Netanyahu Shields Ashkenazi Allies in Likud

The mechanics of Netanyahu's maneuvering deserve scrutiny. The Likud conference authorized Netanyahu to place eight reserved candidates in positions 3, 5, 9, 11, 15, 18, 26, and 29. Both Gideon Sa'ar and Haim Katz are expected to fill slots within this quota. Defense Minister Israel Katz, however, received a separate track entirely, justified by the claim that security needs prevent him from campaigning.

Michel Buskila, whose placement stems from the agreement that brought Sa'ar's faction into Likud, brings the total number of Netanyahu-controlled seats to ten. In practical terms, that's ten Knesset positions that Likud's voting members won't actually decide.

The timing tells its own story. The announcement came late at night, less than a week before the primaries, after candidates had already crisscrossed the country, spent money, built campaign operations, and fought for every vote. Just days earlier, Likud's leadership had attacked the party court's authority regarding regional contests; suddenly, when that same court provided legal cover for additional reserved slots, its ruling became sacred justification. It's difficult to ask grassroots members to respect the rules when leadership changes them moments before the starting whistle.

The security justification for Israel Katz's exemption appears particularly weak. If the security situation prevents the defense minister from running a campaign, why did he campaign until now? Why were campaign videos released and political activities conducted? And if it was clear from the start that he needed exemption from competition, why was the decision kept secret and revealed only on the eve of the primaries? Netanyahu may genuinely have wanted to ease his defense minister's burden, but the political result is unmistakable: a senior figure worried about his standing received protection from the voters.

The explanations for the other two reserved slots don't eliminate the troubling optics either. Sa'ar is protected by the merger agreement, Haim Katz by his role as Central Committee chairman, and Israel Katz by his security position. All three are veteran, powerful, experienced politicians. All three are also Ashkenazi. Facing them are dozens of ministers and Knesset members, many of them Mizrahi, people from the periphery and the grassroots, who are being sent to fight over a shrinking number of realistic positions.

In addition to these three, Netanyahu yesterday also reserved a spot for Oren Dobronsky, the first candidate from outside the list, but he too fits a similar profile: Ashkenazi, who made his fortune in Silicon Valley.

There's nothing inherently wrong with reserving a seat for an Ashkenazi candidate, and ethnic origin alone isn't an argument against any individual. Likud should be a broad and diverse movement. But it's hard to ignore the cumulative picture: the diversity Netanyahu speaks about consistently operates in one direction. The populist, vocal, Mizrahi list—the one that brings in the votes and fights for him in studios and on the ground—he seeks to restrain and thin out. The elite figures from security, economics, and the center, who are supposed to give him a more statesmanlike image, he brings in through the fast track.

This isn't just an ethnic debate. It's a question of how voters are treated. Netanyahu appears to believe that Likud's Mizrahi base is a captive audience: they'll be angry at home, grumble at the local branch, perhaps curse in WhatsApp groups—and on election day, they'll come back home.

He sees that Knesset members who oppose his moves brief reporters anonymously, but almost all are afraid to speak on the record. I spoke with several of them myself. They spoke sharply but wouldn't stand behind their words publicly. I saw no point in publishing a rebellion that no one was willing to conduct in their own name.

This silence is Netanyahu's real source of power. Not the reserved slots, not the bylaws, not the party court. He knows the senior figures fear him and that the grassroots are angry—but struggle to imagine another political home. He knows that some media outlets and influential voices among the base will present every move he makes as strategic necessity, and every criticism as betrayal of the camp. This allows him to ask activists to choose their representatives, then inform them that some of the important seats have already been distributed in a closed room.

This comes after years in which the most loyal Likud constituency has paid a heavy price. The cost of living has soared, homeownership has become increasingly distant, and working families feel they're running just to stay in place. When Netanyahu returned as prime minister in 2009, an average three-room apartment cost approximately 803,000 shekels; by the first quarter of 2026, the average apartment price nationwide stood at approximately 2.33 million shekels.

This isn't a perfectly identical comparison of the same type of apartment, so it shouldn't be presented as though "the same apartment" rose from three-quarters of a million to three million. But the trend is undeniable: housing prices have risen at a rate far exceeding wages. Average wages rose from approximately 7,836 shekels in early 2009 to approximately 13,566 shekels in early 2026—an increase of about 73%; apartment prices rose at a far sharper rate during the corresponding period.

Added to all this is the October 7 failure, which occurred on Netanyahu's watch; the policy of transferring Qatari money to Gaza meant to buy quiet that shattered; and coalition budgets that don't provide real answers for working people. One can argue about Netanyahu's share in each failure, and no single person can be blamed for every economic or security process. But someone who claims credit for every achievement over nearly two decades cannot escape responsibility for every failure.

Now comes the direct political injury as well: after the base paid at the supermarket, in mortgage payments, and in personal security, they're being asked to pay in the Likud list too. The representatives they chose will be pushed back to make room for senior figures who could have competed against them—but preferred to receive insurance from Netanyahu.

The previous column ended with Haim Katz's defeat. This one ends with the defeat of the idea of Likud as the people's party. Haim Katz may have lost in the institutions, but he won for himself. Israel Katz might have reached the top, but chose not to test it at the ballot box. Sa'ar entered as part of a deal. And the party member? He's left with the right to choose among the positions Netanyahu left him.

Perhaps this time too the grassroots will swallow the insult. Perhaps the anger will dissipate by election day, and Likud members will stand behind Netanyahu as they've done again and again. If that happens, Netanyahu will prove once more that his bet on boundless loyalty was justified.

But each such reserved slot opens another crack. Every Knesset member who gets pushed aside, every activist who understands their vote is worth less, and every traditional Mizrahi family that feels taken for granted, may seek another address. The person who might benefit from this chaos is Gadi Eisenkot: a security figure, statesmanlike and Mizrahi, who's trying to speak precisely to that soft, traditional right wing that isn't willing to move to the left but is starting to tire of Netanyahu.

It's not certain this represents a mass exodus. Perhaps it's just a few hundred party members and a few thousand voters who've become disillusioned. But elections are sometimes decided by small cracks. Netanyahu has turned Likud into a party with one man at its center. Now the question is when Likud members will realize that their people's party has become Netanyahu's party—and whether they'll have the strength left to take it back.