Israel’s Arab Minority and the Limits of Democracy

A robust, egalitarian democracy is judged not merely by whether free elections are held, but above all by how it treats the minority within its borders. Elections and majority rule are fundamental conditions of democracy, but they are not sufficient in themselves. As early as the nineteenth century, John Stuart Mill emphasised that adequate representation for minority groups is not an ornament of democracy, but one of its essential components. A society in which a minority enjoys formal equality before the law, yet its elected representatives are prevented from participating in government and influencing its policies – and are, moreover, regarded by the majority as illegitimate – is not an egalitarian democracy.

The question of how Israel treats its Arab minority is not a marginal issue in Israeli politics. It is a central question that reveals the moral character of Jewish society itself. In a letter to Stefan Zweig in February 1930, the then chancellor of the Hebrew University, Judah Leib Magnes, made the treatment of Arabs a measure of the moral character of Jewish nationalism: “For me, the Arab question is a Jewish question; our attitude towards the Arabs is a touchstone of our Jewishness.” Nothing offers a clearer standard for assessing the moral character of Israeli society – and for testing the claim that Israel is “the only democracy in the Middle East” – than the way it treats its Arab minority.

Discrimination against Arab citizens of Israel is not confined to isolated manifestations of racism. It is clearly reflected in measurable disparities in employment, representation in the civil service, poverty rates, planning and construction, budget allocations, and access to resources. In report after report, Israel’s State Comptroller has found that Israeli governments have failed to implement the principle of substantive equality between Jewish and Arab citizens, and that, “in terms of outcomes,” discrimination persists. This does not mean that every statistic, taken on its own, proves direct and deliberate discrimination. Yet when disparities accumulate over the years, institutional barriers remain in place, and state oversight bodies themselves point to a failure to achieve equality, the facts cannot be dismissed. These figures appear to reflect a reality in which a minority comprising roughly one-fifth of Israel’s population remains inadequately represented in the civil service, while its elected representatives are excluded from centres of decision-making. This entrenched inequality becomes particularly visible during election campaigns.

Like a ritual repeated at every election, questions about the loyalty of Arab citizens of Israel and their elected representatives resurface time and again. The current election campaign, however, reveals not only the double standard applied to the Arab minority, but also the boundaries of legitimacy within Israeli political discourse.

Ra’am was the first party targeted by calls for disqualification. Its leaders had nevertheless explicitly condemned the October 7 massacre and the attacks on innocent civilians, and had repeatedly declared that Ra’am recognised and respected Israel’s Jewish character and sought to join a governing coalition, primarily to address the many hardships facing the Arab community it represents. Nevertheless, despite their condemnation of Hamas’s actions, the party’s leaders were accused of supporting terrorism because they did not join calls for its “complete annihilation”. The Supreme Court overturned the Central Elections Committee’s decision to disqualify Ra’am from running in the election. Yet the very demand for its disqualification exposes the absurdity: an Arab party seeking to join the government and act in the interests of its voters is judged not by its political platform, but by its willingness to adopt nationalist rhetoric demanding the “annihilation of Hamas”.

Another disqualification petition was filed against Sami Abu Shehadeh, chairman of the National Democratic Assembly (Balad), a party that advocates a two-state solution, opposes defining Israel as the nation-state of the Jewish people, and supports transforming Israel into a “state of all its citizens”. The petition was based on an article Abu Shehadeh published on October 8, 2023, the day after Hamas’s attack. In it, he described the assault as “an important historical event” from a military, political, and strategic perspective, and wrote that “if small, besieged Gaza managed to carry out such an operation, others would be able to do so more easily”. These were undoubtedly insensitive and ill-judged remarks. Abu Shehadeh expressed regret over the remarks and stated that he had never supported violent struggle and had advocated peace and non-violence throughout his life. Nevertheless, the Central Elections Committee voted to disqualify his candidacy, and he ultimately withdrew from the race.

After extensive deliberations over these and other allegations, the Supreme Court allowed Ra’am to contest the election. Abu Shehadeh, however, withdrew his candidacy before the Court issued a final ruling in his case. Despite the Court’s rulings, there is near-consensus across the political establishment against including Arab parties in governing coalitions or even relying on their tacit support. Indeed, any departure from this position is liable to be portrayed as an act of betrayal. The pattern is not confined to the right. Prominent figures in the political centre and even on the left have pledged not to cooperate with Arab parties. The very possibility of relying on the votes of Arab citizens is portrayed as a threat, a political stain, and sometimes almost an act of treason.

The Israeli media, too, often reinforces this ritual. Time and again, centre-left politicians are pressed in interviews to clarify whether they would agree to rely on Arab parties, as though the mere possibility were a decisive test of their national loyalty. The democratic question – what government can be formed on the basis of the election results – is thus displaced by a national question: can the votes of Arab citizens legitimately help determine the composition of the next government? A clear hierarchy is thereby established among citizens: the majority may choose the government, while the minority may elect representatives – but those representatives are denied, from the outset, any meaningful right to influence the government’s composition, let alone to act in the interests of their voters.

The contrast becomes clearer when we consider how other parties and candidates are treated – those deemed fit not only to contest elections but also to serve as potential coalition partners. Their treatment reveals the boundaries of legitimacy in Israeli political discourse.

No one challenged the candidacy of Yoseph Haddad, an Arab candidate running on a list that explicitly supports encouraging the emigration of Palestinians from Gaza. Is he treated differently because his party embraces the prevailing nationalist discourse, whereas Arab parties that demand civil equality and political integration without abandoning their national identity are regarded as beyond the bounds of legitimacy?

Nor were there calls to disqualify Moshe Feiglin, leader of the “Zehut” party, who previously called for cutting off Gaza’s supplies of water, electricity, and food. In October 2026, he declared: “One hundred per cent of Gaza’s population will emigrate; not a single baby will remain.” No such challenge was mounted against Itamar Ben-Gvir, who once displayed a portrait of Baruch Goldstein in his living room. Goldstein murdered 29 innocent Palestinian worshippers, yet Ben-Gvir was deemed fit not only to run for election but also to serve as a senior minister. Nor was a comparable challenge directed at Bezalel Smotrich, who publicly stated that he objected to his wife sharing a hospital room with an Arab woman.

Perhaps none of these statements, taken individually, constitutes sufficient legal grounds for disqualification. But do they not raise grave moral and political questions? How is it possible that politicians who make racist statements, justify the exclusion of Arab citizens of Israel, actively support Palestinian emigration, or once displayed a portrait of a mass murderer are considered fit to participate in the political system, while the legitimacy of Arab parties seeking integration and civil equality is repeatedly called into question? Why are Arab parties’ demands for civil and political equality treated with suspicion, while calls for a government composed exclusively of Jewish or Zionist parties are regarded as entirely legitimate?

This disparity exposes the boundaries of political belonging in Israel. In the eyes of substantial sections of the political establishment, the Arab deemed worthy of partnership is not necessarily the one who seeks equality and integration, but rather the one who does not challenge the prevailing nationalist discourse or the political supremacy it accords to the majority. In other words, an Arab who seeks to join the government, influence its policies, and act in the interests of his constituents is regarded as unfit for partnership, while another Arab who embraces positions of national exclusion may be considered politically legitimate. Citizenship is thereby transformed from a guarantee of equality into a conditional privilege, and political partnership from a civic right into a favour granted at the majority’s discretion.

The claim that Israel is “the only democracy in the Middle East” cannot shield the existing reality from scrutiny. Elections and judicial institutions are fundamental to democracy, but they do not guarantee substantive political equality. When minority citizens are allowed to vote, yet their elected representatives are denied meaningful influence over the government, while national exclusion enjoys political legitimacy, the gulf between formal democracy and substantive political equality becomes unmistakable. The treatment of the Arab minority is the ultimate test of Israeli democracy, and by this standard it must be judged. Israel cannot pride itself on holding free elections while treating one-fifth of its citizens as conditional partners – citizens whose votes are counted, but whose influence is unwelcome. A democracy that grants the right to vote but restricts the ability to influence government on the basis of national or religious identity is an ailing, incomplete, and distorted democracy. Not because the minority fails to win, but because the majority refuses to recognise it as an equal.