The Israeli Supreme Court is now weighing a question that would be unthinkable in most Western democracies: Can a court effectively force the dismissal of a cabinet minister who has not been indicted, charged or even questioned under warning?
If that sounds extraordinary, it is. And it demands a closer look—not at personalities, but at the deeper fault lines running through Israeli democracy.
The case centers on National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir and Attorney General Gali Baharav-Miara. But reducing it to a clash of individuals misses the point. At stake are the boundaries between elected power and legal oversight, the structure of law-enforcement authority, and the extent to which courts can intervene in political decisions.
Ben-Gvir entered office in December 2022, promising a more assertive approach to policing. From the outset, he clashed with the legal establishment, which has long maintained that ministers set general policy but must not interfere in operational matters. Ben-Gvir’s position was the opposite: He was elected to change how the police function, and he intended to use the powers available to him to do so.
That tension quickly moved from theory to litigation. Petitions were filed seeking to disqualify his appointment under the doctrine of “extreme unreasonableness.” The court rejected the initial challenge but emphasized that police independence must be preserved. Further petitions followed, including efforts to compel the prime minister to dismiss him.
Over time, the attorney general’s stance hardened. After initially defending his appointment under a restrictive “framework of principles,” she later informed the court that the framework had become a “dead letter,” alleging repeated violations by the minister—ranging from public commentary on investigations to involvement in policing protests and personnel decisions.
Ben-Gvir disputes many of Baharav-Miara’s claims. What he does not dispute is his active role in shaping appointments. “She says I set policy and change the police—she’s right,” he has said. “She says I interfere in appointments—that’s right, too.”
Here, the legal and political arguments collide. Israeli law allows a minister to make senior appointments, but the boundaries of that authority remain murky. Critics argue that such involvement risks politicizing the police. Supporters counter that without influence over personnel, ministerial authority becomes largely symbolic. As Ronald Reagan famously put it: “Personnel is policy.”
The case of police officer Rinat Saban best illustrates the controversy. After Ben-Gvir delayed approving her promotion, citing concerns about her past conduct, a court ruled that he had acted on “extraneous considerations” and took the unprecedented step of effectively granting the promotion without his approval.
To some, this was a necessary check on political interference. To others, it was a striking example of judicial overreach: courts inserting themselves into executive decisions absent clear legal violations.
That distinction is critical. None of the allegations against Ben-Gvir rises to criminal conduct. Yet petitioners and the attorney general are seeking his removal based on a cumulative record of contested actions. This raises a fundamental question: If no law has been broken, what principle limits the judiciary’s power to intervene?
The issue came to a head in a marathon Supreme Court hearing in March. Nine justices sat for nearly 10 hours. The courtroom was closed to the public. The central question was stark: Can the court compel the prime minister to fire a minister without an indictment?
Ben-Gvir’s attorney argued that the court has no such authority. One justice responded that the Basic Law on the Judiciary makes it “very hard to escape the conclusion that we have authority,” leaving only the question of how it should be exercised.
That exchange captures the dilemma. The court appears to be defining the limits of its own power in real time.
The precedent often cited is the 1993 Deri-Pinhasi ruling, in which the court ordered the dismissal of ministers who had been indicted. But extending that doctrine to a case with no charges would mark a significant expansion of judicial authority—one without a clear parallel in other Western systems.
For now, the court has stopped short of removal. In an interim ruling, it allowed Ben-Gvir to remain in office but imposed restrictions on senior police appointments and public commentary. The decision reflects a balancing act: avoiding the political shock of dismissal while deepening judicial oversight.
The consequences extend beyond legal theory. One tangible cost is the ongoing crisis of violent crime in Israel’s Arab sector, where homicide rates have surged in recent years. Responsibility for addressing that crisis is shared across institutions, including the attorney general, who, by law, plays a central coordinating role.
Yet institutional paralysis and overlapping authority have hindered an effective response. This is the practical price of blurred lines of responsibility: when everyone has power, no one is fully accountable.
Another cost is declining public trust. Confidence in the police and legal institutions had already eroded before Ben-Gvir took office, and it remains low. For many Israelis, this case reinforces a perception that the system is driven as much by politics as by law.
Looking ahead, Ben-Gvir is unlikely to be removed. But the precedent being set could shape future cases and future governments. The judiciary is now a central political issue, particularly for voters on the right who view this case as an attempt to override electoral outcomes.
With national elections due by October 2026, the stakes are not abstract. By choosing to hear and not dismiss this case, the court has entered the political arena, whether it intended to or not.
In doing so, it may have strengthened the very forces it seeks to restrain.
