Recently, voices from across Israel’s political divide – from Bennett’s Beyachad party to the Movement for Quality Government – have proposed placing the Declaration of Independence at the opening of Israel’s future constitution, thereby elevating it to the apex of the country’s normative legal hierarchy. Former Supreme Court chief justices, Meir Shamgar and Aharon Barak, have expressed similar views. Is this appropriate?

The impulse is easy to understand, even compelling. The Declaration is an Israeli canonical text – without equal. For decades, Israelis have recognized the almost miraculous significance of the broad consensus reached by the leaders of the pre-state Yishuv. At the very moment the state was being born, with its survival still in doubt, they managed, through words, to give form to the Israeli spirit of a Jewish people renewing its life in its homeland.

The Declaration tells our story at the singular turning point when the Jewish people returned to history as a people. It is a capsule of distilled Israeli DNA, implanted in our national bloodstream by the founding generation as a gift to those who followed. It would therefore seem only natural to give it pride of place at the head of our future constitution.

But we should not.

Anyone who wants to preserve the Declaration’s exalted status above Israel’s political disputes must recognize the distinction between two very different kinds of discourse: one of identity and one of rights. The Declaration belongs to the first. It should serve as an instrument for forging shared identity. It is Israeli identity’s home port – the place from which Israelis set sail into the riptides of disagreement and to which they return to recover a sense of common belonging. Its success in fulfilling this historic role depends on broad popular support, both emotional and intellectual.

That support, however, will not survive if the Declaration is transformed from an identity-defining national canon into a legal instrument for determining rights. Dragging it into the discourse of rights will damage it, because that discourse plays out through judicial rulings, with winners and losers. When one side seeks to defeat the other by invoking the Declaration, it pushes its opponent toward rejecting the Declaration itself – thereby diminishing its value as a shared identity asset.

That erosion of the Declaration’s symbolic, educational, and identity-building power has already begun. During the dramatic Supreme Court hearing on the “reasonableness standard,” the lawyer representing the government challenged the Declaration’s importance, arguing that it had been drafted by an unrepresentative group, written in haste, and is old and anachronistic. He later clarified and softened his remarks, but the damage had been done: the Declaration had been deeply scarred.

At the other extreme, a Supreme Court justice, in a supremely activist lone opinion in the case concerning the “Tiberias Law,” held that the Declaration is the fundamental norm on which the entire Israeli legal system rests. He thus set in motion an intellectual and legal project that seeks to turn the Declaration into a legal trump card – one that could serve as the basis for judicial review even of Basic Laws.

The justice reiterated this position in a ruling handed down last week on the law freezing the arrests of Haredi draft evaders. In his view, the law “was enacted outside the scope of the Knesset’s authority and is therefore void,” because it infringes the right to “full equality” enjoyed by all citizens by virtue of the operative legal force he attributes to the Declaration.

Those seeking to incorporate the Declaration into a future constitution are embracing this justice’s position – and taking it a step further. In doing so, they risk turning the Declaration from a cultural asset into a legal weapon. Their well-intentioned effort to elevate its status could end up, paradoxically, destroying the very value it holds for all of us.

We suffer from a toxic syndrome: the Israeli public conversation repeatedly gravitates toward the discourse of rights while neglecting the discourse of identity. We choose to shift the center of gravity of our cultural disputes away from the public arena – ideology, politics, and the marketplace of ideas – and into the judicial arena, where binding decisions are handed down. Those who cherish the Declaration must resist placing it in the legal arena. The debate over judicial review of ordinary laws and Basic Laws should not be decided by invoking the noble words of the Declaration of Independence.

We live on shifting sands. Precisely for that reason, we have an urgent – even existential – need for a fixed point of consensus capable of holding us together. The closest thing we have to such a fixed point – our one secular sacred text – is the Declaration of Independence.

We must not squander the founding generation’s gift.

Published in jns

The post Israel’s Declaration: A Secular Sacred Text, Not a Legal Weapon first appeared on The Jewish People Policy Institute.

This week, I met two European friends, a gay couple based in Brussels. One is a teacher; the other works for an international organization in the city. They spend every summer in Israel. For them, Tel Aviv remains the perfect vacation destination, even today.

“The moment we arrive at the El Al check-in counter and people realize we are a couple, the red carpet is rolled out for us,” they told me.

It was heartening to hear, especially now. Since the October 7 massacre, a growing rift has emerged between Israel and influential segments of organized LGBTQ activism across Europe. The disagreement is no longer simply about the war in Gaza but about solidarity, moral consistency, and the meaning of universal values.

For decades, Israel was widely regarded as part of the liberal democratic family to which Europe also belongs. Tel Aviv became one of the world’s leading Pride destinations and a symbol of openness in a region where same-sex relations remain criminalized in many states and LGBTQ people face persecution.

Israeli and European organizations worked together to advance equality, combat discrimination, and protect minority rights. Even when they disagreed over the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, they still regarded one another as partners committed to the same democratic ideals.

That sense of partnership has been badly shaken.

The war in Gaza has caused immense civilian suffering, which deserves sustained attention and public debate. Yet for many Israelis, another striking feature of public discourse has been the relative silence surrounding the atrocities that precipitated the war: the October 7 massacre, the widespread sexual violence documented by United Nations investigators, and the prolonged captivity of the hostages, some for more than two years.

The issue is not whether Israel should be criticized. Democracies invite scrutiny, and Israel is no exception. The issue is whether empathy has become selective. When public discourse recognizes only one side’s suffering, it loses the moral complexity required to understand a conflict in which civilians on both sides have paid a terrible price. The modern LGBTQ movement achieved remarkable victories by insisting that rights belong to every individual, regardless of political opinion, nationality, religion, or ethnicity. That principle transformed societies, changed laws, and expanded liberty for millions.

An advocacy movement need not endorse every political position. It should, however, distinguish criticism of Israeli policy from treating Jewish or Israeli identity as prima facie evidence of culpability or complicity. When participation is conditioned on repudiating one’s nationality or communal ties, inclusion becomes a political loyalty test. The consequences extend beyond politics. Universities, cultural institutions, civil society organizations, and Pride events have become arenas where Israeli and Jewish participation is contested, and Jewish organizations have at times been expected to distance themselves from Israel before being accepted as legitimate partners.

During WorldPride Amsterdam this August, unauthorized flyers bearing the logos of the city, WorldPride, and the anti-discrimination platform RITA displayed the names, photographs, and locations of Israeli and Jewish artists, as well as people described as IDF soldiers. Readers were urged to “watch out for war criminals.” WorldPride organizers, the municipality, and RITA disavowed the flyers, and the police opened an investigation. In Berlin, a participant at a Christopher Street Day march reported being harassed over Israeli symbols. Whether viewed individually or as part of a broader pattern, these incidents raise an uncomfortable question: Why has the presence of Jews and Israelis in spaces intended to foster inclusion begun to attract suspicion and, at times, intimidation?

Political coalitions often unite unlikely partners, and shared opposition to one issue – Israeli policy – can eclipse disagreements on other matters. But when universal principles become subordinate to political alignment, something essential is lost.

Selective defense of rights

A movement that asks society to defend rights without qualification cannot defend those same rights selectively. This is not simply a question of political consistency. It is a moral challenge.

How can organizations dedicated to protecting minorities overlook antisemitism within coalitions they otherwise embrace? Israeli organizations are not immune from criticism. The test is whether Jews and Israelis can participate without being treated as representatives of a government or required to prove their political innocence. In some places, simply being visibly Jewish or Israeli is enough to make people feel unwelcome in a movement founded on inclusion.

The incidents in Amsterdam and Berlin do not prove that an entire movement has abandoned its ideals. But they do show why Jews and Israelis in some LGBTQ spaces increasingly fear that visibility will bring suspicion rather than solidarity.

This tension also reflects a broader divide between Israel and Europe. Israeli public discourse often begins with the security trauma of October 7, while European debate often begins with the humanitarian devastation of Gaza. Both speak the language of human rights but are rooted in different wounds. Each perspective becomes morally incomplete when it erases the other. The debate, therefore, extends far beyond Israel. It is ultimately about whether liberal societies remain capable of defending their principles consistently, including when doing so is politically inconvenient. A universal value ceases to be universal once it is applied selectively.

At their best, Europe’s LGBTQ movements have demonstrated that equality is meaningful precisely when it protects people who are unpopular or politically isolated. Their challenge now is to uphold that principle when Jews or Israelis are the ones asking for inclusion. That is where moral leadership begins. It is also where prejudice, however carefully disguised in the language of tolerance, is finally exposed.

My two friends have already booked an apartment in Tel Aviv for next summer. They still see Israel as a place where they are welcomed for who they are. That welcome should not remain the exception. If Europe’s LGBTQ movement wants to honor the principle it was built on, it must ask why that welcome is fading and start extending it again.

Published in the Jerusalem Post

The post When pride meets prejudice: Europe’s LGBTQ movement is forgetting what inclusion means first appeared on The Jewish People Policy Institute.

The discovery of the remains of the Altalena has ignited yet another round of verbal broadsides between the right and the left over responsibility for that tragic historical episode. But the exchange has obscured the Altalena’s most important lesson – one that remains relevant 78 years later.

The danger of anarchy still looms. So does the danger of civil war. The only safeguard against both is mamlachtiyut – an ethos that places state authority and the common good above factional interests. Sukkot and his allies, acting in Judea and Samaria (the West Bank) as though there were no sovereign, no army, and no law, threaten to drag us into the abyss of chaos, trampling what little remains of that ethos along the way. The leadership that emerges after the elections must make mamlachtiyut, in this context and more broadly, an ethical North Star.

The Altalena, a ship carrying arms brought to Israel by the Irgun in the midst of the War of Independence, was ultimately sunk by the newly formed IDF. In this battle between brothers, while war raged on Israel’s borders, 16 Irgun fighters and three IDF soldiers were killed.

Rivers of ink have been spilled over the Altalena affair and the circumstances in which the shooting began. Stripped to its essentials, however, one thing is clear: Menachem Begin, then the leader of the Irgun and later prime minister, prevented his men from widening the circle of violence and turning the terrible incident into a full-fledged civil war. “There will be no civil war while the enemy is at the gate,” he told his men through tears.

But the truly historic decision was the more difficult one taken by David Ben-Gurion.

Israel’s first prime minister coined the term mamlachtiyut and elevated it into a core value. Even before the establishment of the state, Ben-Gurion worked to entrench the principle that decisions concerning the governance and future of the Yishuv – and later Israel – must be based on the shared interest and the common good. Only in this way could Israel, in all its diversity, become one polity – one state.

The Altalena affair was the ultimate test of this principle. At the core of a state’s power, and at the foundation of its existence, lies the authority to use force. Externally, against enemies at the gate; internally, in enforcing the law and maintaining security. A fundamental condition of statehood is the state’s monopoly on the use of force. So long as force is exercised by the state, or with its authorization, it is legitimate. Once that monopoly is broken, and civilians or groups outside the state begin using weapons and exercising force, anarchy inevitably follows.

Ben-Gurion acted to prevent the young State of Israel from sliding down that slope into anarchy, to preserve the state’s monopoly on arms, and to defend mamlachtiyut.

Smashing the remains of mamlachtiyut

Seventy-eight years after the Altalena, the state’s exclusive authority to use weapons and force can no longer be taken for granted. In recent years, small but genuinely dangerous groups have repeatedly resorted to violence – sometimes using firearms – to “create deterrence” and retaliate for terrorist attacks in the hills of the West Bank.

The persistent failure to enforce the law against these groups has given rise to deep suspicion in Israel – and absolute certainty elsewhere in the world – that those charged by the Israeli government with enforcing the law in the territory are turning a blind eye to this dangerous phenomenon.

MK Zvi Sukkot’s reckless conduct gives these militias a tailwind. After misleading the IDF and putting soldiers at risk for political purposes, Sukkot embarked on a campaign of smashing Palestinian gravestones, using force without authority and taking the law into his own hands – behaving not like a public leader but like just another hilltop rioter.

Along with the gravestones, Sukkot smashed what remained of mamlachtiyut in Israel.

Beyond the incalculable damage that he and his allies are doing to Israel and the settlement enterprise in the international arena, their violent actions endanger us all.

To survive, Israel must reclaim mamlachtiyut. That means ensuring that force is wielded only by the state – but it means more than that. This civic ethos must become the North Star of every branch and level of government. Only then can we continue to disagree while preserving fair and responsible governance – and prevent ourselves from sliding into civil war.

Published in the Jerusalem Post

The post From the Altalena to MK Sukkot – the Smasher first appeared on The Jewish People Policy Institute.

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The growing community of citizens living overseas demands a coherent national policy.

From the afternoon of Oct. 7, 2023, as news of the atrocities along the Gaza border spread and it became clear that Israel was at war, Israelis abroad mobilized to help. Many rushed back to their reserve units. Many more set up emergency operations centers, raised money and organized every form of support they could. Yet throughout the following long years of war and more generally, many have also continued to choose life outside Israel. When we speak of Diaspora Jewry, Israelis living abroad are usually not counted as part of it. But their numbers and attachment to Israel demand serious thought and a coherent policy toward this regrettably growing community.

The controversy over Israelis living abroad begins with the numbers. Israel’s Central Bureau of Statistics puts their number at roughly 600,000, while the Israeli-American Council estimates some 800,000 Israelis live in the United States alone. Beyond the United States, the largest Israeli communities are in Britain, Canada, Germany and France. Some have temporarily relocated, studying abroad or spending a limited period overseas. But most have chosen to make their lives elsewhere.

Whether Israelis abroad should participate in Israeli elections is one aspect of this issue. Many Israelis see the coming election as potentially decisive for the country’s future. That is why a major effort is underway to fly Israelis home to vote; to “airlift mandates,” as the phrase goes. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has announced that he will reserve a place on the Likud slate for Oren Dobronsky, an Israeli who has lived abroad for years. Election fever has again put Israelis overseas at the center of public debate.

But the issue deserves attention well beyond this election season.

Israeli attitudes toward those who leave have changed dramatically. Since Yitzhak Rabin’s infamous 1976 description of emigrants as a “fallout of weaklings,” Israelis have become far less judgmental of those who choose to live abroad. Even the once-common label yordim—literally, those who “go down” from Israel—has fallen out of fashion. Globalization and the growing ease of combining study and work abroad in many professions have made spending part of one’s life overseas commonplace.

Israeli attitudes have changed even toward those who leave for good; not only among Israelis who remain, but among emigrants themselves. Many still see themselves as Israeli and are prepared to do whatever they can from afar to help the country. Israelis who leave are a loss for the state, and many in Israel still resent that choice. But at times emigrants are also an asset for Israel.

One problem is how Israelis abroad are classified. For decades, the State of Israel has devoted policy attention, relationship-building and resources to “Diaspora Jewry.” Israelis living abroad, by contrast, have rarely been treated as a distinct group.

In practice, these are highly diverse communities. In many large population centers, especially in the United States, Israelis and local Jews move in separate social circles and often fail to connect because of differences in mentality and culture.

That distinction is crucial to understanding the challenge posed by Israelis abroad. Jews who grow up outside Israel are generally aware that their Jewish identity can erode and must therefore be actively cultivated. Israelis are often less conscious of the danger. Having grown up in a country where Jewish identity is simply “in the air,” many neglect it abroad. The result can be rapid erosion of both Jewish and Israeli identity. In recent years, especially in the United States, efforts have been made to mitigate that trend, but the problem persists.

Israel needs to think seriously about its relationship with Israelis abroad. Numerically, they constitute the second-largest Jewish community outside Israel. Substantively, their connection to Israel is probably stronger than that of Jews born abroad. The Israeli government must confront this reality: It should rightly seek to bring them home, but if they choose not to return, it should continue investing in preserving their identity and strengthening their bond with Israel.

Published in JNS

The post Rethinking Israel’s relationship with its citizens abroad first appeared on The Jewish People Policy Institute.

Israel is more polarized than ever, which is why many are skeptical of the initiative to establish a constitution for Israel. But precisely when we cannot agree on values, we must agree on the rules of the game.

Why now? Of all the questions surrounding the effort to establish a constitution for Israel, this may be the hardest – because even supporters wrestle with it. We have waited 78 years, and for most of that time somehow muddled through.

Today, however, we are more divided than ever. We struggle to agree on almost anything, certainly not on our fundamental values. Wouldn’t it be better to wait for better times, when we can write a full constitution together – one that expresses a shared vision and values?

The answer is no. Polarization is precisely why we cannot wait. To understand why, we need to start with what democracy actually does. Scholars of democracy define it this way: certainty about the rules, uncertainty about the outcomes. No one knows who will win the next election, but everyone knows the rules by which the game is played – and knows that today’s loser can compete again tomorrow.

That certainty allows losers to accept defeat and winners to govern without fearing that everything they achieve will be erased the moment power changes hands.

In Israel, that formula has been turned on its head. Our basic rules, the Basic Laws, can be changed at any moment, by a simple majority, through a process that itself is not clearly defined. When the rules themselves are uncertain, only one certainty remains: whoever wins can rewrite them at will. Every election then becomes an existential struggle. If defeat at the polls could be irreversible – if the other side can change the system itself – then it is no longer merely a political rival but a threat. Under such conditions, voters are willing to forgive their leaders for undermining democracy so long as the other side does not win. Polarization feeds on itself, and democratic erosion deepens.

This is not just theory. Israel’s constitutional ambiguity dates back to the 1950 Harari Resolution, which deferred drafting a constitution and called for it to be written chapter by chapter. For decades, that ambiguity lay dormant. But polarization turns constitutional flexibility into a strategic advantage: whoever commands a majority can move the goalposts mid-game.

And the data show that this is happening. Since the first Basic Law was enacted in 1958, the Basic Laws have been amended at an average rate of just over twice a year – not unusual by international standards. A recent study by the Tachlith Institute found that over the past eight years, the pace has more than doubled, to nearly five amendments a year.

Successive majorities rewrite the rules to suit their needs. Once one side moves the goalposts in its favor, the other rushes to do the same. The result is less stability, more polarization, and democratic decline. That raises an obvious question: a thin, institutional constitution focused chiefly on the rules of the game does not include a bill of rights. So does it protect citizens at all?

A thin or comprehensive constitution – which is better for Israel?

Comparative research points consistently to the same conclusion: strong institutions protect human rights more effectively than lofty constitutional declarations. A parliament capable of checking the government and courts whose authority is clear and broadly accepted protect citizens more effectively than a bill of rights alone.

But this is the missing link in the public debate: strong institutions do not exist in a vacuum; they require stable rules. If the powers of every institution can be changed at any moment by a simple majority, no institution is truly strong. Checks and balances erode, rights protections erode with them, and democracy retreats.

In other words, anyone who wants rights to be protected should start with the rules.

That is precisely what the thin constitution proposes. At its core would be a Basic Law: Legislation, establishing three things: how constitutional rules may be amended, how ordinary laws are enacted, and when and how courts may review legislation. The existing Basic Laws would be consolidated around it, with amendments – most necessitated by incorporating them into a clearer, more rigid constitutional framework.

So what would we gain by requiring a high threshold – a Knesset supermajority – to change constitutional rules? First, stability: the rules would stop shifting with every change of government. Second, and more surprisingly – fewer flashpoints between us. Extreme proposals with no prospect of broad support would simply never make it onto the agenda; those that did would have to be tempered through compromise.

The need for broad agreement is not merely an obstacle. It is a mechanism that can produce moderation. In a society as polarized as ours, it is hard to think of anything more urgent. To be clear, tensions among the Knesset, the government, and the courts will not disappear – and they should not. Such tension is inherent in every democracy. Basic Law: Legislation is not meant to eliminate it, but to establish the rules within which it plays out, so that each branch can perform its role and disputes can be resolved within agreed-upon boundaries.

For those who worry that locking in rules today would entrench the current balance of power, the answer lies in keeping the constitution thin. A comprehensive constitution requires agreement on values, identity, and vision. And at present, we do not have it. A thin constitution requires agreement on only one thing: that the rules be stable and clear, and that no one be able to change them alone.

Anyone who studies the history of constitutions knows that they are rarely written in moments of harmony. Constitutions are usually born after wars, crises, and upheavals, because that is when societies grasp the price of rules that lack broad agreement. The moment of perfect consensus – when we all sit together in a spirit of unity and write a complete constitution – is not around the corner. It may never come. Waiting for it, in practice, means preserving the status quo, in which the rules are rewritten with every new Knesset term.

The alternative on the table is more modest, and that is precisely why it is possible: not agreement on who we are, but agreement on how we settle our differences. Over the past 78 years, we have learned the hard way that even this modest agreement cannot be taken for granted.

It is time to put it in writing.

Published in the Jerusalem Post

The post Is Israel too polarized for a constitution? That’s why we need one first appeared on The Jewish People Policy Institute.

Israeli public discourse is caught between what the Left calls the “poison machine” and what the Right calls the “poison channels.” As elections approach and every party seeks to distinguish itself, the country’s social race to the bottom is likely to accelerate. A hot – and dangerous – summer lies ahead.

The Jewish People Policy Institute (JPPI) examines relations among the different sectors of Israeli society through its Emotional Proximity Index, which measures Israelis’ attitudes toward 10 groups. The findings show that the two least-liked groups, to put it mildly, are Arabs and haredim (ultra-Orthodox), with the latter at the very bottom.

Beyond the grave social consequences, the nationwide emotional distance from both groups has political implications.

Each is represented by sectoral parties that many other political actors effectively blacklist: so long as haredi parties defend broad exemption from military service, they are unacceptable partners for a centrist government; so long as Arab parties are not Zionist, they are consigned to the opposition in almost any conceivable coalition.

The stark result is that broad swaths of the public deem roughly one-third of Israel’s citizens illegitimate partners in a future government. This reality is not inevitable. The coming election campaign may offer an opportunity for some social repair through daring moves that cross sectoral lines.

One emerging development suggests what may be possible: if Mansour Abbas and Yoav Segalovitz can agree on the latter leaving Yesh Atid and joining Ra’am, it would begin to challenge the current threatening image of the “Arab parties” as disloyal to the state and therefore untrustworthy.

If Segalovitz, who is known for his commitment to fighting violent crime, were then appointed national security minister after being elected on a civic platform supported mainly by Arab voters, everyone would stand to gain. The message would be even more powerful if he served in a broad government that also included right-wing parties.

Many ultra-Orthodox Jews deeply dissatisfied with haredi leadership

A similar development could take shape in haredi society. Despite the community’s celebrated unity behind its “great Torah sages,” many haredim are deeply dissatisfied with its current predicament.

Their leadership’s unrestrained rhetoric, its scandalous refusal to shoulder its fair share of the national defense burden, its resistance to employment and educational reform, and the poverty and isolation these policies perpetuate, do not reflect the free choice of thousands of haredim.

Their numbers are difficult to estimate, but it is hardly far-fetched to say that they represent at least two Knesset seats worth of haredi voters.

An organized movement of haredim seeking integration – in employment and military service – already exists. Led by Rabbi David Leibel through the Achvat Torah network, it gives expression to an authentic haredi voice – one that understands that haredi society must respond to changing realities and connect with the broader public sphere.

These haredim seek to realize the ideal of Torah im derech eretz (Torah combined with worldly engagement) without viewing this as either an imposition or a compromise. Conservative in outlook and lifestyle, they nevertheless understand that excessive conservatism breeds stagnation and that its consequences are already clearly visible in parts of haredi society.

Some haredim are plainly dissatisfied with their political representation. Although the community is growing rapidly – doubling every 20 years – its political representation has barely increased. Haredi votes are already drifting to mainstream parties, but only as individuals, quietly breaking ranks, so the message of civic partnership is lost.

A new haredi party, a concrete initiative called The Haredi Public, is already taking shape, but would be unlikely to clear the electoral threshold and would naturally seek to join an existing party. The next Knesset could therefore include one or two haredi lawmakers elected on a mainstream slate and promoting an explicitly integrationist haredi agenda.

On the surface, these would be small shifts – a handful of seats crossing the stark lines between identity groups that divide us. Their true value, however, lies in challenging the automatic labeling of the groups routinely cast as Israel’s ultimate outsiders – haredim and Arabs. If this promising trend continues, it could strengthen the common denominator of Israeli society: citizenship.

Published in the Jerusalem Post

The post Crossing the Rubicon first appeared on The Jewish People Policy Institute.

Violence against media outlets and journalists has become commonplace. Politicians on both the right and the left routinely declare their intention to shut down news organizations, and just last month the Knesset passed legislation that will dramatically affect Israel’s media landscape. These developments pose a twofold threat to a free press: outright silencing and the self-censorship of media organizations and journalists. Unless this trend is stopped, Israel will become a “democracy” in name only.

A free press is the lifeblood of democracy at all times, but especially during elections. Without it, the government cannot be held to account, nor can alternatives to its policies be presented. Although freedom of expression is clearly recognized as a protected fundamental value in Israel, that protection still rests on Supreme Court precedent. It has yet to be enshrined in the Basic Laws – Israel’s de facto, albeit problematic, constitutional structure. This leaves the free press inherently vulnerable. And the situation is getting worse. Of the 180 countries included in the 2025 World Press Freedom Index, Israel ranked 116th – somewhere between Lebanon and Tanzania.

The assault on Israel’s media is not new, but it appears to be intensifying. What makes it dangerous is the convergence of three forces that, together, could cripple the press’s ability to fulfill its democratic role. The first is politicians’ relentless attacks on media outlets. We have grown numb to such rhetoric, but labels such as “enemy of the people,” “Al Jazeera 12,” and “poison channels” have become standard political rhetoric against Israeli broadcasters. Such rhetoric has been accompanied by calls from politicians – including self-described “democrats” such as Yair Golan, leader of Israel’s Democrats party – to censor outlets they dislike. Golan, for example, has vowed to shut down Channel 14, Israel’s most right-wing TV station, should he come to power.

Whether or not such inflammatory rhetoric foments violence, attacks on media organizations and reporters in Israel have become almost routine. Last week, Channel 12’s offices were vandalized for a second time, its glass doors smashed and a handwritten death threat left at the scene. The Tel Aviv offices of Haaretz have likewise been attacked more times than anyone can count. Journalists are also repeatedly assaulted while doing their jobs. Channel 14 reporters, for example, have recently been assailed several times while covering events in “left-wing strongholds.” Reporters are assaulted almost indiscriminately in Judea and Samaria (the West Bank), where “hilltop youth” unleash their anger on the press, and at Haredi demonstrations, where violence against media crews has become standard operating procedure.

Compounding these dangers is the threat of institutional pressure from the government. The law advanced by Communications Minister Shlomo Karhi and passed by the Knesset last week is a case in point. Under the guise of promoting competition in the media market, it politicizes the council charged with regulating the media. Political control over the body that sets media rules and oversees their enforcement is a clear and present danger to the freedom of expression of the outlets it regulates.

Against this backdrop, the obvious danger is to the press’s ability to operate freely and perform its democratic function. But there is another, less visible and unquantifiable threat that is no less serious: self-censorship and self-imposed constraints. In an environment where covering a demonstration can end in injury, criticizing the IDF can prompt stones to be hurled at a newsroom, and criticizing government policy can result in restrictions on a news organization, every journalist may ask whether the risk is worth taking – the risk of going into the field to cover events; the risk of exposing the truth and inviting regulatory, political, or even physical attacks.

Israel’s free press will not die overnight. But it can slowly wither and censor itself, ultimately harming all sides of the political spectrum – until Israeli democracy as we know it fades with it.

Published in TOI

The post ‘Enemy of the people’? A free press is democracy’s lifeblood first appeared on The Jewish People Policy Institute.