• Economics
• India

Last December, Mahesh Odedara signed a contract to live and work for five years in a foreign country thousands of miles away from home and mired in a state of war. Odedara, a 30-year-old farmer from Porbandar, a city in western India, was aware of the risks of working on an Israeli farm. But Odedara’s contract promised him a steady, eight-hour workday, robust workers’ rights under Israeli law, and a 5,571 shekel ($1,500) monthly salary—many times more than what Odedara earned in Porbandar. It was too good to turn down.

Israeli farms are in dire need of agricultural workers like Odedara. Following Hamas’s Oct. 7 attack, the Israeli government barred tens of thousands of Palestinian laborers, a critical component of Israel’s agricultural workforce, from entering the country. By early winter, farms were facing a “manpower crisis.” With no sign of government policy changing, farmers have since turned to importing thousands of foreign laborers from countries such as India, Malawi, and Sri Lanka to stay afloat.

At first, Odedara’s expectations were high. With his newfound salary, he would be able to send home hundreds of dollars each month to support his parents; the money could also go toward purchasing equipment for the family farm. One day, Odedara hoped, he might even be able to buy a home for himself in Porbandar.

But soon after arriving in Israel, Odedara realized that his employers had little intention of honoring his contract. In Ahituv, a farming community in northern Israel, Odedara worked grueling, 11- to 12-hour shifts picking produce; he was forced to work on weekends and was told he would be paid far below the legal hourly minimum wage. Then, at the end of the month, he was not paid at all—Odedara’s boss informed him that his wages had been sent, inexplicably, to his employment agency instead.

(When reached for comment, Odedara’s former employer denied that Odedara had ever worked for him; however, another migrant worker who independently mentioned working for the same employer corroborated Odedara’s claims about labor conditions and missing wages. The employment agency did not respond to a request for comment.)

Odedara’s housing, which farms provide for their workers, also bordered on the uninhabitable. In Khatsav, where Odedara worked for eight days, he slept in a makeshift room erected out of wooden planks and panes of sheet metal; his bathroom was a toilet in an outdoor shack with a dirt floor, and the shower had no hot water. In the first few months, Odedara lost nearly 25 pounds.

Odedara now “really regrets” coming to Israel, he said, even though he counts as one of the lucky ones: Odedara’s brother, Bharat, had already worked in Israel as a caregiver for four years and was eventually able to find him a job at a farm with far better labor conditions.

Yet Odedara’s experiences in Ahituv and Khatsav are far from unique. According to Bharat, abuse and illegal labor practices are widespread. “I used to meet all the new people coming in for agriculture. I was talking to them, and everyone has the same problem,” Bharat said. “They have to fight for their salary, for their rights, for their basic requirements. Nobody is helping them. They are helpless.”

Farming is fundamental to Israel’s national identity, yet the country’s agricultural sector has been reliant on non-Israeli labor for decades. In 1967, after Israel captured the West Bank and Gaza, the government decided to integrate the territories’ residents into the Israeli economy. Since then, “Palestinians have been integral to the Israeli labor force,” said Adriana Kemp, a sociologist at Tel Aviv University who studies Israeli labor. “You could not talk about whole sectors like agriculture or construction without talking about this large number of Palestinians.”

By the 1990s—following spates of violence from Palestinian militants—Israel began “talking about the possibility of opening the gate for overseas labor migrants,” Kemp said. “That’s when they started actually bringing [in workers] from different countries.” But even so, Palestinians stayed in large numbers; in 2021, tens of thousands of Palestinian laborers made up a quarter of Israel’s total agricultural workforce.

Then came Oct. 7. Claiming that agricultural workers from Gaza had provided intelligence to Hamas fighters, the Israeli government barred some 20,000 Palestinian agricultural laborers from reentering the country. (Israel’s internal security service has since partially disputed this finding.) Around the same time, some 7,800 Thai workers, previously the largest population of overseas workers in Israel due to a 2012 Israeli-Thai bilateral agreement, fled after at least 39 of them were killed in the Hamas attack.

Almost overnight, the agricultural sector lost over a third of its entire foreign workforce. In the early weeks of the war, even though Israeli volunteers stepped in to help struggling farmers, farms hemorrhaged profits. By November, to replenish the labor force, the Israeli government announced that it would allow up to 5,000 overseas workers into the country via a new immigration scheme.

When Orit Ronen heard about the scheme, her immediate thought was that it would lead to “one big balagan”—Hebrew for a “chaotic mess.” Ronen, who works at Kav LaOved, a Tel Aviv-based labor rights nonprofit, was acutely aware of how vulnerable the new arrivals would be, given existing exploitation. Ronen also knew that many farms lacked sufficient infrastructure to house workers, since the farms’ previous Palestinian laborers had simply commuted in from the West Bank or Gaza.

Ronen was right to worry. Since early December, when thousands of new laborers began arriving in Israel, Kav LaOved has received more than 300 requests for information and assistance from workers reporting a litany of abuse. The conditions Odedara and others have experienced are blatantly illegal under Israeli labor law. But ever since the Oct. 7 attack, labor law enforcement has been “less than before,” Ronen said. “And even before, it was low.”

The Population and Immigration Authority (PIBA), the Israeli government agency tasked with labor law enforcement, did not respond to requests for interview. “We have the call center for foreign workers, where they can explain exactly the problem, and they will be checked,” PIBA spokesperson Sabine Haddad wrote in an email.

Migrant workers also often hesitate to contact PIBA’s call center for fear of retaliation; employers “are telling [workers] that we will send you back to India if you will not work as we say,” Bharat said. Employers “can’t do that. I know that, but [the workers] don’t. They are new.” (Israeli law allows workers to stay in the country for 90 days to find a new employer if they have been fired.)

The threat of deportation is especially potent because most workers are effectively stranded in Israel for the duration of their five-year contracts, thanks to the outsized fees they paid before departing for Israel. In Odedara’s case, an agent in India asked him for $6,300 in an under-the-table payment, which he paid for with his family’s savings.

These fees are not a new phenomenon, but labor advocacy organizations scored a major victory in 2012, when Israel and Thailand established a bilateral agreement that eliminated predatory fees for Thai migrant workers. The post-Oct. 7 immigration scheme, which has no such provision, threatens to undo this progress. “The [workers] that come, especially from India, paid thousands of dollars” to brokers, Ronen said. “For them, that’s a very big deal, and that makes them very vulnerable.”

And then there is the war. Melbin Paul, a 29-year-old from the southern Indian state of Kerala, was assigned to work at a poultry farm close to the Israel-Lebanon border, which the Lebanese militant group Hezbollah has fired rockets across nearly every day since Oct. 7.

On the morning of March 4, Paul looked up from trimming an almond tree and saw a missile heading straight toward him and his fellow workers. “There was no time to run,” he said. The projectile, a Hezbollah anti-tank missile, made impact “in the blink of an eye.” Paul’s friend, 31-year-old Kerala native Pat Nibin Maxwell, was instantly killed. Paul, who had stood a few yards away from Maxwell, was left with dime-sized shrapnel wounds scoring the right side of his body.

“Even before the war, it was very common for agricultural workers that work near the Gaza Strip to be injured or killed,” said Michal Tadjer, a lawyer who runs a workers’ rights clinic at Tel Aviv University. Maxwell is one of at least a half-dozen agricultural workers who have been killed by rocket fire in the past decade.

Following the April 13 Iranian strikes on Israel, the Indian foreign ministry urged its citizens in Israel to register themselves at the Indian Embassy and “restrict their movements to the minimum.” The warning belies the reality that the new workers have far less understanding of the security situation than longtime Palestinian laborers or Thai migrants, who have been in Israel for decades.

Paul and his friends had never even been told that their farm was located in a closed military zone that Margaliot residents had evacuated in mid-October. “This is my first time in Israel,” Paul said. “I [didn’t] know where the firing and war” was.

Yet the scale of migrant worker exploitation could soon grow even worse. Fewer than 3,000 new agricultural workers have arrived since November; an additional 8,000 to 12,000 workers are needed to bring farms back to full labor capacity, according to Ronen. A separate deal is already in place to bring 10,000 Sri Lankan laborers to Israel over the coming months. More balagan is likely to follow.

There will also be profound security consequences to shifting away from Palestinian labor. Before Oct. 7, the income of Palestinian laborers in Israel made up about 20 percent of the Palestinian Authority’s GDP. For months now, Israel’s internal security service has called for Palestinian workers from the West Bank to be let back into Israel, warning that increasingly dire economic conditions in the West Bank will lead to further destabilization and violence. But right-wing ministers in the Israeli government have refused to lift the ban, citing the need to move away from Palestinian labor at all costs.

For the workers, their salaries are far beyond the meager sums they could earn back home. For Odedara, there’s much left to do: His current job, while a significant improvement over his previous stints, still pays below what his contract stipulates, and then there is the matter of getting his missing wages back. Odedara is “going to find a solution,” Bharat said. “He wants to stay here but in a good condition—not like this.”

Regardless, the post-Oct. 7 wave of new arrivals will remain in Israel until 2029—meaning that, for at least the next five years, many Palestinian farm workers will not have a job to return to even if the ban on Palestinian labor is lifted.

The only certainty, it seems, is that Israel will have to continue to look beyond its own population for labor. “Israel has relied on noncitizen labor in agriculture for a long time, whether Palestinian or non-Palestinian,” Kemp said. “This structural dependence will not go away.”