OCTOBER 16, 2026 13:45

Theodor Mommsen felt strong admiration.

Julius Caesar, noted a future Nobel recipient in The History of Rome, stood as a brilliant statesman whose excellence surfaced only once every thousand years, much like supreme beauty that leaves even talented painters without words.

Composed in 1856, this view reflected the bias historians typically steer clear of, showing a German nationalist's desire for an inspiring figure to unite his divided nation. Such a leader would prove wiser, more daring, and more forward-thinking than average citizens. Charisma, that innate ability to lead, would enable this standout to accomplish what others could not.

A parallel outlook shaped Zionist historian Joseph Klausner's image of the Messiah as Judaism's superior individual, a standout far above the masses, a figure to whom everyone submits freely.

Drawing from Mommsen's image of Caesar, Klausner portrayed Hasmonean King Alexander Janneus not as the harsh ruler remembered by rabbis, but as a notable monarch focused on expanding his land and its beliefs.

World War II led to fascist horrors that stained the idea of the inspiring leader

This perspective held acceptance, even normality, among German-trained thinkers for many years until World War II. The fascist ordeal gave rise to fresh historians who saw that charisma need not always prove a benefit and might instead turn harmful.

In his noted Caesar: A Biography, historian Christian Meier reduced Mommsen's standout to a calculating politician lacking a clear plan for Rome's path, thus failing to direct the major happenings he influenced. Caesar appeared instead as a clever operator reacting to developments driven by powers beyond his control.

For Jewish students of the 20th century, wariness toward charisma seems natural, even as it brought benefits at times, notably when David Ben-Gurion employed it to secure victory in war and when Menachem Begin used it to achieve peace. Yet now the Jewish state moves from a time of charisma into one of its opposite.

The span of this change stays unknown to observers, but for an Israel burdened by Benjamin Netanyahu's strong personal style, the start of this new phase arrives none too soon.

Israel has already experienced two such periods after strong leaders, and their outcomes proved notably positive.

The present time of charisma started in 1996 with Netanyahu's first term as prime minister. Although others held the post in following years, Netanyahu defined the period. And Netanyahu, even critics concede, led through personal appeal.

Netanyahu appeared more striking, articulate, and bold than any rivals. None matched his skill in engaging audiences, handling media sessions, crafting slogans, arranging press images, or giving on-air addresses.

In exchange for these strengths, and as often occurs with such appeal, these qualities paired with a lone operator's reluctance to seek input or even accept other capable voices. The leader thus slowly became not just the head of government but the government in full.

How will Israel step into Netanyahu's sizable role?

This explains why observers now ask, after reviewing possible replacements: how will they fill his large position? The same query arose in 1963 when David Ben-Gurion left after guiding Israel's founding, and again in 1983 when Menachem Begin departed six years after replacing Ben-Gurion's followers.

In each instance the query carried more weight than today, not solely because Ben-Gurion and Begin loomed larger than Netanyahu, but because their replacements showed even less appeal than those who may soon take Netanyahu's place at Israel's leadership.

Levi Eshkol came across as modest, bespectacled, balding, and grandfatherly, fond of Yiddish humor and resembling a tailor fresh from a workshop. In curiosity, reading habits, grasp of history, political outlook, or speaking skill he fell short of David Ben-Gurion.

Likewise Yitzhak Shamir differed from Menachem Begin. Begin spent years in public view, giving passionate, fluent, and spontaneous addresses at large gatherings while leading the opposition for nearly three decades. Shamir passed most of those years in the hidden paths of the Mossad. Short, sturdy, with thick brows, reserved, and plainspoken, he stood as the opposite of charisma.

Even so, this duo of understated figures achieved remarkable results.

Eshkol assembled the forces behind the greatest military success in Jewish history. Earlier, as finance minister in the 1950s, he constructed an economy growing faster than most worldwide, rivaling Korea and Japan. As prime minister he fostered unity, first by arranging a state funeral for his party's old foe Ze'ev Jabotinsky, then by ending military oversight of Arab communities, and finally by including Menachem Begin in the cabinet that secured the 1967 Six-Day War.

In similar fashion the unassuming Shamir guided four million Israelis in absorbing one million newcomers from the collapsed Soviet Union. Along the way he arranged the airlift of Ethiopian Jewry. In between he handled with steady calm Israel's delicate position during the First Gulf War. And prior to all that he and his main opponent, Labor's Shimon Peres, together rescued an economy from runaway inflation.

Shamir and Eshkol recorded these successes not in spite of but due to their modest styles. Their plain manner fostered humility, directing attention to matters at hand rather than personal spotlight, drawing on talent instead of avoiding it, and promoting practical cooperation over constant focus on images, quotes, or addresses.

Now, as the time after Netanyahu draws nearer, this is what Gadi Eisenkot and Naftali Bennett provide, and what a shaken Israel seeks.

www.MiddleIsrael.net The writer, a Hartman Institute fellow, is the author of the bestseller, The Jewish March of Folly (Yedioth Books 2026), now available in English on Amazon.