Amir Badran is 54 years old. Born in Jaffa, a former Arab town which is now part of Tel Aviv, he received a Christian education and learned French at the Collège des Frères. After studying law in Paris, he settled in Jaffa as a lawyer. He became involved in politics as a member of the Hadash party, which incorporates the former communist party and other Jewish and Arab left-wing movements. Amir Badran has been elected several times to the Tel Aviv/Jaffa City Council, where he is now the leader of the opposition. Despite his sometimes radical positions, he has earned the respect of his colleagues, and was last year appointed to represent Tel Aviv at a congress of Middle Eastern cities held in the United Arab Emirates. Amir Badran is passionately committed to Jewish-Arab coexistence. Here he reveals one of the driving forces behind his actions: Because of his mixed origins, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is an intimate part of his being.
F. T.
Florence Taubmann — Amir Badran, you are a lawyer in Jaffa, and Deputy Mayor and opposition leader in Tel Aviv. How do you view the Israeli-Palestinian conflict?
Amir Badran — I was born at the heart of this conflict, and of everything that has come out of it. My mother is Jewish and my father is a Palestinian, a Muslim. They made the choice, not me, in 1970. Back then, it was even more difficult than it is today to talk about mixed couples. It’s not about a cause, or about two states, it’s about a couple: two human beings who love each other, but who come from two different societies and two different religions. And these two people want to found a home, and have children. So they have to ask themselves a lot of questions. What will be the children’s destiny? Their future? Will they be Palestinian? Will they be Jewish? On the Jewish side, if the mother is Jewish, you’re Jewish. But on the Palestinian side, if the father is Palestinian, you’re Palestinian. So you have to live with that duality.
F. T. — How did the families on both sides see things?
A. B. — If you widen the family circle, the duality is even stronger. My father’s family lives in the north of the country, in an Arab village called Umm el Fahm. My mother’s family lives not far from Tel Aviv, in a very religious town called Bnei Brak, which has the highest proportion of ultra-Orthodox Ashkenazi Jews in the world. As a child, when I went on holiday to my father’s village, where there were only Arabs, I’d be told, “But you’re a Jew!” And when I went to Bnei Brak and played with the Jewish kids, very quickly I was referred to as “the Arab.”
F. T. — How do you deal with this situation?
A. B. — It’s hard to say. I want you to understand not just the complexity of a life like mine, but also its possibilities, because I do believe that a future is possible. It’s thanks to all these contradictory elements that I’ve become what I am today. I’m 54 years old and I speak four languages: Hebrew as my mother tongue, Arabic as my father tongue, plus French and English. I don’t think I was unfortunate because my parents came from two different worlds – quite the contrary! I believe that diversity gave me something of value that many people would like to have. If they don’t have it, it’s because they’re locked up in their own little boxes, and they refuse to look out and see other people and try to understand them. The major challenge confronting us in the future is to avoid remaining stuck in our own narrative, our own version of history, but to hear the other side’s narrative too.
F. T. — Hasn’t it become even harder to communicate after the tragedy of October 7, 2023?
A. B. — October 7 was a terrible day, a day of massacre. Then the war broke out. The dead and wounded number in the thousands on both sides. We’re mired down in warfare. I live in Jaffa, a mixed city with 20,000 Arabs, out of the 500,000 inhabitants of the Tel Aviv/ Jaffa conurbation, i.e. 4% of the total population. As a Palestinian minority, we quickly realized that we had to act to avoid a repeat of May 2021, when violence broke out between Jews and Arabs, and people died. So, on the evening of October 7, we got together and organized to mobilize various Palestinian associations. We agreed to create a popular movement that wasn’t just Arab. We needed a mixed movement that included our neighbors and our Jewish colleagues, all those who live with us in Jaffa.
The very next day, we launched an initiative that has become a model for the whole of Israel, not just for mixed towns. Its name is Mishmar Hashoutfout Hayehoudit Haarabit (Jewish-Arab Vigilance Association).
We identified three key goals. The first was to set up a 24/7 hotline that people could call if they were in distress. We had to show both Jews and Arabs that we were there for them, to help them in their hour of need. The second was to provide food, medicine, clothing and hygiene products to those in need. This was specifically aimed at unrecognized Bedouin villages in the Negev, as well as the so-called “Gaza envelope,” that is, the Israeli territory bordering the Palestinian enclave, whose inhabitants, Jews and Arabs alike, were particularly hard hit by the war, and no longer had enough to live on. They were transferred to Tel Aviv, but we helped them too. The third was to provide personal and family security for both Jews and Arabs. This was very important. We started with the Jews, because they were on the front line and had to be defended against attacks from extremists from outside Tel Aviv/Jaffa, whose aim was to sow hatred and racism. This effort mobilized 4,000 volunteers in three days. It was an enormous undertaking, it was extraordinary, and it was replicated just about everywhere. I’m proud to have been at the origin of this movement, and to have headed it up. Today, we’re also working on other projects for the future.
F. T. — Hearing you speak makes one think that peace is possible. Do you really believe it’s true? On what conditions?
A. B. — First of all, we have to believe. We have to announce loud and clear that when we talk about Israelis and Palestinians, we’re not just talking about enemies, but about brothers and cousins. We’re talking about peoples of the same origin, cultures that have things in common. What brings us together is far more important than what separates us. But this of course is hard to see in times of war, because in a situation like this, we instinctively tense up, we seek out our own, we close ourselves off, and we violently reject the other. All the differences are exacerbated: linguistic, religious, societal and social. But they all fade away as soon as we start working together and talking to each other. As a city councillor in Tel Aviv/Jaffa, I’m used to working with and talking to other elected representatives, including Likud and Orthodox members, with whom I can have lively but still friendly discussions. That’s because we’re dealing with concrete issues that affect people’s lives. For example, I was able to convince the council to meet the educational needs of Arab children with autism or other disabilities. On September 1, 2025 the first Arab school for those in need of special education was opened in Tel Aviv.
F. T. — Amir Badran, you have shown us that putting politics in direct contact with civil society is one of the keys to success.
A. B. — The key is allowing people to see each other as human beings. I usually keep my private life separate from my other activities, but if I’ve agreed to talk to you about my own personal and family history, it’s because I believe that the path chosen by my parents can be instructive. It was ahead of its time. Despite the difficulties they faced, they were able to build something true and solid. Their couple can be an example of hope for two peoples who simply want to live. How can we love each other instead of making war? How can we share instead of confiscating? How can we treat each other as human beings? If the will is there to create a new, different future, nothing can stand in its way. But the will is essential.
