How can we have a conversation in America that condemns the horrific Oct. 7 Hamas attack and kidnappings, reckons with what has transpired since, and respects the stories and struggles, the trauma and tears, of both Arab Americans and Jewish Americans?

At a time of campus protests that echo what America saw during the Vietnam War, we must begin with the lessons of Kent State and Jackson State. Our nation must always stand for free speech, whether that speech is critical of Israel, of Hamas or of America. Criticism of the policies of a government in power is neither a rejection of patriotism nor an expression of bigotry. An open society like ours is designed for sharp disagreement and controversy. But the defense of dissent does not absolve us of the moral responsibility to call out protests when they devolve into toxic and vile threats against Jews or any other ethnic group. Prejudice is not a form of discussion.

University leaders can show moral clarity by condemning hate, harassment and intimidation while recognizing the gravity and repercussions of calling in armed police — or worse, the National Guard — to remove protesters on college campuses. We have seen troubling images of students and professors thrown to the ground and handcuffed. There has to be some understanding for young students who feel helpless to do anything about the deaths in Gaza and so decide, in exasperation, to camp on the quads — provided they do not advocate violence, vandalize buildings, or make threats based on religious or national identity.

These students see the lack of representation in Congress and on university boards, where few Arab or Muslim Americans sit; they see the lopsided votes, and so protest is their cry to be heard, their plea for the bombing to stop and the occupation to end. There is nothing immoral or undemocratic about this.

Administrators must also be wary of casting a wide net and entangling those students who are genuinely committed to nonviolence in the universities’ disciplinary bureaucracy, with suspensions and expulsions. These students are often first-generation Americans or children of immigrants, whose parents may come from nations that have borne the injustices of the global order, and they are speaking out for the dignity of the disenfranchised. Many are from working families that have made hard sacrifices and have incurred large debt to get an education.

Young people deserve some space to question conventional ideology and develop their thinking, so long as their exploration is peaceful, without indelibly staining their future.

At the same time, freedom of expression is not absolute. We can applaud those with the courage to speak and still demand that they be respectful of fellow students who simply want classes to continue. There must be a way to allow for freedom of speech in spaces where nondisruptive protest should be given leeway (such as on quads or lawns) or even tolerated (such as in administration offices) without shutting down classrooms or blocking access to them. Similarly, there has to be a way to allow speech without turning a blind eye to ugly intimidation, such as spitting or cursing at students who wear yarmulkes (or hijabs), or who wave Palestinian (or Israeli) flags.

Universities must treat every single community member as an equal in dialogue and the pursuit of truth, and there must be consequences for anyone who violates this basic moral standard. Students should be able to walk freely on campus expressing their religious and cultural identity without being harassed or targeted.

More pointedly, just because certain speech might be protected by the First Amendment does not mean that the speech is constructive or thoughtful. Yelling “Hamas sympathizer” or “Iranian proxy” at students making the case against occupation is not only slanderous; it perpetuates the worst tropes of Islamophobia and anti-Arab stereotypes. Conversely, chanting “from the river to the sea,” which Jewish students hear as encouraging violence against them, or scapegoating everyone on campus who served in the Israel Defense Forces, is wrong and chilling, given the history of antisemitism at European and American universities.

The great leaders of civil disobedience such as Mohandas K. Gandhi, the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and Nelson Mandela understood this. They did not engage in schoolyard taunts that dehumanized their opponents. Instead, they used language that opened their opponents’ minds and hearts to bring about change. They would call off large protests at the hint of violent threats, recognizing that even a few provocateurs could undercut their moral authority.

They did not minimize ugly rhetoric by a handful of protestors as unrepresentative or as opposition plants but insisted on the highest standards by speaking out against hate on their own side first, and doing so loudly and repeatedly.

These movements can be an inspiration for us all. Our standard for discourse cannot be merely toleration of the other. More than toleration, what is needed is respect for differing narratives. Not approval, but respect.

This is what I understand from Gandhi’s teaching of satyagraha, which has influenced me because of my grandfather, Amarnath Vidyalankar, who spent four years in jail for participating in Gandhi’s independence movement. Satyagraha is the pursuit of truth — and satyagrahis approach their adversary with no ill will, but with respect and even love. Showing respect means understanding where someone is coming from, listening to their history and viewpoints, and making arguments in good faith to seek truth and justice.

This approach takes time and patience. It often fails. It stands in stark contrast to the attention-seeking that is the modern currency of recognition. But it still represents the best chance, perhaps the only chance, of moving the world in a more just direction.

Consider this: America has become, in Frederick Douglass’s words, a composite nation.

For this reason, is there not potential for us to be a balanced peacemaker, because so many of the world’s painful stories of subjugation and persecution are finding voice in our body politic? After all, we have members of Congress with family in Palestine working beside and talking with members of Congress who lost family in the Holocaust. A whole new generation, with differing historical and cultural perspectives, is on the cusp of serving and leading — together.

That is a beautiful expression of American democracy, and one that might well enable us to build an America that can lead the way to justice and peace for all people.

Ro Khanna, a Democrat, represents California’s 17th Congressional District in the U.S. House. This column is adapted from his speech accepting the “Profile in Courage” award from the Arab American Civil Rights League in Dearborn, Mich.