There is a reality in Israel that many experience but few are willing to say out loud. Perhaps it’s uncomfortable. Perhaps it’s seen as politically incorrect. But avoiding it does not make it any less real. And so it must be confronted. Because when silence replaces honesty, frustration grows, and trust in the system begins to erode.
At its core lies a difficult question: Are those who give the most to the State of Israel—namely, Israel’s soldiers—facing unfair treatment?
For decades, and with even greater intensity since the Hamas-led terrorist attacks on Oct. 7, 2023, hundreds of thousands of Israeli soldiers have placed their lives on hold to serve. Reserve soldiers have completed repeated rounds of duty, risking their lives and carrying lasting emotional, psychological and physical costs. Careers have stalled. Families have been strained. Futures have been delayed.
These are not abstract contributions; they are deeply personal sacrifices made by those who wholeheartedly stepped forward to serve and will continue to do so.
However, when they return home and try to build their futures, particularly those who choose to enter the medical profession, many encounter a system they experience as deeply unequal.
According to data cited by Knesset member Moshe Saada, a Ministry of Health report found that 45% of all medical licenses in Israel in 2023 were granted to doctors of Arab origin, up from 18% in 2010—an increase of nearly 250%. This stands in contrast to the fact that the Arab sector makes up approximately 20% of Israel’s population. It is important to note that only 20% of applicants to medical school in Israel are accepted, meaning many thousands are turned away each year. In such a highly competitive environment, even small differences in admissions criteria can have significant and lasting consequences.
Discriminatory admissions policies to medical studies play a significant role here. Programs such as Re’uyim LeKidum (“Eligible for Advancement”), used by universities including the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Tel Aviv University and Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, allow for bonus points to be added to matriculation and psychometric scores (if the individual is from the Arab sector), which are two of the most decisive barriers to entry into medical school.
What this means in practice is that two students can perform similarly, or one even significantly better, yet the student from the Arab sector will receive additional advantages. The other, more often than not, a discharged Jewish soldier, does not. So, Arab students enter highly competitive medical programs on adjusted admission thresholds due to sector-based criteria, while Jewish students, particularly those who have served the country, must meet far stricter standards. This raises a difficult concern: By awarding bonus points based on sector, candidates with higher scores can be turned away simply because they do not qualify for these adjustments. In effect, qualified applicants are rejected while others with lower entry scores are admitted into the system. Subsequently, it can be argued that on numerous occasions, the student with the lesser capabilities is able to enter the medical system.
Admission also opens access to substantial financial support throughout medical studies—support that many Jewish students cannot access due to the exclusionary entry requirements.
Medical education itself is heavily subsidized: More than 55,000 NIS ($18,600) per student per year, totaling roughly 400,000 NIS ($135,500) over the course of a degree. In practice, this means the state invests tens of millions annually in training doctors who may not have served it, while many who did serve are forced to study abroad at their own expense, paying for an education they could not access at home.
For many Israelis hoping to enter the medical field, this is not simply policy. It feels like preferential discrimination.
It means that young men and women who completed demanding military service for years, often returning when called, and often carrying visible and invisible scars, find themselves at a disadvantage compared to peers who did not serve at all. Those who contributed the most are not necessarily those being prioritized by the state.
At times, the irony becomes almost unbearable: A discharged soldier who leaves Israel to study medicine abroad because he has been rejected from Israel’s system due to an unfair admissions policy may be called back in the middle of his studies for reserve duty to defend the very state that could not make space for him within its own institutions.
Moreover, this current admissions policy is not only discriminatory toward soldiers; it also raises serious concerns about the standards and merit within Israel’s medical system. When entry is shaped by factors beyond academic merit and credentials, it risks undermining the principle of excellence that such a critical profession depends on—a mistake in the medical profession can quite literally be life-threatening.
In that sense, this is not just a moral failure in how the state treats those who serve it but a broader public concern. If selection is perceived to be shaped by criteria other than achievement, then it will ultimately affect the quality of care received by the public as a whole.
Saada argues that this reality is not only flawed but morally wrong. His position is clear: A system that provides significant advantages to those who do not contribute to the state, while disadvantaging those who do, cannot be justified. His principle is simple: “No service, no benefits.” He believes priority in admissions and public-sector roles should be given to those who serve, Jewish and non-Jewish alike.
He calls for a reversal of priorities: affirmative consideration for those who serve, both in medical-school admissions and in access to public health-care positions.
But the concerns extend further.
The same Ministry of Health report noted that 70 Arab doctors licensed in Israel in 2023 after studying abroad graduated from universities in Judea and Samaria (the “West Bank”), including An-Najah National University and Al-Quds University.
According to claims, these institutions have been linked to extremist activity, including individuals involved in past terrorist attacks. For example, An-Najah University has reportedly been associated with individuals involved in violent offenses and with figures convicted of planning attacks. Its student union has also been reported to include Hamas-affiliated figures.
Similarly, Al-Quds University has been linked, in such claims, to individuals involved in violent incidents, including the so-called “Abu Dis cell,” a group of 25 students recruited by Hamas to plan attacks. These students reportedly used Israeli identification documents, enabling free movement across areas.
This raises a troubling question: Should graduates of such anti-Israel institutions be licensed to practice medicine in Israel without additional scrutiny?
Israel has long sought to integrate minorities as part of its national vision. But when policies are perceived as coming at the expense of those who carry the greatest burden of service—and when concerns are raised about potential implications for the safety, security and trust of patients within the very system these professionals serve—they risk creating not cohesion, but fracture.
Saada points to warning signs within the system itself. One senior doctor in one of Israel’s institutions reportedly expressed discomfort with the phrase Israelis repeated during the recent war: “Together, we will win.” They said it alienated some colleagues.
And it raises a further unsettling question: What happens to trust in institutions meant to serve everyone equally when some within them do not align with the shared vision and values of the state?
In light of widely circulated videos from abroad, including one that went viral from Australia showing health-care professionals making disturbing antisemitic statements and stating that they would themselves murder Jewish patients in their hospitals, there is a growing argument that greater scrutiny of medical institutions and professionals is not only justified but necessary.
For Saada, the answer lies in restoring a clear principle: Those who contribute to the state should not be disadvantaged within it. He has called for legislation to reflect this, including prioritizing those who serve and reassessing licensing policies, as well as halting licensing for graduates of institutions linked, in these claims, to extremist ideologies.
For the broader public in Israel, this is not just about medical schools. It is about the relationship between a country and its citizens. If those who give the most begin to feel they receive the least, then the question is not political. It becomes fundamental.
It seems clear that Israelis want a society where contribution matters, where sacrifice is recognized not only in ceremonies but in opportunity, and where a young person who gives years of their life to the country does not feel they must leave it in order to build their future.
If these issues are addressed honestly and constructively, then there is a real opportunity to rebuild a medical system that is fairer and stronger for everyone who calls Israel home.
