In a gentrifying West Toronto neighbourhood full of signs advocating for Black lives, transgender youth and the unhoused, the clerk’s refusal to hang up a sign of my own design was disappointing. But it was also not surprising.
You see, I wanted a typically hip video store called Vinegar Syndrome to formally denounce antisemitism. The staffer’s response spoke volumes: Jew hatred is not a real problem anymore.
I might have been inclined to agree on Oct. 6, 2023. But on the day after—and every agonizing day since then—I’ve felt differently. To one of the last surviving video rental clerks in town, we didn’t need to worry about Jew hatred, but perhaps we did need to worry about Jewish people themselves, whose attitudes about their ancestral homeland put them on the wrong side of history.
Roncesvalles Village is a quiet strip of Toronto, sitting just east of High Park. Traditionally a Catholic Polish area due to a large number of immigrants who settled here after the Second World War, it’s now filled with towering trees, beautifully manicured gardens, and loads of families with young children. It’s idyllic in many ways. I really loved living here—until things changed.
I can only speak first hand about my neighbourhood, but I’ve heard similar stories from similar areas ranging from Le Plateau in Montreal to Salt Spring Island, B.C. In these spaces, Jews must choose: abandon their progressive views or abandon core parts of their identity and culture. For spaces that claim inclusivity as their core value, a specific group of people who maintain a right to self-determination are excluded.
Despite contentious political stances being generally bad for business, this is apparently not a real concern in Roncesvalles. where nearly everyone seems white, progressive, and moneyed—even in these tough economic times, a house on my street just sold for north of $2.5 million, which isn’t that far above the current median price. Plus, according to the latest census data, the neighbourhood of Roncesvalles is located in the whitest riding in Toronto.
One year after Oct. 7, it also means that many of the lawns and storefront windows are adorned with the now ubiquitous ‘Free Palestine’ signs. I find these signs offensive because it flattens a complicated story into one of good versus evil, oppressor versus oppressed. But, not that long ago, my own people were the oppressed ones. As a Mizrachi Jew, a Jew with roots in ancient Yemen, I have Israel to thank for being alive. Some 85 years ago, my grandparents and some aunts (who were then toddlers) escaped Yemen in the dead of night across desert, to escape anti-Jewish persecution and harassment from their neighbours. Israel—defined at the time as Mandate Palestine—served as safe refuge for them. Finally, they were in a place where they could practice their religion without hiding and without fear.
My family were not white settler colonialists. They are brown. And they were refugees.
So, when I see all those signs I cannot help but ask, free from what? If the slogan means they want Palestinians to live free of violence and harassment, to form their own state, then I agree. But to me, the slogan also means for Palestine to be free from Jews. After all, when protesters chant, “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free” (or “Palestine will be Arab,” as per the translation from the original Arabic), it is a chant that explicitly opposes the existence of Israel. I cannot help but see this as a genocidal statement.
When my family and I first moved to the neighbourhood three years ago I didn’t think much about how monocultural it felt compared to our last. Here, so many homes and businesses signalled their politics with multiple lawn and window signs. As we too supported many of those same social justice movements, we felt at home, even if it was very different from our last, far more diverse neighbourhood. But after Oct. 7, the monoculture was hard to ignore.
A day or two later, the design studio down the street mounted a massive ‘Free Palestine’ display that featured artistic interpretations of hang-gliders—the way in which the Hamas militants entered Israel to slaughter young adults at the Nova music festival. This was on display before Israel dropped its first bomb. While walking to get a coffee or driving past to transport my children to their extracurriculars, I got the message loud and clear: “The Jews deserved it.”
The others sharing this identity in my neighbourhood—where there have never been any synagogues or formal Jewish community spaces—were not allowed to grieve. Before long, signs proclaimed that Oct. 7 was justified, that Zionism was evil, that Israel is committing a genocide, that Israel must be dismantled by any means necessary. And you can only imagine the graffiti, where swastikas abound.
Roncesvalles, and neighbouring Parkdale, seem unique in their singular focus on Palestine. As soon as I cross into a different part of town, the inflammatory signs stop. Sure, there might be a few here and there, but most of them are tame. Now when I chat with friends on my porch or sit in a café or bar, I make sure not to reveal that I am Jewish to anyone. I also don’t tell anyone how I am feeling about the war in Gaza. I have a mezuzah on my front door, but I now fear that it makes me an easy target for people who might not like me around. My neighbour stopped being as friendly last fall—when I overheard him cursing the Jewish state, I understood why.
A few weeks ago, I decided to be proactive by writing an anonymous letter to my neighbours who felt compelled to post ‘Free Palestine’ lawn signs. I explained that I did not want to tell them what to do or how to act—but that as a Jew with young children at home, these signs made my family and I feel unsafe, uncomfortable, and unwelcome. I suggested that they could show their solidarity for the Palestinian cause by hanging signs with messages like ‘Ceasefire Now’ or ‘Peace in the Middle East’ or ‘Co-Existence’. Not one of my neighbours took down or changed their signs. One neighbour did the opposite by adding two more signs, and hanging a large Palestinian flag.
To be fair, I also dropped off some of these same letters on the main drag of Roncesvalles. My words might have had a greater impact there. I can’t be certain why, but about a week after dropping off my letter, the nail salon, housewares store, beauty salon, and, yes, the aforementioned video store removed ‘Free Palestine’ from their windows. AM Bagel, though—owned and operated by non-Jews, who are happily appropriating the food of my people—still has a sign on display.
I love Roncesvalles for its big trees, beautiful gardens and excellent shopping. We also love our house, which we imagined we’d live in forever. But now my family and I are entertaining the thought of moving to a place where we don’t feel unwelcome.
Michael Inzlicht is a professor in the Department of Psychology at the University of Toronto, cross-appointed in the Department of Marketing at the Rotman School of Management. He can also be found on Substack.
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