05/30/2026
On a recent Friday morning, about 30 Russian-speaking social activists who immigrated to Israel in the past few years gathered at The International Institute at Beit Berl Academic College in central Israel. Their goal was to acquire tools to increase political involvement in their communities and raise voter turnout among Russian-speaking immigrants.
The language spoken at the gathering was Russian, but the discussion itself was entirely Israeli: how to bring about a change of government in the upcoming elections.
"We spent our whole lives in Russia under a dictatorship. We'd like to try something different here," one participant said with a bitter smile as the first session began. "In Israel, you can exert much more influence than in Russia. Here, every vote counts."
A Russian-language invitation to a rally with Yair Lapid and Naftali Bennett. Nearly 40 percent of new immigrants sat out the last election.
A Russian-language invitation to a rally with Yair Lapid and Naftali Bennett. Nearly 40 percent of new immigrants sat out the last election.
Most of the participants arrived in Israel in the wake of the war in Ukraine. Others immigrated as early as 2014, when Russia's invasion of Crimea signaled the beginning of a more aggressive era under President Vladimir Putin, one in which the regime increasingly cast aside restraints in other spheres of life as well.
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Of the immigrants represented in this group, about 80,000 arrived before Russia invaded Ukraine in February 2022, and another 130,000 came afterward. At least in this room, support for Israel's liberal camp was unmistakable.
One participant at Beit Berl had been active in Russia in the movement led by opposition leader Alexei Navalny, who died in prison in 2024. Another arrived in Israel about a decade ago as a member of the right-wing youth movement Betar, but gradually shifted leftward and is now involved in initiatives connected to the Labor Zionist youth movement Hashomer Hatzair. One woman in the group wore a T-shirt associated with one of Israel's more radical protest organizations.
Research and in-depth surveys conducted in recent years show that these newcomers are, by and large, urban, educated and relatively well-off. Many work in high tech, academia and the liberal professions. They bring substantial cultural capital and tend to embrace Western liberal values.
Could the values of this population, whose core group of post-2022 arrivals alone represents the equivalent of three Knesset seats, become a significant boost for Israel's liberal camp?
The seminar at Beit Berl was designed as a launching point for precisely that effort. It was organized by a grassroots movement that works with local communities to promote values such as equality, democracy and social justice. Before the seminar, organizers established a network of about a dozen Russian-speaking coordinators around the country to lay the groundwork for the effort.
The attempt to rapidly politicize these immigrants is far from simple, especially given that most arrived from a country where democratic institutions had long since become hollow shells.
"Our goal is to free them from the political helplessness they learned in Russia," explained one of the project's coordinators from northern Israel, who herself immigrated about a decade ago.
I came to the seminar to get a sense of the initiative. But during the first panel discussion, the director of the nonprofit politely asked me to leave. The reasoning was cautious but straightforward: although the activity was being conducted in an orderly fashion and under strict legal guidance, media exposure could put the organization at risk.
The concern was that the initiative could be interpreted as violating Israeli laws governing nonprofits, which prohibit the use of organizational resources to promote the electoral success of a particular political bloc, let alone a specific party or candidate. To the organization's credit, which asked that its name not be disclosed here, at no point did organizers explicitly call for support for any particular political camp.
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In practice, though, the data speaks for itself: the political views of these immigrants align overwhelmingly with the opposition parties.
"The overwhelming majority of these immigrants fall somewhere between [former prime minister Naftali] Bennett and [Democrats leader Yair] Golan," said the project leader shortly before being asked to end the interview.
Indeed, a recent survey conducted by political psychologist Dr. Haggai Elkayam Shale among more than 600 Russian speakers who immigrated to Israel after 2012 found that 73 percent described their political orientation as "moderate." Of those, 25 percent identified as moderate right, 30 percent as centrist and 18 percent as moderate left.
Despite the slight tilt to the right, these numbers are encouraging for Israel's shrinking peace camp. Among the large wave of immigrants who arrived during the Ukraine war, more than a quarter, 27 percent, identified themselves as left-wing.
Immigrants who arrived over the past four years also tend to hold strongly liberal views. Seventy-one percent of respondents said Israel should completely separate religion and state. A clear majority, 78 percent, supported recognition of civil marriages conducted outside the rabbinate, while 64 percent said Jewish and Arab children deserve equal rights. Another 69 percent supported full equality for the LGBTQ community.
"Our goal is to free them from the political helplessness they learned in Russia," explained one of the project's coordinators from northern Israel, who herself immigrated about a decade ago.
At the same time, 39 percent of these new immigrants did not vote in the 2022 election. Among those who did vote, 45 percent supported opposition parties, split almost evenly between the centrist Yesh Atid party and the Russian-oriented, right-leaning Yisrael Beiteinu. Only 13 percent voted for parties currently in the governing coalition.
Even within this relatively small group, political shifts remain possible. Nine percent of those who voted for coalition parties last time now say they intend to vote for the opposition, while 40 percent of respondents remain undecided.
"Many of the newcomers live in communities dominated by immigrants from the 1990s," Elkayam Shalem said. "As a result, they often find themselves in traditionally right-wing environments and assume they are the exception. That makes them hesitant to talk openly about politics.
"It's very important for them to realize they are actually part of a large group that could become decisive in the next election, especially because the direction of their vote is already fairly clear. If they turn out in large numbers, they could tip the scales in favor of the liberal camp. Only 10 percent are considering voting for Likud. That's nothing."
Among those working to mobilize this community are Ksenia Tserkovskaya and Yona Roizman, who lead outreach efforts among new immigrants for The Democrats party. In many ways, they themselves embody the trends reflected in the data.
Avigdor Lieberman with Yisrael Beiteinu supporters after the 2006 election. Unlike immigrants from the 1990s aliyah, many newer arrivals do not see themselves as a distinct sector or want to vote for sectarian parties.
Avigdor Lieberman with Yisrael Beiteinu supporters after the 2006 election. Unlike immigrants from the 1990s aliyah, many newer arrivals do not see themselves as a distinct sector or want to vote for sectarian parties. Credit: David Bachar
Tserkovskaya, 34, originally from Moscow, studied Jewish studies and linguistics before completing a master's degree in publishing at Oxford Brookes University. She immigrated to Israel with her family in 2022 and now lives in Ramat Gan.
Roizman, 25, also grew up in Moscow and holds a master's degree in diplomacy from a university in France. She immigrated to Israel the same year. After initially living in northern Israel, she now resides in Tel Aviv and is pursuing a PhD in mediation and conflict management at Tel Aviv University.
"The war accelerated trends that had already been intensifying in Russia for years," Tserkovskaya said. "I have a brother who is of draft age and younger cousins still in primary school. One reason we decided to move was so my brother wouldn't be drafted into Putin's war, and so the younger children wouldn't be brainwashed in school."
Roizman, who had been politically active in Russia, said, "The government started persecuting many people in my social circles. When the war began, I realized there was no longer any hope for change. That was the moment I understood I had no future in Russia."
For Tserkovskaya, who had been involved in environmental and social activism in Russia, the decision to immigrate to Israel was never really in doubt. Still, she arrived with mixed feelings.
"I had a lot of questions about this country," she admitted. "I knew I wasn't fully comfortable with what was happening here politically."
Once again, it was war, this time the one triggered by the events of October 7, 2023, that pushed her into action.
"I became involved in all kinds of initiatives, which allowed me to meet people who share values similar to mine," Tserkovskaya says. Among those initiatives was volunteering to help farmers in southern Israel through a grassroots movement founded by Yair Golan. Inspired by meeting him, she eventually became active in the Labor Party.
"It was clear to me that I had to be as active as possible in order to stop democratic backsliding in Israel while it was still in its early stages," she says.
Most new immigrants don't have access to reliable information. The news they consume passes through a very right-wing or pro-government filter. They're desperate for trustworthy information. If they get it, they could change Israel's political map.
Ksenia Tserkovskaya
Roizman says that same concern motivated her activism. The two women first met at a protest against the government's judicial overhaul.
"People from the Pink Front [the anti-government protest group] asked Ksenia to pass the drum to me, and that's how we met," Roizman recalls. "At the time I was living in the Krayot, and I took the bus to the demonstration in Haifa.
"The realization that I could protest against the government without someone beating me up or arresting me has stayed with me ever since. Compared to what we experienced in Russia, it's a huge change, and it strengthens our motivation to fight for fundamental change in Israel."
"I arrived in Israel just as the protest movement was beginning," Tserkovskaya says. "In Russia, I was afraid even to send political text messages to my closest friends, and suddenly here I am demonstrating openly in the streets without fear.
"I think that experience is the key to understanding my story. Everyone in Israel is talking now about Hungary. But why look so far away? Right here in front of you are tens of thousands of people, at least three Knesset seats' worth, who went through something similar and reached their own breaking point. We lived through it. Let us help make sure it doesn't happen here."
Both women define themselves as liberals, peace supporters and advocates of democracy and equality.
Tserkovskaya also speaks fluent Hebrew, something that sets her apart from many of her fellow immigrants from the "war aliyah." As she explains, "Most new immigrants don't have access to reliable information. The news they consume passes through a very right-wing or pro-government filter, simply because that's what the Russian-language media landscape in Israel looks like today."
She points, among other things, to radio stations run by immigrants who arrived in Israel during the 1990s wave of aliyah.
"In terms of style, vibes and values, those platforms simply don't speak to people who arrived recently," she says. "The problem is that there's almost no alternative, except for a few Telegram channels run by influencers who spread opinions rather than actual reporting. Haaretz doesn't exist in Russian.
"So I try to use the reliable sources available to me to help mediate reality for the immigrants around me. They're desperate for trustworthy information. If they get it, they could change Israel's political map."
Looking back now, how do you explain the strong identification between immigrants from the 1990s and the Israeli right?
"I think the right recognized the immigrants' weak point, the difficulty of integration, and successfully exploited it through populist rhetoric," Roizman says. "But one major difference is that the new wave of aliyah is political in nature and largely liberal in its values. That stems mainly from the circumstances that brought these people here."
The opening of a gallery at Jaffa Port run by a project supporting immigrant artists, June 2024. "These Knesset seats are just lying there waiting to be picked up," says Tserkovskaya.
The opening of a gallery at Jaffa Port run by a project supporting immigrant artists, June 2024. "These Knesset seats are just lying there waiting to be picked up," says Tserkovskaya. Credit: David Bachar
"The immigrants who came in the 1990s never experienced democracy in Russia," Tserkovskaya says. "By contrast, many of those who remained there came to appreciate the value of ties with the West. For 20 years they studied abroad, built international connections and watched their country become increasingly authoritarian and brutal. That's what shaped their political consciousness."
And does that make The Democrats the natural political home for these immigrants?
"After meeting Yair Golan and other activists who later became part of The Democrats, the connection between the party and the new immigrants seemed almost obvious to me," Tserkovskaya says. "It became clear that both sides needed this relationship, even if neither fully realized it yet. What we're trying to do now is build a bridge between them."
And it has to happen quickly.
"Exactly. These Knesset seats are practically lying on the floor, and nobody is picking them up. New immigrants don't yet have established voting habits. Once those habits form, changing their political behavior will become much harder.
"We also need to understand that on some issues they are even more liberal than the average Israeli liberal. The potential here is enormous, both electorally and in terms of human capital, and it still hasn't been realized.
"These people are hungry for political activism," she continues. "Some arrived with serious political experience already behind them. Their alignment with the liberal democratic camp is almost inevitable, but it won't happen on its own. If we neglect them, eventually they'll drift to the right."
"Many of these immigrants live with a sense of dissonance," Elkayam Shalem says. "They have integrated into open, liberal communities and earn high-tech salaries, yet their expectation of living in a successful, flourishing society isn't being fulfilled.
"What frustrates them most are the civil issues. They find it maddening that Israel fails to fully realize its own potential. They care about bread-and-butter issues and about living in an open, free society. That's why they don't see themselves in sectarian terms and don't want to vote for sectarian parties, unlike many immigrants from the 1990s wave."
And yet, according to your survey, they gave Yisrael Beiteinu 20 seats?
"I see that as 'only' 20 seats. When we asked respondents which party they believe looks after immigrants' interests, about 50 percent named Yisrael Beiteinu. But only about a third of those people actually voted for the party. That's a significant gap."
This new immigrant community is worth its weight in gold politically. Their voting patterns in the next election could shape a trend that lasts for decades, just as happened with the immigrants of the 1990s, who eventually became firmly identified either with the right or with Avigdor Lieberman and Yisrael Beiteinu.
Dr. Haggai Elkayam Shalem
The proportion of left-wing voters among the new immigrants, while still relatively high, appears to have declined since the outbreak of the Gaza war. Has the train already left the station?
"If there has been some movement to the right, it likely does stem from the war. But I would be careful about overstating that trend. Even today, the proportion of left-leaning voters among these immigrants is almost twice as high as among the sabra – native-born – Jewish population."
Still, immigrants from the 1990s also tended to support separation of religion and state, ending the rabbinate's monopoly and similar liberal positions. Yet over time they became a reliable right-wing voting bloc, despite the close alliance between the right and the ultra-Orthodox parties.
"People develop habits and political loyalties, and once that happens it becomes extremely difficult to change their minds. Even when reality changes, they adjust their internal priorities in order to maintain the same voting patterns. "So someone might say: 'Likud is terrible on religion-and-state issues, but I vote for them because of security.'
"That's why this new immigrant community is worth its weight in gold politically. Their voting patterns in the next election could shape a trend that lasts for decades, just as happened with the immigrants of the 1990s, who eventually became firmly identified either with the right or with Avigdor Lieberman and Yisrael Beiteinu.
"In the early years there was genuine competition over that electorate. By the beginning of the 2000s, with Ariel Sharon, the battle was essentially decided, and from that point on the pattern held."
The seminar at Beit Berl was part of a broader initiative by the organization, which for the past two years has been running a preparatory program for Russian-speaking immigrants aimed at encouraging civic and political engagement.
The program introduces participants to different forms of activism in Israel and includes lectures by activists identified with the liberal camp.
A natural partner in this effort is Israel Shelanu ("Our Israel"), which works to bring immigrants from different aliyah waves closer to the liberal-democratic camp.
The organization's founder and director, Vicki Idzinski, spoke in a 2024 Haaretz interview about the importance of reaching out to this particular group of immigrants.
"The Russian speakers are starting to understand that they are important for Israeli democracy, and the sabras are stunned when they meet members of this newfangled aliyah," she said at the time. "An elite of that sort usually does not emigrate. What's needed is to make lemonade out of these lemons."
A veteran social activist from Israel's older Russian-speaking immigrant community offered another perspective.
"When we immigrated here years ago and settled in the periphery, parts of the Mizrahi establishment wanted us to go through the same humiliation they had experienced," he says. "Now we're doing exactly the same thing to the new immigrants.
"There's a deep pain here, and also a kind of social policing that gets passed from one community to the next. That's precisely why there's such enormous liberating potential in this wave of immigration. If these immigrants aren't silenced, this aliyah could become a major achievement both for the immigrants themselves and for the liberal camp as a whole."At the same time, he says he understands why many of the organizations involved prefer to keep a low profile for now.
"When the right wakes up, it usually operates more effectively," he says. "It has much greater access to Russian-speaking audiences, and it moves quickly."
The Latest Wave of Immigrants From Russia Is Younger, Liberal and Politically Uncommitted. A Growing Network of Activists Wants to Turn Them Into a Decisive Force in the Upcoming Election
