A constitution is the moment a national movement decides what it will leave behind—and what it intends to carry forward.
When a national movement publishes a draft constitution, it is making a statement not only about governance but about its future intentions. It is saying: This is who we are. This is what we aspire to become. This is how we intend to live with others.
The newly released draft constitution of the “State of Palestine” does many things. It speaks the language of rights. It promises democratic institutions. It describes separation of powers. It invokes international law. It presents itself as the founding charter of a modern state.
But what it does not say is just as revealing.
Nowhere in the draft does it mention Judaism. Nowhere does it acknowledge the Jewish people’s historic connection to the land. Nowhere does it recognize the State of Israel. Nowhere does it declare a commitment to live in peace with all neighboring states.
For a people seeking international recognition and statehood alongside Israel, that silence is deafening.
The document declares Jerusalem the capital and entrenches that status constitutionally. It preserves the Palestine Liberation Organization as the “sole legitimate representative,” even after the proclamation of statehood. It speaks of homeland and land in expansive terms but does not define borders. The territorial scope of this proposed state is left deliberately ambiguous.
Constitutions typically settle such questions. They draw lines. They define sovereignty. They clarify jurisdiction. Here, however, ambiguity serves a purpose. A state without defined borders is a state that has not resolved its claims.
And then there is the most troubling feature of all.
The draft constitution enshrines state responsibility for the “martyrs,” the prisoners, the wounded and those who are released. It mandates comprehensive care for these categories and their families.
Words matter. In Palestinian political vocabulary, “martyrs” and “prisoners” are not abstract concepts. They are individuals who carried out or attempted acts of violence against Israelis—men and women convicted of terrorism, including murder.
For years, the Palestinian Authority’s system of payments to prisoners and families of so-called martyrs has been the subject of intense international controversy. Critics have described it as “pay-to-slay,” arguing that financial rewards tied to imprisonment for terror offenses incentivize violence. Palestinian officials have insisted reforms were implemented and that payments were folded into broader social-welfare mechanisms.
A constitution is an opportunity to make a clean break with the past. It is the place where a society signals what it honors and what it repudiates. Instead, this draft elevates those categories to constitutional status.
It is difficult to square that choice with claims of reform.
If a Palestinian state truly seeks peaceful coexistence, then why constitutionalize the infrastructure associated—fairly or not—with glorification of violence? Why not make it explicit that the era of incentivizing or romanticizing attacks on civilians is over?
Supporters of Palestinian statehood often argue that formal institutions will moderate political culture. That statehood will create responsibility. That constitutions civilize revolutionary movements.
Perhaps. But constitutions also reveal priorities.
This draft does not contain a single line recognizing the legitimacy of a Jewish state alongside a Palestinian one. It doesn’t define borders in a way that signals finality of claims. It doesn’t include a clear renunciation of violence as a political tool. And it embeds language that many Israelis—and certainly, victims of Palestinian terrorism—cannot read as neutral.
As the father of a young American murdered in a Palestinian terrorist attack, I read this document not as a theoretical exercise but as a moral statement. Constitutions are about values. They teach the next generation what is sacred.
If the foundational law of a proposed state cannot bring itself to utter the name of its neighbor, cannot acknowledge the other people who claim rights to the same land and cannot disentangle national identity from the elevation of those who shed civilian blood, then it is not yet a blueprint for peace.
Peace requires more than institutional architecture. It requires intellectual honesty. It requires defining borders. It requires ending open-ended claims. It requires teaching children that killing civilians is not martyrdom.
The international community should read this draft carefully before applauding it as evidence of “state-building.” The test of a constitution is not whether it sounds modern in translation. The test is whether it closes the door on perpetual conflict.
This one leaves that door wide open.
