The second anniversary of Russia’s war in Ukraine comes, ironically, on a long holiday weekend.

But there is unlikely to be any celebration of the anniversary within Russia, or even much discussion about it. Most families will instead be marking the traditional Defender of the Fatherland Day, the Russian equivalent of Father’s Day, which falls the day before.

Indeed, the few Western visitors to Moscow these days – such as former Fox News personality Tucker Carlson recently – invariably voice surprise at the outward dearth of hardship in a country so deep into a major war and the accompanying barrage of sanctions, the most severe in history.

But beneath the surface, a deep transition in the economy, the political system, social relations, and public mood is clearly underway.

The signs of change most watched – and fretted over – include Russia’s ability to ramp up its war production to meet battlefield needs in a grueling war, and the expanding wave of repression of anyone who disparages Russia’s war effort or appears to sympathize with the enemy.

The prison death last week of Alexei Navalny, perhaps President Vladimir Putin’s most inveterate critic, underscores a continuing reality that has many precedents in Mr. Putin’s Russia: Opponents of the Kremlin often meet terrible extralegal ends that go far beyond the limits of mere repression.

Reuters

People lay flowers at the Wall of Grief monument to the victims of political repressions to honor the memory of Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny in Moscow, Feb. 17, 2024.

Little room for debate

Socially, the country appears in deep freeze. There is little public discussion of the most burning issue of the day – the war – and efforts by public opinion scientists to quantify peoples’ moods are fraught with ambiguity. Outside of official publicity, there is little enthusiasm for the war effort, but neither does there seem to be much overt opposition. Many people express themselves in a language of angst, doubt, fear, and uncertainty, but avoid talking about specifics.

“When the war suddenly started, there was shock and disbelief,” says Nadia Titova, who works as a journalist’s field assistant. “Then there were emotions of fear and anger, along with the hope that it would all end soon. Now it’s more apathy, a desire to distance oneself, emigrate into one’s own inner life. You try to stay afloat. Navalny’s death made it worse; he had been out of mind, and suddenly he was back in the most terrible way.”

Mr. Navalny’s death has demoralized many, not because he headed a powerful mass movement – he didn’t – but because even people who didn’t think of him as a potential president saw him as a brave and honest critic who represented hope for building a better country, says Masha Lipman, co-editor of the Russia Post, a journal of Russian affairs published by George Washington University.

“Navalny was unique in many ways,” she says. “He was the only one pushing people toward overcoming their apathy and building a real organization. People appreciated and admired him for his anti-corruption work, but he was not able to build anything lasting. Perhaps if he’d been allowed to act unrestrained, he would have become the leader of a proper political party. But that did not happen.”

The current presidential elections will not offer even a semblance of competition to Mr. Putin, much less give a limited stage to any critical opponent as past elections sometimes did. The only anti-war candidate, Boris Nadezhdin, was blocked from participating by election authorities earlier this month, which means that even the constrained space for public debate that previously existed has shrunk drastically.

“It will not be an election, but basically a plebiscite on loyalty to Putin,” says Ms. Lipman. “People are now denied even the most limited expression of criticism.”

Maxim Shemetov/Reuters

A man walks past a campaign poster supporting incumbent President Vladimir Putin, who is a candidate in the March 2024 presidential election, in Salekhard, Russia, Feb. 22, 2024.

Public opinion polls show that declared support for the war is little changed over two years, at around 70%, while those opposed are about 20%. The approval rating of Mr. Putin has experienced few ups and downs over the past year and now stands at a healthy 85%.

“Russia and Russians have an exceptional ability to adjust to difficult circumstances and a willingness to cling to the status quo, even if it’s a sliding one,” says Ms. Lipman. “The war has affected many people, perhaps most, in a variety of ways. But there is still a possibility for those who don’t want to think about the war to turn their backs on it. Not thinking about it isn’t the same as not knowing, of course, but people can still do that.”

Reshaping the war economy

One of the biggest surprises for many Western observers has been Russia’s ability to reconstitute the old Soviet military-industrial complex in order to equip and field its armies and prosecute a long, materials-intensive war.

Moscow has not accomplished that by using old Soviet methods of central planning and economic command, but through a market-oriented method of profitable state orders to private industry that resembles the “military Keynesianism” that’s familiar in the United States. The Russian army has attracted thousands of recruits by offering high salaries, and generous benefits to the families of those who are killed and wounded. One long-term consequence of this, experts suggest, is that it creates new constituencies for war, both in business and in society.

Mikhail Chernysh, an expert at the official Institute of Sociology in Moscow, says that despite initial shock when the war started, many people have processed it and accepted it as a reality. “There is a feeling that ‘we’re in it, so we have to win it,’ that seems the predominant mood,” he says.

“Some people even see it as an opportunity. The war revealed many flaws and weaknesses in our army, our economy, and our lives that we have been forced to correct. We now have to produce many things for ourselves that formerly we just imported,” he says. “However this war ends, it will change social relations. People who have proven vital to the country, in defense, in industry, and other activities will grow in social status and respect. There will be no returning to the past.”

Nate Leupp ticks off his years of service to the Republican Party: One term running South Carolina’s Upstate Young Republicans. Two terms as chair of the Greenville County GOP, the largest Republican group in the state. He volunteered for former President Donald Trump’s campaign and served as a national delegate for him at both the 2016 and 2020 conventions.

“And they call me a RINO?” snorts Mr. Leupp, who runs a Christian music production studio just 3 miles from the new Greenville GOP headquarters – a place where he no longer feels welcome. 

As Mr. Leupp sees it, the Greenville GOP has undergone something of a hostile takeover. After former President Trump lost reelection in 2020, a group of MAGA-aligned activists here – many previously unknown to local Republican leaders – began organizing under the name mySCGOP. They pushed out long-standing party officials who they claimed were insufficiently loyal to Mr. Trump. They even changed the party logo, adding Mr. Trump’s infamous golden hair to the Greenville GOP’s red-and-blue elephant. 

“These people ... had no credentials whatsoever,” says Mr. Leupp, who’s incredulous that he’s the one being labeled a “Republican in name only.” “Now we have a lot of people in the Greenville County Republicans who refuse to say they are Republican. They say, ‘I’m MAGA; I’m not a Republican.’”

He adds, “Greenville is just a microcosm of what Trump did nationwide.”

Story Hinckley/The Christian Science Monitor

“Greenville is just a microcosm of what Trump did nationwide," says Nate Leupp, former chair of the Greenville County GOP, who now runs the Fourth District Republican Club.

It’s a dynamic that’s playing out across the United States, as Trump loyalists, many of whom were previously uninvolved in politics and not necessarily even registered Republicans, have taken over the GOP infrastructure at the county, state, and even national levels. Supporters say they’re remaking party organizations to better reflect the wishes of the voters and are finally giving the former president and current front-runner the institutional support he deserves.

But to critics, the overt fidelity to one candidate – as demonstrated through canceled primaries and the suppression of intraparty dissent – is inappropriate and verges on undemocratic. Some worry it will divert resources away from down-ballot candidates who may not be closely allied with Mr. Trump. And they say the purge of experienced operatives could hurt the GOP’s long-term viability, impacting crucial duties like fundraising, candidate recruitment, and get-out-the-vote efforts.

Bitter infighting has broken out in places like Greenville and South Carolina’s Horry County. In Michigan, new state GOP Chair Kristina Karamo, an outspoken denier of the 2020 election results, was forced from her post in January after significant fundraising woes and altercations. She is now suing to regain her seat.

Likewise, scandals and ideological disagreements have weakened the GOP apparatus in other states that could decide the 2024 presidential election – including Georgia, Florida, Nevada, and Arizona. Last year, the Arizona GOP chair reportedly asked the national party for a financial bailout after running up legal bills in election fraud cases, and records suggest the Michigan GOP is hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. 

At the national level, Ronna McDaniel, chairwoman of the Republican National Committee, is reportedly preparing to step down, following months of tension between her and Mr. Trump – a rare midcycle departure. In her place, Mr. Trump has endorsed his daughter-in-law, Lara Trump, and his senior campaign adviser Chris LaCivita to help lead the RNC. Recently, Ms. Trump said she believed Republican voters would like to see the RNC pay Mr. Trump’s legal fees.

Evelyn Hockstein/Reuters

Lara Trump, former President Donald Trump's daughter-in-law, hosts a "Team Trump" event ahead of the South Carolina Republican primary, in Beaufort, Feb. 21, 2024.

“What we’ve been doing here in South Carolina is kind of a mini version of what’s happening at the RNC. We’re trying to take back the party and put into leadership people who are MAGA, ‘America First’ supporters,” says Jeff Davis, one of the leaders of the mySCGOP movement and the current state executive committeeman for the Greenville County GOP. “This is the new Republican Party. It’s coming.”  

“Parties don’t endorse”

On the campaign trail in South Carolina this past weekend, Nikki Haley, Mr. Trump’s only remaining major challenger for the GOP nomination, called the prospect of a Trump-allied RNC bad for democracy, saying, “We don’t anoint kings in America.”

Others compare it to letting one competitor hand-pick new referees in the middle of the game.

“The nominee – once they become the nominee – has the right to put their imprint on the RNC,” says Henry Barbour, an RNC committeeman from Mississippi. “[But] I think this effort is premature. Nikki Haley is still in the race.”

Yet in many states, the primaries’ outcome has been treated as a foregone conclusion. State parties in Florida, Ohio, Colorado, Arizona, and Georgia – none of which have held primary elections yet – have already signaled their support for Mr. Trump’s nomination. 

“Parties don’t endorse,” says Oscar Brock, a committee member from Tennessee. “They have their right to be supportive of Trump, but they don’t have a right to use the state party to support one candidate.”

At a recent Greenville GOP “Coffee and Politics” event, roughly 40 people gather over doughnuts and biscuits with gravy, beneath a handwritten sign that reads, “You have to be politically feared to be politically respected.”

Toward the end of the meeting, one member, Terry Wicker, reminds everyone that they will be getting some yard signs for Ms. Haley, the state’s former governor.

“If anyone is interested,” she explains, before quickly adding, “I think everybody here wants Trump. But just, you know – we’re being fair.”

“You’re being watched if you pick up a Nikki Haley sign,” someone says, as the room erupts in laughter.

“You can take a Nikki sign and put ‘never’ on it,” says an older woman in the back. More laughs.

As the merriment dies down, someone asks Ms. Wicker to remind the room about an upcoming Trump door-knocking event. 

A ground-up effort bears fruit 

Mr. Davis, the Greenville GOP’s state executive committeeman, was once active in the local tea party group. But after going to bed on election night in 2020, when Mr. Trump appeared to be winning, and then waking up the next morning to find Joe Biden ahead, he says he realized the importance of getting more Trump supporters into the party infrastructure.

Story Hinckley/The Christian Science Monitor

Yvonne Julian, the current chair of the Greenville GOP in South Carolina, says the county party's previous leaders weren't prepared for the grassroots activism spurred by former President Donald Trump's loss in 2020.

He and a group of like-minded activists formed mySCGOP, initially focusing their efforts on electing MAGA Republicans to lead Greenville County’s 151 voting precincts. In years past, Mr. Davis says, as many as half of these entry-level seats went unfilled. 

“The only way to replace people at the county, state, and ultimately at the national level – and this is where Trump is helping us from the top down – is a numbers game,” says Mr. Davis. “Technically the RNC is supposed to be a bottom-up organization, but they make the rules so complicated. ... They wanted to keep it small to control it all.” 

They started growing their group, through Facebook and a website, and knocking on doors. People “were looking for an outlet,” says Mr. Davis. Ultimately, mySCGOP candidates won leadership positions in a majority of the 151 precincts.

A few months later, when the top three elected leaders of the Greenville GOP resigned, citing continual lawsuits and threats from mySCGOP members, it was those newly elected mySCGOP precinct leaders who got to pick their replacements – one of whom wound up being Mr. Davis.

“People that had traditionally held power very easily had never been challenged,” says Yvonne Julian, the new chair of the Greenville GOP, who says the first time she voted for a Republican was for Mr. Trump in 2016. “They were a little bit blind to what was happening, to the power of the whole Trump movement. ... I tell a lot of them, ‘If you had done a better job, I would not be here.’”

Still, some longtime party members say what’s happening is more than just healthy grassroots activism. They say there’s a kind of burn-the-place-down attitude that threatens to destroy some of these institutions entirely. In Greenville over the past two years, there have been screaming matches, salacious accusations, and lawsuits. The cops have even been called. Twice.

Story Hinckley/The Christian Science Monitor

Karen Eachus left her post as secretary of the Greenville County GOP because she was tired of the infighting. She is now a member of the Fourth District Republican Club, and says she wants the traditional Republican Party to survive.

“They would like to see every person they consider a RINO who is in elected office replaced,” says Karen Eachus, a retired film script supervisor who was born and raised in Greenville, and who recently resigned as secretary of the Greenville GOP.

“They will tell you they support the Republican platform,” says Ms. Eachus. “And yet actions speak differently.”

Last year, South Carolina’s state party, whose chair has called mySCGOP “a fringe, rogue group,” formally took over Greenville’s county convention. And Mr. Davis has been banned from attending the state GOP’s quarterly meetings – a central duty in his role as Greenville’s state executive committeeman – because of “disruptive behavior.” 

More recently, at the urging of several local Republicans, Mr. Leupp started the Fourth District Republican Club – essentially a shadow county party, with hundreds of former Greenville GOP members, including Ms. Eachus – that now conducts much of the business of the traditional county party, such as helping the state GOP run local elections.

“When Trump’s out of the picture, which inevitably will happen, what are they left with?” asks Mr. Leupp. “I’m going to be here doing Republican things long after the radicals down the street are. Because what they don’t understand is the Republican Party is not just about one office. It’s not just about Trump.” 

Mark Schiefelbein/Reuters

U.S. Secretary of State Antony Blinken boards a plane at King Khalid International Airport in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.

“This war is different.”

Those words, from a column I wrote barely a week after Hamas’ assault Oct. 7, which included the abduction and killing of Israeli civilians, have sadly been borne out during months of terrible violence and humanitarian suffering in Gaza.

Yet with the United States now intensifying efforts to secure not only a cease-fire and a hostage release, but also a historic Mideast peace framework involving Israel, Saudi Arabia, and the Palestinian territories, it is becoming clear that this diplomatic challenge is fundamentally different, too.

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has flatly rejected the U.S. plan, saying it would reward Hamas. But even if he were persuaded to change his mind, that would not be sufficient.

U.S. President Joe Biden will need to find a way to win over the Israeli public.

And that’s because of one aspect, in particular, that has made this war different.

A kind of collective trauma from Oct. 7 has gripped Israelis of all political stripes. Even longtime supporters of a two-state peace, and opponents of Mr. Netanyahu, appear unready – or unable – to look beyond their own pain, the fate of the hostages still in Gaza, and the need to hit back hard in response to the Hamas attack.

In these circumstances, Washington’s main task will not be persuading ordinary Israelis to embrace its diplomatic vision; it will be getting them even to listen.

That’s because Oct. 7 was different from anything Israelis had experienced since the 1948 war that followed the creation of their state.

It unmoored them from core assumptions about their country and themselves: the sense that Israel was strong, protected by an advanced military and security apparatus, and able to coexist, if not make formal peace, with enemies and rivals in their neighborhood.

And that they were safe in their own homes.

Israeli prime ministers have had to reckon in past wars with pressure not only from the outside world, but also from within.

Saris/AP/File

Israeli armored personnel carriers rumble through West Beirut in 1982, during the last of Israel's wars to be halted by hostile Israeli public opinion.

In the conflict most similar in scale and devastation to the war in Gaza, Israel’s 1982 invasion of Lebanon and siege of Beirut, then-U.S. President Ronald Reagan sought to rein in the Israelis no less assertively than Mr. Biden is attempting to do with Mr. Netanyahu.

But ultimately, the people of Israel played a key role in ending that war, with unprecedentedly large popular protests after the massacre of Palestinians in Beirut’s refugee camps by Israeli-allied Lebanese militia.

So far, at least, the mood surrounding the Israel-Hamas war has been strikingly different.

There has been some grassroots pushback, even pressure on Mr. Netanyahu. But it has focused on the welfare of the hostages still held in Gaza, and it is being driven by their agonized families and friends.

There’s been barely a mention of the plight of civilians in Gaza, beyond some Israeli human rights activists and a very few politicians.

Even left-of-center political figures have avoided mentioning, much less promoting, the idea of a two-state solution once the fighting is finally over, and the mood of the country is far from favoring reconciliation. Israel’s music scene, too, has reflected that mood in a string of angry rap hits that one Israeli paper described this week as a post-Oct. 7 “soundtrack” of rage and resilience.

This has all given Mr. Netanyahu little incentive to soften his opposition to the U.S. initiative. The question for Washington is when, and whether, the popular mood and the political environment might begin to change.

While any early, wholesale shift in attitude seems out of the question, the weeks ahead may bring some signs of movement.

Much will depend on the war itself, especially now that significant numbers of reservists deployed to Gaza after Oct. 7 have been rotated out. Their testimony could feed growing doubts about whether Mr. Netanyahu’s promised “total victory” over Hamas is achievable.

If Israel shrugs off U.S. and international opposition to a full-scale military operation in the southern Gaza city of Rafah without protecting the hundreds of thousands of civilians there, Israelis may begin to question the conduct of the war.

Ronen Zvulun/Reuters

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu is resisting U.S. plans to build a regional peace deal on a cease-fire in Gaza.

The prospect of progress toward Washington’s goal of a regional postwar deal looks more remote.

But again, not impossible.

Partly, it may come down to Mr. Biden’s ability to convince Mr. Netanyahu that such an accord would benefit not just Israel, but also his own political fortunes: It would bring a long-sought peace with Saudi Arabia, the most influential country in the Arab and Islamic world.

Ultimately, though, the make-or-break factor could prove to be Mr. Biden’s ability to bring a critical mass of ordinary Israelis on board. And there, the outlook is not hopelessly dark.

A powerful essay last month by a top Israeli polling expert argued that only strong political leadership could break through her country’s current sense of “trauma and suffering.”

She had in mind Israeli political leaders.

But the politician for whom pollsters have found the most support after Oct. 7 is not Israeli.

He is the American who embraced Israelis, met with hostage families, and, despite political pressures at home and abroad, has broadly stuck with Israel.

He is Joe Biden.

Joseph was studying law in Myanmar’s northwestern city of Sagaing when the military’s 2021 coup plunged the country into war.

The teenage law student – who like many in Myanmar has only one name – fled on foot to India with his parents, hoping to resume his mother’s cancer treatment across the border. But after spending weeks in a refugee camp in India’s Mizoram state, watching from afar as authorities violently quashed civilian protests and jailed elected leaders, he decided to return.

“I could not tolerate what they had done to my country and our future,” says Joseph, who is now an elite sniper with the Chin National Army, an ethnic rebel group based in the western Chin state. The CNA entered a cease-fire with the military in 2012 but resumed fighting, along with other armed ethnic groups across Myanmar, after the coup.

Three years into the war, experts say Myanmar’s military, known as the Tatmadaw, is facing challenges like never before. Thanks to increased cooperation among historically fractured resistance groups, anti-junta organizations claim to now control more than half of the country. And within these groups, veteran fighters are embracing new recruits, who they say bring fresh ideas, passion, and technological savvy to battlefields and base camps across Myanmar. 

“I have been fighting the military for quite a long time, and yet there is so much to learn about the field from these young fighters who came from colleges and universities,” says 50-year-old Baiklian, who has been part of CNA for the last 25 years and recently joined the group’s new dedicated drone department.

Learning to live with loss

When he joined CNA, Joseph went through months of rigorous military training at Camp Victoria, the group’s headquarters. He was a fast learner, getting promoted to the top sniper unit early on, and recently played a key role in capturing a police station in the Rezua area of Chin state. 

“You need a lot of mental strength to be a sniper,” says Joseph, who is now 21 years old. “But I know this is for ... the democracy and liberation of my people.” 

In addition to marksmanship, he’s learned that being a rebel fighter demands sacrifice. Joseph has not seen his family since joining the CNA. In June, while he was on the front line, his older sister joined a group fleeing Myanmar by boat, hoping to build a new life in Europe. He found out weeks after she had already left, and no one has heard from her since. He doesn’t know if she made it off the boat. 

“This is what the coup does to ordinary people’s lives,” he says. But what saddens him the most is the death of his comrades. 

Aakash Hassan

Nibor stands in the cemetery where her son, Arosethang Tan Lin, a rebel soldier with Chin National Army, was buried after being killed during a mission in the Rihkhawdar area of Chin state, Dec. 14, 2023.

He’s lost several close friends in combat, most recently Arosethang Tan Lin, who was killed by junta soldiers during a mission. When Joseph accompanied Mr. Lin’s parents to their son’s fresh grave, he couldn’t hold back his tears.

“We are losing young people to this war,” says Mr. Lin’s mother, Nibor, who is only 37 years old herself. “There can be nothing more painful.”

Powering through

Though the front lines are still dominated by men, veteran fighters say more women are joining CNA since the coup.

“Being a rebel fighter is not easy,” says Magtalin, a former engineering student and one of most acclaimed young women in the CNA, “but if you are a woman, things get more difficult.”

Magtalin’s rifle skills and aptitude for planning missions have won her accolades, and she’s become a role model for other women hoping to transition from office and security roles to combat. Yet even now, she says she’s never been on a mission with another woman. 

“Many times, I have got my period while on a mission in some jungle,” says Magtalin, warming her hands around a fire she lit near her outpost. It’s hard to put into words how frustrating it is to have to fight and run with heavy equipment – often in the rain or biting cold – during these times, she says. “You cannot ask for a break in a battlefield." 

But her commitment is unwavering.

“We will have to continue fighting,” she says. “No one is going to come for us.”

When Magtalin misses her old life, she puts on some makeup and swaps her olive-colored camouflage for a T-shirt and jeans, envisioning a future free of the junta and jungle battles. Had there been no coup, she would have likely finished her education and become an electrical engineer by now. 

Recent battlefield gains by CNA and other rebels have revived hopes that this future is possible.

Aakash Hassan

Two female fighters with Chin National Army brush their teeth as they get ready for the day ahead in Myanmar's western Chin state, Dec. 14, 2023.

Cooperation leads to gains

Since October, rebel groups in northern and western areas of Myanmar have worked together to capture several towns and military camps. Baiklian, the veteran CNA fighter, says he has “never seen rebel groups in Myanmar so strong and coordinated” against the powerful junta.

One reason they’re seeing this new momentum, he believes, is that young fighters have brought drone technology to the rebel ranks, which has made a significant dent to the Myanmar military during the recent offensives. Young fighters use the internet to teach themselves how to make and modify drones for battlefield applications, and then share that knowledge with others. Baiklian says he recently learned how to modify drones to drop explosives onto enemy targets. 

“It is immensely effective,” he says. 

Overall, senior CNA fighters express gratitude – and a degree of surprise – over the wave of post-coup volunteers. According to CNA officials, about 70% of the group’s 5,000 members joined in the past three years. While an influx of inexperienced fighters could create tension, the blended ranks have fought harmoniously, at least in this corner of Myanmar. 

Jacob Turcotte/Staff

Indeed, many CNA fighters are united in the belief that the solutions to all of Myanmar’s struggles – from political instability to lingering ethnic tensions to displaced and divided families – begin with getting the junta out. 

Not unlike Joseph’s family, Baiklian’s wife and two daughters have been living in a refugee camp in India since the coup.

“I will not see my family till [the junta] are thrown out of power,” says Baiklian. “Revolutions are fought with a huge price.”

AP

Palestinians walk through Gaza City amid destruction from the Israel-Hamas war, Feb. 10.

During conflicts in the Middle East, any peace-feeler often takes a touch of trust. A good example was reported Wednesday by Israel’s Channel 12 news. Israel plans to start restoring Palestinian governance in Gaza even before the war with Hamas ends.

In a pilot project, the Israel Defense Forces will work with trusted community leaders in the Zeitoun neighborhood of Gaza City to be in charge of aid distribution, or what are called “humanitarian pockets.” The IDF will still provide security but not govern the process.

A future Palestinian government in Gaza, said wartime Cabinet Minister Benny Gantz this week, “cannot be Hamas and should not be Israel.”

The plan faces severe tests. Any Palestinian in Gaza working with Israel is a target for radicals. And the violent, anti-Israel ideology of Hamas might be difficult to suppress. The answer is to build more or different bridges of trust. Israel, for example, hopes to back up the new Palestinian governance in Gaza with “an international administration of moderate Arab countries with the support of the US,” Mr. Gantz said.

Peace in Gaza will indeed need a regional response. Since the war started four months ago, the Gulf state of Qatar, which has trusted contacts across the region, has played the role of mediator between Hamas and Israel in arranging temporary cease-fires and the release of hostages and prisoners. This week, another Arab country with a history of peace facilitation, Oman, stepped in.

It called for an urgent international conference on creating a Palestinian state, similar to the 1991 Madrid Conference that helped lead to the creation of the Palestinian Authority. Oman’s plan would include Hamas.

“Hamas cannot be eradicated,” wrote the Omani foreign minister, Sayyid Badr al-Busaidi, in The Economist. “Movements of national liberation like Hamas are too deeply rooted in their communities. Their cause will be kept alive however many militants die. So, if there is ever to be peace, the peacemakers have to find a way to talk to them. And to listen.”

Can Hamas, despite its horrific attack on Israeli civilians, be trusted? Mr. Busaidi gives this response: “There is an assumption that the people of the Middle East are so imprisoned by sectarian logic that they are incapable of making the kind of sophisticated judgments that the people of the liberal and democratic West are used to making. This is deeply condescending. It is also factually wrong.”

He adds, “We must also believe that there exists an Israeli leadership that can be persuaded to engage in good faith.”

Oman’s suggestion of a large-scale peace conference relies on the idea that talking alone can be a trust-maker. Results will come later and need not be specified upfront. Like cat’s feet, trust can come quietly and quickly if warring parties simply talk privately. Past crises in the Middle East have sometimes led to negotiated and surprising solutions.

Distrust is now high in the region. Only a third of Israelis, for example, trust their own government. Any plan to rehabilitate the devastated Gaza Strip is a starting point for trust-building. It is also one for a larger peace.