Bridging Divides

Jamal’s hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his tie in the rearview mirror. The town hall sign loomed above the brick building like a warning: Tonight—Community Voices: An Open Forum on Immigration and Identity.

He wasn’t sure why he came. Maybe because he was tired of only shouting into digital voids. Maybe because, somewhere deep down, he wanted to believe change could happen face-to-face.

Inside, rows of plastic chairs filled slowly. An older man in a camo jacket took a seat in the front row. A woman with a “No Borders, No Nations” pin sat three seats over, arms folded. People avoided eye contact. Tension lingered in the stale air.

At 6:00 sharp, the moderator stepped up to the mic. “Tonight is about listening. You don’t have to agree. Just hear each other. That’s where healing starts.”

Jamal doubted that. Still, he stayed.

People took turns—some trembling, others trembling with rage. A shop owner complained about jobs lost. A young student cried about ICE raids. The room became a patchwork of hurt, fear, and frustration.

Then the older man in the camo jacket stood.

“My name’s Rick. I was raised here. My dad worked at the mill till it shut down. I ain’t a racist. But I don’t get why everything has to change so fast. Feels like I woke up one day and didn’t recognize my own town.”

He sat down slowly. People shifted uncomfortably.

Jamal stood next.

“My name’s Jamal. I teach history at the high school. My parents immigrated from Sudan when I was a baby. I grew up with posters of Martin Luther King and baseball cards on my wall. I eat peanut butter sandwiches and celebrate Eid.”

Some laughter broke the tension.

“I get it, Rick,” he continued, turning toward him. “I’ve felt like a stranger too. Not just here, but sometimes even in my own skin. But I also know—change isn’t always erasure. Sometimes, it’s evolution.”

Rick blinked. For a second, something softened in his face.

Jamal stepped down.

After the forum, people mingled awkwardly. Most left quickly. But Jamal lingered, packing up pamphlets.

Rick approached, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“You said you teach history?”

Jamal nodded.

“Bet you know a lot about wars.”

“I teach more about peace, actually.”

Rick gave a small chuckle. “Maybe that’s what I need.”

They sat. Talked. About the factory days. About Jamal’s students. About a country both claimed, but in different dialects.

They didn’t agree on everything. Not even close. But they heard each other.

Weeks passed. Then months. Jamal invited Rick to speak to his class about the town’s blue-collar roots. Rick came, nervous but honest. In return, Jamal visited Rick’s local VFW, sharing stories of Sudanese heritage, of faith and fear and first-generation pride.

They became, to everyone’s surprise, friends.

One spring day, Rick showed up to Jamal’s class wearing a freshly ironed shirt and holding a dusty photo album. “Thought the kids might want to see what Main Street looked like in ’78.”

Jamal grinned. “Only if you let me show them what Khartoum looked like in ’94.”

They laughed, and the students watched—not just a lesson in history, but in humanity.




By the end of the year, the town held a second forum. This time, the chairs filled faster. Voices were still raw, but now, mingled with hope.

Jamal and Rick sat side by side on the panel.

When asked what had changed, Rick answered, “I stopped seeing people as threats and started seeing stories.”

And Jamal added, “We don’t need to think the same to walk the same road.”

The applause was quiet but full. Like a bridge being built, one brick at a time