We were received as family members into the home of Ibrahim Ahmad Abu El-Hawa, and this we were told, is not unique. "I speak Hebrew, Arabic, Russian and English but my family taught me the most important language of all: the language of welcoming. I don't have a lock on the door and I never know who will be in my home. Everyone is welcome."

With a view of the separation wall from his window, Ibrahim's wish to make peace is visceral. "It is our destiny to live here in the holy land together, and only our heart can change the world."

"I made myself pools from which to water the forest of growing trees." —Ecclesiastes 2.6

BETHLEHEM, West Bank—We sit beside the ruins of King Solomon's Pools, backlit by a large and modern conference center that has only been used once since it was built. Behind it, a gun fight has broken out. It's graduation day, and celebrations respond in kind by shooting firecrackers. Surrounded by olive trees and broken glass, I notice—despite all the odds—a single, purple wildflower grows: a symbol of what is still possible in this land so full of bloodshed. At least that's what Sami Awad believes. Sami is the founder and director of the Holy Land Trust, a Palestinian NGO in Bethlehem working to provide Palestinians with the means to build a future founded on the principles of nonviolence, justice and peace.

With a view of the world as one body, Sami reminds us that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is not unique, and we all suffer because of it. The real question, he asks, is how do we begin to heal? His answer is that we need a new vision for the Holy Land. "There is a light in humanity and every single human being has this light. Only, for some, it is covered in layers of dust." The dust of history, for example. "History puts nails in one's feet and doesn't allow for change. But the future is actually void and empty. We are all standing on a groundless ground."

His words are powerful and surprisingly full of hope. Like the purple flower growing in this barren landscape, near the springs that have long dried up, his words remind us that the future hasn't been written yet. Anything is possible.

When the camera stops rolling, he admits that in fact a little craziness is needed too—not only to hope but to dare the impossible to happen. Walking back to the car, I ask him how he raises the spirits of those who have given up hope, and his answer reminds me that—especially in this land—we are not alone with our struggles: "Maybe the spirit moves us."

Later, while sitting together over fresh lemonade, an ex-Israeli soldier who was present at the interview expresses the value of what Sami has shared. With deep sorrow and the weight of meaning, he tells us how rare someone like Sami is, and again I remember something Sami said earlier: "A simple cease fire is not enough, we also need the human spirit".

We certainly witnessed the human spirit today.

Prior to her work here at Global Oneness Project, Denise was traveling and documenting her experiences through photojournalism and film in Switzerland, New York City, Syria, Iran and Afghanistan. It turns out that not only does Denise have an amazing sense of composition and an obvious ability to connect to her subject, but she also has an uncanny aptitude and love for language.

We've always been awed with Denise's ability to learn and speak five languages but never really made the connection that the openness and total lack of fear that we see behind the camera and in the editing room is so interconnected with the ease that she learns language and the way she approaches life in general. It was a lot of fun reading the article and it will definitely have a lasting effect on how the rest of us at GOP approach our own work, obstacles and fears.

Read the interview and pass it on.