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Journalist: Djazia Bousnina
Video: Eléonore Riffe
More than 102 days have passed since the start of Israel's war against the Gaza Strip, and the victims number in the thousands. On social networks and in the demonstrations that occupy the streets around the world, despair is felt and dialogue is becoming rarer.
We met Ronit Yarosky, a former Canadian-Israeli soldier who decided to engage in dialogue. As we learn about her journey, we learn that dialogue, like faith, is a question of belief. It is not stable, but rather a fluctuating practice, marked by the beauty and drama of its evolution.
” La Vita e Bella when you don't know”
It was on December 18, three days after Hanukkah, that we found Ronit Yarosky at her house. Christmas lights adorn the streets of NDG, and cars sparkle with raindrops.
An echo of his origins and his career, an effusion of colors and objects steeped in history decorate his living room. Ronit sits comfortably on the couch. A tray decorated with Arabic calligraphy dedicated to divine names, such as Allah, is enthroned in the middle of the room. The object was purchased at the Jerusalem souk a few years ago.
Ronit was born in Montreal and left the city with her family at the age of 14 to move to Israel.
“My whole family is in Israel; I lived there for about 10 years,” she explains.
Arriving in 1983, his family moved near Tel Aviv. Ronit remembers his teenage years: “We went on a lot of short trips with the class, with friends. I was actively involved in scout activities. The weather there wasn't too cold, so we could spend most of our time outside.”
After a brief pause, she adds: “It was a time of naivety, ofIgnorance Is Bliss, it was La Vita Bella.”
Sing your anthem on occupied land
In 1986, Ronit graduated from high school and joined the ranks of the Israeli army to fulfill his national duty. The first intifada broke out a year later, in December 1987. In his captivating essay The Hole Truth, which is part of a book entitled Beyond Tribal Loyalties: Personal Stories of Jewish Peace Activists, she shares her experience of more than two years during the tumultuous period of the Intifada.
“I knew that Arabs in the West Bank were throwing rocks and creating trouble, but I didn't know why and I didn't care much. While I was in the army, we stayed in numerous Arab cities, all anonymous to me because they were “only” Arab cities and therefore had no importance in my life...” (Free translation, The Hole Truth, p. 121)
In another passage, she recalls going to a military police base. There she saw five handcuffed Palestinian children squatting on the ground blindfolded. More than an hour later, Ronit went out, and they were still there, in the same position.
This memory haunted her for years. “I realized that I had passed by these children without seeing them, as if they were chairs. I noticed them the same way I would have noticed a piece of furniture.” (Free translation, The Hole Truth, p. 124)
She says: “I was proud. I really liked that time of military service, I learned a lot of useful things, but it was also done in ignorance. It was just normal, that's what we did at 18: you become a soldier, we don't ask questions.”
In her essay, she recalls standing in front of the Israeli flag and singing the national anthem:
“Tears were streaming down my face, I couldn't imagine anything more incredible and moving than to serve my country and to sing. Hatikva as a soldier. I saw nothing unusual about this situation — a soldier singing her national anthem, but on occupied land.” (Free translation, The Hole Truth, p. 123)
Looking back, she wonders about the source of this “ignorance.” “Maybe it's the fact that I haven't always lived in Israel, so I didn't know what questions to ask or what information I was lacking. Or maybe it has something to do with how national and cultural history and myths are told. Maybe it's a mixture of both.”
She evokes what she calls a “national myth”: “We grew up with: a land without people, for a people without land. And really, we believed that! But it was not an empty land. It is not easy for a human being to realize and accept that they are there because of something nasty or unfair.”
“I have lived a story full of lies”
At the age of 27, Ronit returned to Montreal to pursue a master's degree at McGill University. While undertaking research for her thesis, she discovered the book by Benny Morris. Birth of the Palestinian Problem. “Leafing through it, I found the name of my uncle's village [a place called Ijzim before 1948, and not Kerem Maharal as it is today]. I was completely shocked. Shocked! ” she repeats, raising her voice.
She then suddenly realizes that this village existed before the arrival of her uncle. While talking to her mother, she learned that the Nakba — an Arabic term meaning “disaster” and referring to the 1948 Palestinian exodus — is a historical episode known to her family. Besides, his uncle always avoids talking about it.
This discovery prompted him to explore this story further. “I started very slowly. I was reading, I was meeting Palestinians. It was the first time I had spoken intentionally with Palestinians. I remember the first time in my life when I said the word “Palestine.” I felt very courageous, because at the time in Israel, you couldn't say that word,” recalls Ronit.
“I've lived with a story full of lies,” she says, shaking her head.
In 2000, three years after completing her master's degree, she returned to Israel, as her father fell ill. Two months after his return, in September, the second intifada broke out. This time Ronit is playing a completely different role. “I became a real activist, I was taking part in demonstrations [in the occupied territories] for human rights.”
She recounts this experience in her essay The Hole Truth :
“I remember one time when the army threw tear gas at us, and the Palestinians offered us shelter. I said to myself: “It is my army that is attacking me, and my “enemy” who is helping me!” Seeing (really seeing — not like when I was a soldier and “blind”) the behavior of soldiers for the first time was eye-opening. How can we treat people that way? Maybe we don't really think they are people. Not as much as we did.” (Free translation, The Hole Truth, p. 123)
She describes this period as having been particularly difficult, as her activism was not well received by some family members, friends, and neighbours in Israel. She was often referred to as a “radical leftist,” a label she never liked. Since then, his uncle and some of his cousins have refused to talk to him.
Back in Montreal, she was left with a question: how could the Israeli state coexist with a Palestinian state? “I said we need to talk. If we can't do it here in Canada, there, they don't have a chance! It was even a kind of obligation, to be an example, a leader. After all, we are in Canada, we have multiculturalism,” she said, shaking her shoulders.
Ronit is therefore involved in groups like the Palestinian and Jewish United (PAJU)) and the Women in black, but something is missing. “The problem with these groups is that you can't reach people who need to hear other perspectives. Generally, when you are a member of these groups, you can already see the reality of the occupation. We're preaching to converts.”
After a sip of water, she plunges back into her memories of the early 2000s. “Every Friday, there was a demonstration in front of the Consulate General of Israel in Montreal, and often there was a counter-demonstration. I said to myself, “Where can I go, because choosing the side of the Palestinians means being anti-Israel? And if I stand alongside the Israelis, that means being anti-Palestine. But I am neither one nor the other. I am for this and for that.”” she says.
Dialogue Montreal Group Foundation
Ronit Yarosky wasn't the only one who was torn. She therefore founded the Dialogue Montréal Group (GDM) with her Palestinian friend Nada Sefian in 2003. “We wanted to create learning opportunities, safe spaces in which to listen to each other and tell our stories without abandoning our initial beliefs.”
She points to her living room and continues : “This is where we had our first meeting, before we founded the group. We were forty people, gathered to watch a movie. There was a high demand for this type of activity. People wanted a space to talk.”
Ronit's eyes go away, she thinks about the current circumstances. “In a war, you want to know the enemy in order to find your weaknesses, but in dialogue, you want to know the other person in order to find their strengths, their humanity. All it takes is a small crack in our inner wall [to recognize] that there is a small possibility that we need to question.”
Ronit sat up and sighed: “I consider myself lucky, because it is not simple or easy to find this desire to question oneself. In my case, and that of several Jewish people for example, if we say “A country without people, for a people without a country”, there is nothing to question. It is treated as a fact. If no one told you, if you've never read or heard it, how are you supposed to know? She also emphasizes that it is as difficult to break away from your beliefs as it is to continue to question yourself. Dialogue is therefore a long-term commitment.
The dialogue after October 7
However, this commitment to dialogue collapsed the day after October 7, 2023. Ronit Yarosky, who has long believed in the two-state solution and in the transformative power of dialogue, finds himself at a crossroads.
On October 6, the sound of sirens echoed on Ronit's phone, spreading panic, even though she had not heard an alert since 2021. Rockets were fired near Tel Aviv, where his family lives. After making sure that her loved ones are safe in the bomb shelter, she falls asleep. Upon waking up, she discovered the extent of the Hamas attack and immediately contacted her family. “For me, it was as shocking as when I discovered that the Nakba had taken place,” she said.
Incredulous at the images, she contacted a friend of Middle Eastern origin in Montreal in the hope of hearing reassuring words. But the latter applies itself to justifying armed resistance under an occupation regime, which leaves her perplexed. She recalls, “Yes, maybe you're right, but right now, don't you have anything else to tell me? Don't you have even a small gesture of compassion to share? ” She makes the gesture of holding a grain while talking.
“Compassion is not like a cake. If I give you a few, there is nothing less left for me. — there is enough for everyone. It's a 20-year relationship that I need to question. After all these years of dialogue, I ask myself: “Does that mean nothing at all? Or is dialogue only valid if I criticize the State of Israel?” ”
“My heart stays in Israel, it stays Israeli”
In November 2023, a month after the start of the Israeli war in Gaza, Ronit took a plane to be reunited with his family: “My heart remains in Israel, it remains Israeli.”
Surrounded by her family, friends and neighbours, she is asked the same question by everyone: “So tell me, did all of your friends that you supported for years contact you to tell you something on October 7? Dejected, she admits: “Unfortunately, I had no other answer for them than a no.”
According to Ronit, there was a short period of time to offer sympathy to the Israelis, but the train went by, and the situation is not improving. “It's not easy to see what has happened in Israel and, of course, what is happening in Gaza,” she said.
Despite the confusion, some questions became clearer for our interlocutor: “Now I understand the importance of the IDF, and also the importance of a safe Israeli place in the world that welcomes us.”
In Israel, the tension is palpable: “Everyone is constantly glued to the news, 24 hours a day. Even those who were on the left are retreating. Everyone is in their own bubble, in their own corner, ready to fight, to protect themselves. In general, even outside of Israel, opinions — even if I don't like to use that word — have radicalized. They lose all nuance. But it's all a question of nuances.”
By the time we met Ronit, the war was entering its third month. Paradoxically, the Montrealer feels more secure in Israel than outside the country. “Now, my main concern is returning to Montreal, with the rise of antisemitism. This fear is new to me. I don't know what to do with these emotions. I realize that I have fewer and fewer answers to the Israeli-Palestinian situation.”
The dialogue today
“Do I still believe in dialogue? Yes. But do I believe in dialogue today, now? No,” Ronit says.
“It was a huge part of my life. It was a priority for me, but it seems like I'm going to have to start all over again, like on the first day. These 25 years of dialogue work seem to be ruined, and I don't know what to think of it.”
“The emotions are too strong. We are in the middle of the war, each in his own corner. You only have compassion for yourself. Israel is a country in mourning. Palestinians are a nation in mourning,” she said softly.
She sighs and continues: “When the time is right, both sides need to take responsibility and deal with the situation honestly. You have to put your cards on the table and say, “That's what I did.” We need to start talking to each other again. I think it might take another generation to get the process going again.”
Silence settles in the living room, punctuated by the sound of rain regaining its rhythm. Ronit looks out the window and concludes: “Despite everything, I remain hopeful, I still believe in dialogue, in our capacity for empathy.”
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At the time of publication, South Africa has just accused Israel of violating the United Nations Genocide Convention. She appealed to the Court in The Hague to order Israel to immediately suspend its military operations in the Gaza Strip. Israel called the legal action absurd and atrocious, strongly rejecting the South African allegations.
The judges' decision on interim measures will be issued in two months at the latest.
*All excerpts from the book Beyond Tribal Loyalties: Personal Stories of Jewish Peace Activists, originally written in English, quoted in this report were translated by journalist Djazia Bousnina. For the full version of this book, please consult The site