Israel seeks a new balance following the election

Tel Aviv. In the history of nations, the transition from the founding generation to subsequent ones often coincides with a test of resilience: the moment when questions left unresolved at the very beginning resurface, almost spontaneously. This happened in Italy when, just over sixty years after unification, the liberal state found itself facing the crisis that would lead to fascism; and it happened to the Third French Republic, which came to an end seven decades after its proclamation.

Applied to Israel, this perspective explains much about the present. Whilst for the founding fathers, compromises regarding identity were pragmatic and indispensable tools for building the state, subsequent generations have inherited them without having experienced the urgency that made them necessary. Thus today, seventy-eight years after its founding, the country finds itself grappling with the unresolved issues of its origins, at a time when that inherited balance has lost its stabilising power and is now seen as an outdated formula.

The election result of 27 October 2026 did more than simply demonstrate how a numerical majority may not be enough to form a stable government. It brought to the surface the identity-related tensions that had remained latent within the state’s founding pact, reigniting a debate that has its roots in the turbulent days leading up to 14 May 1948. Amidst last-minute revisions to drafts and the urgency of the impending war, the drafting of the Declaration of Independence was an act of pragmatism and great haste: the members of the People’s Council shared the political goal, but not a uniform vision of society. They could not even agree on how to refer to God, opting instead for the open-ended phrase ‘Tzur Yisrael’, ‘Rock of Israel’ – a compromise that allowed secular people to see in it the history of the people, whilst religious people saw the divine presence.

Similarly, the Declaration proclaimed self-determination and the equality of citizens without defining a rigid formula for resolving the tensions between the country’s Jewish heritage and its democratic framework. When, on 25 January 1949, Israelis went to the polls to elect the Constituent Assembly – which would shortly thereafter proclaim itself the First Knesset – the divisions appeared so wide as to raise fears of a deep rift between secular and religious groups. In 1950, it was decided that the Constitution would be drawn up progressively, through the Basic Laws. For decades, conflicts over identity remained unresolved: they were simply postponed, managed through coalition agreements and judicial rulings. But today, that model based merely on the management of compromise is no longer sufficient.

For a long time, these divisions were absorbed within the major political parties, which were able to mediate. In 1984, Labour and Likud won 44 and 41 seats respectively: a fragmentation that made the Peres–Shamir rotation government inevitable. That government succeeded in tackling hyperinflation through the economic stabilisation plan and in initiating a partial withdrawal to the ‘safety zone’ in southern Lebanon, demonstrating the ability of major political traditions to contain ideological pressures.

Today, that mechanism no longer works: the paradox is that, whilst the differences between the Right and the Left on security issues are narrowing, political opposition is intensifying. With the great ideological clash of the past now a thing of the past, questions of identity – which the 1948 Declaration had preferred to leave open – have resurfaced. The debate has thus shifted to the rules of democracy: the role of the Supreme Court, fairness in military service obligations, and the scope of alliances. Now that ideological differences appear to have narrowed, the discussion centres less on the merits of individual issues and more on the very legitimacy of compromise itself.

All this is taking place in a democracy under real and constant threat. Israel’s experience is unique, in that war intrudes directly into the fabric of civilian life, forcing the health service, education, businesses and transport to constantly reorganise themselves around the emergency. The massacre of 7 October struck at one of the most fundamental aspects of that social contract upon which every democracy is founded, and which here takes on a visceral significance: the mutual promise of protection between the citizen and the state. In Israel, where compulsory military service and the reserves intertwine daily life with the defence of the country, citizens do not simply ask the state to represent them, but participate first-hand in their own survival, creating an unbreakable bond between personal sacrifice and national security. For decades, agreements between religious and secular groups have made it possible to manage profound differences; but when the demographic makeup changes and the burden of military obligations grows, those very agreements no longer appear sustainable.

Today, just as in the past, Israelis demonstrate a complete willingness to die for their country, yet they find themselves deeply divided over how to live within it. This is the face of a mature society, called upon to redefine its internal balance whilst the existential threat – posed above all by Iran and its proxies – continues to demand a solidarity that is almost fundamental to its very existence.

The mandate entrusted by President Herzog to Gadi Eisenkot and the inauguration of the new Knesset mark the beginning of a phase in which the priority is not merely to secure the numbers needed to form a majority. With the major parties of the past—capable of absorbing and healing identity-based divisions—no longer in existence, the fundamental issue remains the ability to build new forms of institutional mediation capable of bearing the weight of a changed society. This is a crucial transition for the country’s future, in which Golda Meir’s warning is once again relevant: pessimism is not a luxury that Israelis can afford.