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.
Four realities help explain why.
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.
The second is the absence of a shared definition of success. Official statements still speak of dismantling Hamas’s military capacity, bringing the captives home, and restoring security to the border communities. In practice, these aims pull against one another and are valued differently by different actors. Some emphasise lasting control or the elimination of residual threats. Others place the captives first or warn against an open-ended occupation. When the meaning of victory itself remains unsettled, each side begins to measure progress by its own lights. Soldiers and their commanders look for results that can be sustained. Political leaders look for outcomes that can be explained to a weary public and to their own political bases.
The third is the divergence of human incentives. Senior officers live with the state of the force and with the consequences of decisions that send people into harm’s way. Ministers live with coalition pressures, public anger, and the next election. When these pressures collide, public disagreement becomes more likely. The longer the war continues without a clear and jointly accepted end, the more often those collisions occur in the open.
The fourth, and most revealing, is the reversal of who defines the possible. Previously, the army told the political leadership what could realistically be achieved. Today, political leaders increasingly tell the army what must be achieved – and attack it when the answer is no. The military is no longer the institution that sets the ceiling of ambition. It is expected to make the politically desired outcome possible, and it is blamed when the limits of force become visible. This is not a minor adjustment in tone. It is a structural inversion of the old partnership.
The result is a deeper uncertainty about authority. In a short campaign, the question of who ultimately directs the war can remain unspoken. In a long war, it becomes unavoidable. Does final responsibility rest with the prime minister, the security cabinet, the defence minister, or the chief of staff? Different answers produce different strategies, different tolerances for risk, and different timelines for ending the fighting. When these answers are disputed in public, the coherence of decision-making suffers, and so does the clarity of what is being asked of the people who must execute the decisions.
The practical effects are already felt. Shared objectives become harder to set. An end that both political and military leaders can accept becomes more difficult to reach. A single durable strategy grows less likely. These are not problems of personality. They are problems of a system under prolonged strain. A country that once relied on the military’s professional standing to define the realistic boundaries of political ambition now finds politicians demanding outcomes that the army is expected simply to deliver, while soldiers, reservists, and families continue to bear the human consequences.
The public dispute between a defence minister and a chief of staff may look, on the surface, like another round of personal or partisan conflict. It is better understood as the latest expression of a larger question that has accompanied Israel since October 7: When a war stretches across years rather than weeks, who finally decides what is possible – the politician whose survival depends on the appearance of control, or the general who believes he understands the limits of military power? The answer will shape not only the relationship between government and army, but the manner and the moment in which this war eventually ends, and the human price still to be paid until then.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
