Ben-Gvir wants the Ministry of Defence, to make a name for himself, to take over Israel. A lacklustre response

Tel Aviv, from our correspondent. The Minister for National Security, Itamar Ben-Gvir, aims to enhance his profile. More precisely, he seeks to become a major political figure. For the 27 October elections, he does not merely want to tip the balance; he aspires to be the linchpin of a future governing coalition – and he cannot achieve this without Tel Aviv, the city that keeps him at arm’s length, regards him with annoyance, and at times even with disgust. Itamar Ben-Gvir, however, believes there is an opening, that curiosity about him is spreading – if not amongst long-standing Tel Avivians, then perhaps amongst those who have not been here for long. That is why he accepted the invitation from the Tel Aviv International Salon, which brings together the olim – the new arrivals – and organises meetings with candidates ahead of the elections. Not everyone has accepted the invitation; some prefer to avoid showcasing their poor – or almost non-existent – English, to sidestep a confrontation with the Prime Minister, who is a master of the language: Benjamin Netanyahu has agreed to appear at the International Salon, but no date has yet been set. Ben-Gvir is not bothered by his poor English.

He is not afraid of a confrontation; he knows that to make himself understood, all he needs is a bit of a show, a shout and a message that is clear from the outset: at the entrance to the event, some young lads are handing out gun-shaped bottle-opener keyrings, with the minister’s smiling face on the grip. To ensure he is better understood, the minister is introduced by his English-speaking aide, Yishai Fleisher – Russian by birth, American by adoption, Israeli by choice. Fleisher whips up the crowd, which is engaged but remains lukewarm. Fleisher speaks like an American, harangues like an American, and whilst he grew up in New Jersey, he says that the minister – the man Israel needs to keep it safe – is a Texan and will look after everyone’s security, without exception, including Tel Aviv, the city that must not feel far removed from the ‘mountains’, there’s always this divide between Tel Aviv and the mountains – he says with conviction, a very American, beaming smile – “but there shouldn’t be, because Israelis can study the Torah in the morning and go out and have fun in Tel Aviv in the evening”.

The message from Otzma Yehudit (Jewish Power), Ben-Gvir’s party, is that it wants to reach everywhere, speak to everyone and take Tel Aviv. Tonight’s programme aims to determine whether this is possible. Fleisher, after speaking about the death penalty – “what’s so hard to understand? A murderer can’t turn a prison into a hotel” – says that the time has come to see “the man”, the Texan, the minister, Itamar Ben-Gvir. And the minister arrives, dancing to the tune of a song by the hugely popular Eyal Golan. Seats are provided for everyone; no one is jostling to get in; the audience is orderly, not shouting, but listening. A group of American teenagers applauds more enthusiastically than the others at the sight of the Otzma Yehudit leader, but few stand up.

The music is pleasant, but not overwhelming. The Texan begins his rally, which will be followed by a question-and-answer session. He discusses the effectiveness of his term in office, his efforts to make life more difficult for terrorists in prison, and the low number of terrorist acts, which he attributes to his policies. He makes no mention of 7 October, by which time he was already in office, serving alongside Benjamin Netanyahu, for whom he says he has great respect despite disagreeing on many issues, including the prime minister’s reluctance to confront the ‘military deep state’. The revelation comes quickly: Ben-Gvir presents himself as the man who can ensure that Bibi does the right things: “Either a government with Bibi and me, or with Bibi and Eisenkot,” says the leader of the Yashar party, which so far represents the greatest challenge to the Prime Minister’s Likud and is not categorically opposed to the idea of forming a government with Netanyahu. Ben-Gvir never attacks the Prime Minister, but emphasises that without him, everything would already have gone wrong.

On 7 October, he is barely mentioned in his debut in the English-speaking Tel Aviv press, except to note that he had long been suggesting that Gaza should be bombed, but the army told him it was unnecessary. The kibbutzim are absent from his mind, as are the Hamas massacres; in his words, there is room for prisons, terrorists, the Palestinian National Authority and the noose, but he tries not to overdo it after noticing that the audience did not react strongly to his most bloodthirsty remarks: so the Texan holstered his gun. Ben-Gvir has one ambition: he wants to become Defence Minister, were it not for the fact that he would be the first person in Israel’s history not to have done military service – “it’s them who didn’t want me” – and to have a terrible relationship with the army. But that is precisely why he wants the post: to change the IDF, to free it from the deep state.

There is no applause – certainly not thunderous – but the time for questions from the audience arrives, and the audience is a mixed lot: there are curious onlookers; there are Israelis who attend every meeting with the candidates; there are staunch supporters; and there are young lads and troublemakers who ask him why he does not want to form a single party with Bezalel Smotrich, the leader of Religious Zionism, his coalition partner and Minister of Finance. “Because he focuses on Judea and Samaria, whilst I look at the whole country, but you’ll see that he’ll clear the electoral threshold and we’ll return to government together. If I were to join forces with him, however, I’d lose votes; my message is broader.” Smotrich is for some; Ben-Gvir is for everyone.

A young woman asks him why he is so concerned about Israel’s future yet does not campaign to abolish the right to abortion in the country. Very fair-haired, with long hair, she glares at the minister when he replies that he shares her views, but that such matters are not addressed through legislation, rather by talking to people, explaining and persuading them. She is not satisfied and returns to her seat. A soldier then rises and states that he has completed three hundred days of reserve duty between Gaza and Lebanon; the audience applauds, some removing their hats in respect, and he asks why his comrades should have to worry about defending the violent elements in the West Bank. Ben-Gvir replies that those settlers, too, are soldiers who die for Israel, and it is at this moment that it seems his intention for the future government is to become the Defence Minister for precisely those settler-soldiers. “A democracy functions without the deep state,” he says, reiterating that the only path to Israel’s survival is to make it clear who the masters of the house are.

“His voters are right-wing hippies, idealists. It’s only right to look for them here in Tel Aviv,” says a young man. Perhaps he’ll vote for him. “He says shocking things; that’s why people like him.” But Tel Aviv isn’t won over; it hasn’t heeded the call of the Texan who wants to take the country by storm. At the entrance, the gun-shaped keyring bottle openers have run out. All that’s left are the black wristbands bearing the words “Rak Ben-Gvir”. Just Ben-Gvir. There aren’t many, but few are wearing them on their wrists. Perhaps they’ve slipped them into their pockets, or someone has taken them as souvenirs, but displaying them whilst strolling through the streets of Tel Aviv is another matter altogether. They remain a secret, hidden away; perhaps it is in search of silent conquests that the Texan has come to the seaside.