Zineb Riboua
Tablet, May 26, 2025
“The hatred Yaron confronted, with patience, clarity and grace, had found him.”
The memory of my last hug with Yaron Lischinsky stays with me. It was quick and familiar, as I crossed the street. He smiled, warm and full of life, and said goodbye with a steadiness that made it feel like we’d see each other again the next day. I didn’t know it would be the last time. Now every detail stands out. The light in his eyes. The way he carried himself. How he made ordinary moments feel meaningful. Yaron was a rare person, thoughtful, kind, and generous. He had a way of making people feel valued.
He was also one of my closest friends.
Though we both held public roles in spaces that demanded constant engagement, we were more reserved by nature. We found comfort in the pauses that didn’t need filling, in the ease of simply being around each other. Where the world pushed for attention, we found meaning in presence, in the steady rhythm of thoughtful conversation.
We met two years ago, and since our first exchange, we never stopped talking. Long lunches between meetings, dinners stretched by ideas, I would find every excuse to invite him to events I was hosting. We spoke about books, belief, politics, and the future. After Oct. 7, when the world shifted in ways that were hard to name, I could see something change in Yaron. His expressions became more focused, his silences heavier. The work he had always taken seriously now carried an added urgency. He spoke less, but when he did, it was with clarity shaped by grief and resolve. The hostages weighed on him. He thought about them and their families constantly.
Yaron’s life was a testament to duty without fanfare: a man who served not for recognition, but because it was who he was. Working with him was a rare kind of partnership. His insights brought steadiness to discussions. I was often the fire in our conversations. I would vent about writings, ideas or opinions that bothered me. Yaron was always calm. He’d listen, lean back, a faint smile tugging at his lips, and say, “Ah, you know …” Then, thoughtfully, he’d unravel the knot of my anger, helping me carry it without letting it consume me. I left every exchange with a clearer head, more certain of what mattered. His memory was a gift that held your words long after they were spoken. Days after a conversation, a message would arrive, a quote, an article, a recommendation, always prefaced with, “You’ll find this interesting …” And it always was. … [To read the full article, click here]