The old pact between Israel’s government and military has broken down

Palestinian political analyst and researcher from inside Israel.

For most of Israel’s history, disagreements between political leaders and the military remained largely private. Arguments over strategy, timing or risk were real, but they were managed away from the public eye. Citizens saw a country that, whatever its internal tensions, could present a coherent face in wartime.

That quiet arrangement has frayed. Nearly three years after the October 7 attacks, open clashes between ministers and senior officers have become almost routine . The latest began when Defence Minister Israel Katz criticised Major-General Avi Bluth, the commander of Israeli forces in the occupied West Bank, for seeking to extend the detention of an extremist settler. Katz then announced on live television that Bluth would be replaced, only for Chief of Staff Eyal Zamir to push back publicly, insisting that the general would remain in his post and that the proper procedures must be followed. What was once contained now plays out in full view.

This exchange, like many before it, is not the real story. The real story is what these repeated public ruptures reveal about a country still at war. The campaign that began with a demand for national unity has gradually redefined the relationship between those who set the direction and those who must turn it into reality. The disagreement is no longer mainly about tactics. It is about something more fundamental: Who has the right to define victory, to set the aims of the war, and to decide what is possible.

This change is bigger than a simple loss of discipline or a personal clash. Israel was never a state in which the army merely carried out orders. From the state’s earliest years, the military was a partner in shaping security policy, not a pure executive arm. David Ben-Gurion built the Israeli military as a central national institution. Later leaders – Yitzhak Rabin, Ehud Barak, Ariel Sharon, Benny Gantz, Yoav Gallant – rose from its ranks. The boundary between political authority and military judgement was always porous. The army did not simply implement policy; it helped define the realistic limits of what politics could demand.

For decades, that partnership rested on an unspoken understanding. The military, with its professional assessment of force, terrain, and risk, often set the ceiling of political ambition. Generals could, and frequently did, tell elected leaders: This is possible, this is not, this will cost more than you are prepared to pay. Politicians retained formal authority, but they operated within a framework of military realism that constrained excess. The army, in its own way, protected the political system from overreach by insisting on the boundaries of the achievable.

That relationship has inverted under the weight of a long war.

The first is time. Short wars allow disagreements to remain professional. A war that stretches across years turns almost every choice into a political one. How many reservists to call up, when to push deeper, how to weigh the lives of captives against broader military aims, how long a society can sustain the burden of repeated mobilisations – these are no longer purely operational questions. They touch families, communities, and the daily lives of hundreds of thousands of people. As the fighting has continued into its third year, the space for quiet professional judgement has narrowed.