In September 1978, President Jimmy Carter invited Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin and Egyptian President Anwar Sadat to Camp David in Maryland for a historic peace summit. For 13 tense days, Carter mediated, cajoled and refused to give up.
When the Camp David Accords were finally signed, Carter had not just brokered peace between two nations — he had reminded the world that even the deepest divides can be bridged when we recognize what connects us: the universal longing for safety, dignity and peace.
Carter, who died Sunday at age 100, dedicated his life to this belief. Whether fostering international peace or fighting disease and poverty through the Carter Center, he demonstrated that justice and compassion grow when shared.
Yet today, his example feels distant. Tribalism — the belief that “we” and “they” are fundamentally different — has blinded us to this truth. Across debates on immigration, gun violence and racial justice, tribalism convinces us that one group’s gain must come at another’s expense.
Carter’s life offers a powerful reminder to reject these false gulfs and see each other, first and foremost, as human.
Credit: Robin Jerstad
Credit: Robin Jerstad
The false gulfs tribalism creates
Tribalism persuades us to apply principles selectively, depending on whose humanity we’re willing to see.
Conservatives passionately defend Israel’s sovereignty but balk at the idea of Black Americans pursuing autonomy to address centuries of systemic racism. Liberals champion Palestinian liberation but often struggle to extend the same empathy to rural white communities, whose struggles are complicated by perceptions of privilege.
These inconsistencies reveal how tribalism distorts universal values, creating false gulfs where common ground should exist. Beneath the surface, our desires are not so different: safety, dignity and the chance to thrive.
The challenge is to see past the boundaries tribalism creates and recognize the shared values that connect us.
At the southern border, for example, imagine a mother fleeing violence, clutching her child as she dreams of safety. Tribalism erases this human story, reducing her to a caricature: an invader to some; a victim to others. Both narratives dehumanize her, ignoring her simple desire to protect her family.
Carter’s reflections on human rights remind us that freedom from fear and freedom from want are not privileges. They are universal rights.
Immigration isn’t just a political issue; it’s a human one. Recognizing this doesn’t erase our identities — it deepens them by connecting us to the humanity behind them.
The same dynamic plays out in debates over gun violence. A father in rural Kentucky keeps his gun close, worried about intruders. A mother in Chicago organizes against gun violence after losing her son. Both wake each morning with the same prayer: let my family be safe tonight.
Yet tribalism turns their shared desire for safety into a battlefield, where compromise feels like betrayal. Carter once said, “We must adjust to changing times and still hold to unchanging principles.” On gun violence, this means recognizing that safety is a universal need, even if the methods to achieve it differ.
Carter’s Camp David Accords remind us that even entrenched conflicts can be bridged by focusing on shared humanity.
Israelis seek recognition and safety as a sovereign Jewish state, while Palestinians seek dignity, security and an independent homeland. But because of tribal narratives that frame these goals as mutually exclusive, we’ve stopped seeing the other side as human, and peace becomes impossible.
Carter’s success at Camp David wasn’t just a diplomatic triumph. It was also a moral one.
He proved that peace begins with empathy, with the courage to see the other side not as an enemy but as a partner in the pursuit of justice.
Carter’s final lesson
Carter’s life was a testament to the power of humility and compassion. He saw the divisions to which we cling for what they are: illusions that blind us to our shared humanity.
A mother at the border, a father grieving in Chicago, a family in Gaza — Carter saw them all as deserving of dignity, safety and peace.
As we reflect on his legacy, we must ask ourselves: Are we brave enough to see each other as Carter did — not as enemies, but as partners in the pursuit of peace?
If we can reject the false gulfs tribalism creates, we might finally find the justice and dignity we all seek.
Sean M. Viña is an assistant professor in the Department of Sociology at the University of the Incarnate Word in San Antonio.
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