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Backlash to the KingmakerWhat the rise of Avigdor Lieberman means for Russians in Israel.

By Sarah A. TopolPosted Friday, March 13, 2009, at 6:53 AM ET

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Christopher Hitchens described Avigdor Lieberman as "a thug and a demagogue," while Shmuel Rosner said Israel Beitenu's rise could be seen "as a sign of maturity in Israeli politics."

During our 30-minute conversation, Nizhnik knocked back four shots of Jameson whiskey without batting an eye, as if to flaunt the stereotype of the hard-drinking Russian. "[Repatriates] have been immunized against liberal democracy. … We heard all the leftist fairy tales and lullabies, and we can't be bought with them. Maybe the locals can, but not us. Don't get me wrong," he adds, "I'm not against democracy, just the kind of democracy we have in Israel. Life is too hard here. Life, God, death, and war are always right beside us."

Nizhnik also takes pride in Israel Beitenu's success with mainstream voters. He tells me times are changing for Russians—their culture and their political opinions are becoming more accepted by the mainstream. "Russians have stopped being on the periphery here. Our violin joined the symphony and began to play. Now we are part of the Israeli orchestra, because it wasn't just Russians who voted for Lieberman."

For all the Russian repatriates' attempts to convince me they are accepted here, behind closed doors, sabras tell another story. To them, Russians remain outsiders. Young and old alike turn sour when discussing Lieberman's rise.

I met Danny on a bus in Jerusalem. His views echoed what many other Israeli-born Jews told me. "The Russians? Lieberman? This is an embarrassment. They come here, they eat pork, most of them are not even Jewish!" he exclaimed. "And now they've elected him, they will ruin our country."

It is not only older Russian immigrants who felt alienated upon arriving in Israel. Twenty-one-year-old Yana moved to Be'ersheva from Russia when she was 7. Four years ago, when she moved to Tel Aviv, she changed her name to Lee. "I didn't want people to know I was Russian," she explained. "I was tired of being mocked and called a prostitute. I thought life would be easier." Lee doesn't "look" Russian—she looks like all the other beautiful girls with hazel eyes and flowing brown hair who roam the city's streets. Dressed in the latest fashions, she attracted admiring glances from other tables in the coffee shop where we met. "But I'm Russian, no matter how hard I try, I'm Russian here." She sighed. "I guess things are changing."

Two years ago, I met Sveta in Nicaragua. She was backpacking after her army service, an Israeli rite of passage. Sveta looks Russian, with long blond hair and bright blue eyes. She moved from Odessa at 13 and considers herself Israeli.

As we chattered away in Russian at a bar in Jerusalem, I glanced around to see if people were looking at us. I detected a faint air of distaste from the next table. Was I just being paranoid? After serving in the army, speaking Hebrew fluently, living and working here, how would it feel still to be labeled Russian? "Doesn't it bother you?" I asked Sveta.

"Of course," she replied, dragging heavily on her cigarette, "But that's reality. The only thing I can do is prove them wrong. I just have to show them Russians aren't like all the stereotypes." But with her parents and her friends voting for Lieberman, empowering themselves at the expense of reviving old stereotypes, I wonder if she can.