We’ve all heard the story of the Jewish man, Reuben(son) Crusoe, marooned on his desert island. Eventually, a ship arrives and someone rows ashore to pick him up.

His rescuer sees that Reuben’s built a little shack for sleeping and two other enormous structures… he points at one of the huge buildings and asks: “What is that magnificent construction?”“That’s my shul,” says the castaway proudly. “And the other one?” asks the rescuer.  “That,” comes the reply, “is the shul I don’t go to.”

It’s a very old joke (I think Moses might’ve originally told it to Aaron) but it speaks to something deep in our collective Jewish psyche: that constant pull toward argument and disagreement. For many, this inability to get along can be problematic.

I’ve often butted up against the algebra that states for every one mitzvah you somehow create two broigeses. But despite how frustrating it often is, that multiplicity of clashing opinions is one of our greatest strengths.

The endless need to dispute is the kneidlach in the soup of the Jewish soul.  Yet it’s also deeply intertwined with the concept of dan l’kuf z’chut — that is, the obligation to give others the benefit of the doubt. That remains utterly crucial because it lets us all hear the widest range of positions and truly engage with them, even when it can be difficult or painful. I’ve felt this powerfully over the last few weeks in the responses to a documentary I helped to create: The Holy Land and Us — Untold Stories.

It deals with the State of Israel’s origin and sets out accounts from many different people, both Jewish and Arab. There’s a scene in Episode One in which my mum explains her fears about my making it. She was worried that showing so broad a set of perspectives about Israel’s creation could lead to hostility towards me (and no Jewish mum wants to see her son disliked). It’s especially intense given the centrality of Judaism and Israel in her life and mine. Because it’s not an easy watch. In it, the viewer is invited to hear the experiences of British Jews as they tell their stories and those of their families.

Those voices range from people active in Zionism in the early 20th century to those who made aliyah after the Shoah to the Jews of Arab lands who lost their homes in their hundreds of thousands (told beautifully by Viviane, searching for her Egyptian aunts). These extraordinary journeys illuminate the end of millennia of Jewish wandering and yearning. They’re told alongside other accounts — shepherded by my co-presenter Sarah Agha (whom I only met once and never during the filming process) — of what the creation of the state meant for the Arab families already there.

Many simply don’t know enough about these perspectives. It would be stupid for me to suggest that in making a programme about Israel, I didn’t know I was connecting myself up to the biggest geopolitical lightning rod in the world. To call it “tricky” would be an understatement. But I knew how valuable it could be to hear all these voices. Although I couldn’t predict what those from Palestinian communities would feel, I feared I’d be confronted by viewers from my own community (in part at least) who were angry at what we’d done, who didn’t want historical linen dried in public or even discussed. Those people for whom only one narrative could or should ever be told.But despite the odd — extremely polite — disagreement, I’ve been instead greeted with kuf z’chut.

But not only that.

I’ve been overwhelmed by tweets and private messages supporting what we were trying to do. One was from a friend of my mum’s, which was incredibly moving. I can’t repeat it here, except to say it was the most beautiful expression of the purpose of our film. The writer said our programme didn’t interfere with his belief in the enduring importance of the State of Israel (something I share) but made him think about what it is, could be and should be, moving forward.

The responses have been both deeply human and incredibly inspiring. I’ve never been prouder to be a member of the Jewish community, across the board. As a people, I truly believe we all profoundly sense that requirement to listen — and not just to listen, but also to remember kuf z’chut.

Because even when the speaker is someone of whom we might suspect the worst, we always understand that we could learn something vital from them… and then we might begin to move forwards together.