, it was intuitive for her to think, “I can learn a great deal from people who are different from me. And I can influence people’s judgments by showing them who I am.”
So when six-year-old Anya woke up excited for her first day of primary school, she carried all of this with her: the music from those weekend gatherings, the laughter, the absolute certainty that she was loved exactly as she was. She had no idea her parents were about to ask her to hide the thing that made her most proud. It came as a surprise, then, when they sat her down right before leaving their home that day and said: “Anya, please, no matter what happens at school, do not tell anyone we are Jewish. It will be dangerous for us if people know that.”
Anya was confused, disappointed, and angry. “Why do I have to hide who I am? And are you telling me to actually lie?”
When it was her turn to get up in front of the full class and her teacher to introduce herself, Anya was petrified, shaking, and yet determined. She did what her father taught her so well. She questioned what he had told her to do.
She stood up and said, “Hello! My name is Anya, and I am Jewish!” Everyone heard her shaky yet passionate voice, and they saw her face turning bright red as she saw the shocked expressions on the faces of the teacher and her classmates. No one had ever spoken with such uncontested, shameless pride.
But her bravery had consequences, putting her front and center in the conflicts that were embedded in the culture at the time. Being the only openly Jewish child in that school meant becoming a target. The teasing came in all forms. Sometimes whispers, sometimes shouts. Jokes that weren’t really jokes. The kind of cruelty that children learn from the adults around them without even knowing it. Even when people said things that were supposed to be “harmless,” Anya was still hurt by the comments. There were many moments of exclusion, like being left out of games during recess or not being included in group activities or social gatherings. She was often perceived as different, and her best friend would often say to her, “I hate all the Jews, but you are okay.”
Over time, Anya became “my Jewish friend” for many. She invited her friends to her house and exposed them to her family culture. Her friends got to explore the huge library that her parents had assembled over the years. They stayed for hours listening to her father tell them stories about the world or Greek myths or the history of arts, or they’d simply discuss the books they were reading and he’d offer his wise and often witty perspective. They were invited to the lively family gatherings.
Anya’s parents treated everyone equally and always had their house and their dining table open to visitors, so there were always interesting people around ready to talk to the children or help them with their homework or even matters of the heart that might be bothering them. Anya’s friends also got to witness the strong, nurturing bonds that existed between the generations of her family, with both her parents being close to their parents, and with the grandparents being an active part of the family life. Step by step, her friends went from “I hate all the Jews, but you are okay” to “We just love spending time with you and your family, we learn so much here” and ultimately to “I am sorry for what I said about you in the past. I love and respect you.”
I am Anya. That little girl was me.
I often reflect on how those early days as part of a persecuted minority shaped my life. I could have, like every other Jewish child in my elementary school, listened to my parents and stayed below the radar. And what if I had done that? What if I had not chosen to step into the conflict, to try to connect with children who were raised so differently from me? I can barely imagine how much poorer my life would have been. Throughout my life, I’ve seen how every divide can be reframed as an invitation to learn something essential. Personal divides, professional ones, cultural differences. All of them. And that’s why I’ve learned to love conflict. Not violence. Not war. Not aggression. Rather the conflict in hard conversations. The tension. The moments most people run away from. Because conflict is where real collaboration begins.
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