The Postponed Peace: How the Israeli Political System Became a Structural Obstacle to a Settlement with the Palestinians?

In the Middle East, peace projects don't always die because of wars. Sometimes they die because of elections.

For more than three decades, the Palestinian-Israeli scene has seemed to be stuck in a closed loop: negotiations begin, handshake photos are taken for the world to see, promises are made about a “new Middle East,” then everything suddenly collapses, and violence, skepticism, and distrust return to the forefront. And each time, the same question was repeated: Why does peace always fail?

The traditional answer looked for intentions: Who refused? Who conceded? Who betrayed the agreement? But with the passage of time, a deeper question began to assert itself with greater force: What if the problem was not just with individuals or intentions, but with the political structure itself? What if the Israeli political system, in its internal composition, was inherently incapable of producing a stable and long-term settlement?

Israel does not adopt the two-party model as in the United States, nor the relatively stable parliamentary model as in Britain. Instead, it adopts a system of full proportional representation with a single electoral district and a relatively low entry threshold. Ostensibly, this system appears democratic and highly representative, as it allows for broad representation of different currents, but in practice, it has produced a chronically fragmented political landscape.

In almost every election, more than ten parties enter the Knesset, which means any government needs a fragile coalition of ideologically contradictory forces. The prime minister does not actually govern as much as he manages a constant balance between partners who can bring him down at any moment. And here the most dangerous paradox emerges: the smaller, more hardline parties sometimes possess a greater power to obstruct than their actual size.

A party with only six or seven seats can threaten to collapse the government if it feels there is a concession to the Palestinians. Therefore, peace itself becomes an internal political risk. And the closer any Israeli government gets to a real settlement, the closer it simultaneously gets to the possibility of falling.

This is why the failure of negotiations was not merely a result of ideological intransigence or bad intentions, but a result of an entire political structure that punishes any leader who tries to go far in a settlement.

And with the passage of years, the effect of this structural flaw was not limited to obstructing peace; it also began to reflect itself within Israeli society itself. It is strange that a state facing continuous existential security conflicts adopts an electoral system that fragments its society more than it unites it, instead of producing a political structure that pushes towards stable major blocs capable of building long-term consensus around the state's form and strategic path.

In the long run, this fragmentation not only threatens the chances of a settlement with the Palestinians but also opens the door to deeper internal conflicts over the nature of Israel itself: Is it a liberal civil state or a religious nationalist state? What are the limits of the relationship between religion and law? And who defines the “identity of the state”?

With the increasing weight of religious and Haredi currents, intellectual and political fears began to emerge that this division would turn into more radical forms of internal differentiation, reaching demands for cultural or administrative autonomy within the state itself, based on different religious visions of the nature of authority, law, and society.

These cracks appear more clearly when returning to the Oslo experience.

When the Oslo Accord was signed in 1993, the scene seemed like a rare historical moment: a Palestinian leadership recognizing Israel, and Israel recognizing the Palestine Liberation Organization, and the world confidently speaking of an end to the conflict. But the agreement did not enter a stable state with a clear political consensus on peace; rather, it entered a rapidly fluctuating political system, capable of overturning itself with almost every election.

Yitzhak Rabin discovered this early on. The Oslo Accord did not just fall due to the bullet of a Jewish extremist who assassinated Rabin, but it also fell within a political society that was unable to bear the transformation he had begun.

Rabin's assassination was not just the assassination of a man, but the assassination of the idea he represented: that Israeli society might accept paying the political and ideological price for peace. From that moment on, it seemed that any Israeli leader contemplating a historic settlement had to negotiate with the Palestinians, and at the same time negotiate his society's fear, his coalition's divisions, and the possibility of his personal political end.

After Rabin's assassination, Israeli governments began to change rapidly, and each new government reinterpreted the agreement, slowed its implementation, or linked it to additional security conditions, while settlement expansion continued at a steady pace on the ground.

Ehud Barak entered Camp David knowing that any major concession could end his political future. And Ehud Olmert, despite his relative willingness to negotiate, was drowning in coalition crises and internal investigations that made any long-term agreement almost impossible.

And here began the great historical paradox: the fragility of the Israeli political system not only weakened Palestinian trust in Israel but also weakened the Palestinians who had bet on the option of peace itself.

The average Palestinian did not see “peace” in a tangible sense; they saw partial withdrawals, checkpoints that remained, expanding settlements, and an army that still controlled daily life. Palestinians would sign the agreement, then discover that the political ground they stood on was changing faster than the ink on the paper.

And with each new Israeli government, the agreement seemed less stable and more fragile.

In this climate, Palestinian movements opposed to Oslo began to grow and gain wider legitimacy. This was not only due to their ideological or doctrinal discourse, but because many felt that Israel was not actually implementing what was expected. And whenever a stage of the agreement was stalled or an Israeli government changed, these movements found additional evidence to support their narrative.

In other words, the Israeli system's stumbling did not just weaken peace; it indirectly contributed to strengthening the Palestinian forces that had opposed it from the beginning.

If the Israeli political system had been more stable, with governments capable of lasting for a full decade, for example, and implementing long-term commitments, and stopping settlement expansion within a clear vision, perhaps the path would have been different. Societies do not judge agreements by intentions, but by tangible results. And perhaps then the movements rejecting Oslo would not have found the political and psychological environment that allowed them to grow and expand.

But what happened was exactly the opposite.

Every act of violence pushed the Israeli voter further to the right, and every political stalemate pushed the Palestinian street further towards forces rejecting a settlement, until both sides seemed to be gradually pushing each other towards impossibility.

Israeli fear of violence strengthened the Israeli right, and Israeli stalemate strengthened Palestinian movements opposed to a settlement, and then the strength of these movements was used within Israel to justify further extremism. Thus, the conflict entered a closed loop in which each side produced the conditions that increased the other side's fear and pushed it towards further extremism.

The Palestinians, for their part, found themselves facing an absurd dilemma: With whom should they negotiate if the government might change in a few months? And what is the value of signing with a prime minister who might fall tomorrow due to a small party withdrawing from the coalition?

Thus, the political process turned into something like building a house on sand. Not because the agreements were theoretically impossible, but because the system that was supposed to protect them was incapable of providing continuity.

This does not mean that the Palestinians are without mistakes or responsibilities. Internal division, weak institutions, and strategic hesitation at certain historical moments are all real factors that affected the political path. But blaming the Palestinians alone for the failure ignores the fact that the opposing party itself is experiencing a structural crisis that prevents it from making a stable historical decision.

The problem is that the world has long treated the conflict as if it were a dispute between two parties equally capable of making decisions, while the reality is more complex. The Palestinians did not negotiate with a stable state with a fixed vision, but with a political system that rapidly overturns itself, controlled more by short-term electoral calculations than by long-term strategic vision.

And with the passage of time, a new question began to surface: If the two-state solution is unattainable under this Israeli structure, should the nature of Palestinian demands themselves change?

Here, a Palestinian and international current emerged calling for shifting the discussion from “statehood” to “rights.” That is, from demanding only borders and sovereignty, to demanding full civil and political equality among people under Israeli control. For these, the real dilemma facing Israel is not just the occupation, but the increasing contradiction between its self-definition as a democratic state and its continued control over millions of Palestinians without full equality.

In contrast, Palestinians increasingly turned towards the international legal path, utilizing institutions such as the International Court of Justice and the International Criminal Court, believing that legal pressure is less affected by changes in Israeli governments. The idea here is not that the courts will directly liberate the land, but that they gradually raise the political and moral cost of the occupation.

But even these strategies remain limited as long as Palestinian division persists. Division not only weakens the negotiating position but also allows Israel to repeat its most effective argument in its international discourse: “There is no unified partner.”

And perhaps here lies the true tragedy of the entire conflict: one side unable to unite itself, and the other side unable to solidify its decision.

Nevertheless, history rarely remains static. Many systems seemed resistant to change before suddenly collapsing when cost calculations changed. South Africa in the 1980s seemed entrenched, but the slow accumulation of international isolation, internal division, and economic pressure changed the equation within a few years.

Politics is not driven solely by morality, but also by cost. And when the continuation of the status quo becomes more dangerous than changing it, systems begin to recalculate.

Therefore, the most important question today may not be: “Why did peace fail?” but a more harsh and realistic question: “Did the Israeli political system, in its current form, ever have the ability to make a viable peace?”

Until this structure changes, Palestinians will continue to negotiate with a state that changes faster than its agreements, and peace in the Middle East will always remain a postponed project; appearing more in commemorative photos than on the ground.