Israel is a country of much history, but demography is the key to its destiny. How Israel manages its multiplying -- some might say, metastasizing -- multiculturalism is critical to its identity, even to its survival.

On a recent visit to the Jewish State, my first night in Jerusalem was a Friday night, Shabbat. So I went for a walk through the ultra-orthodox neighborhood of Mea Shearim, just a few blocks away from the King David Hotel, with my friend, Lloyd Green, Middle East correspondent for Talk Radio News Service. Lloyd is fluent in Hebrew, and that was a good thing. He translated a sign on a building at the edge of the neighborhood: all visitors are urged to wear "modest" clothing. "Marking the turf," Lloyd explained. Not a problem for me; it was chilly, and I was bundled up. The streets were crowded with men and boys in Hasidic finery, mostly black suits and black felt hats, but a few, of a different sect, wearing fur hats, and some dressed entirely in white suits. This is an anthropologist's dream, I thought to myself, to see the fashions of 18th century Poland -- the homeland of the Hasidim -- on proud, time-warpy display.

As we walked along, I asked Lloyd to translate the things we saw. As the national elections were just a few days away, the streets were cluttered and trashed with campaign placards and literature. But one banner soared overhead, strung on a rope line between two buildings. It was a denunciation of the political process altogether. I pulled out a pen and started scribbling. I was writing, "Don't vote for the Knesset of Heretics," when I heard shouts from a group of Hasidim a few yards away. "Put the pen away," Lloyd said urgently. "That's the Shabbat rule around here." The rule, that is, against carrying any tools. "But I'm not a Jew," I said stupidly. "Doesn't matter," Lloyd responded. "This is their turf." So away went the pen, away went a bit of modernity. Lloyd turned to the group, spoke a few words to them in Hebrew, and they went on their separate way.

At no time during this brief incident did I feel physically threatened, but perhaps I should have. A few weeks later, in the same Mea Shearim district, a postal worker was delivering the mail, including a brochure, printed by the government, on how to survive an unconventional warfare attack, as from a Scud missile. Useful information to have, one might think. But not everyone thought so. The brochure featured a picture of an Israeli family, including a smiling woman who had no head covering. And that's not allowed in Mea Shearim, on Friday, or any day. A mob of local residents ripped up the booklets and warned the postman not to deliver any more brochures.

This is not the typical Israel. A far larger group of Israelis are secular, for instance, Ze'ev Bak. He is a tour guide by profession and one of the most erudite men I have ever met. I could point at anything animal, vegetable or cathedral in the city of Jerusalem and get a noteworthy lecture. And he never once chewed me out for taking notes. Yet sadly, his business has been hit hard by the terrorism of the past two-and-a-half years, as well as fears of more violence ahead. He told me that in 2000 he led 50 tours. In 2002, he conducted precisely one.

Yet as Bak phlegmatically scratches along, trying to make ends meet, he resents paying taxes so that tens of thousands of "ultra orthodox" Israeli men can devote themselves full time, for a lifetime, to their Yeshiva studies. A cradle-to-grave welfare state for the religious-minded enrolled in Bachurei Yeshiva? Yup. And then there is money for more cradles; the so-called haredim have many children, and families of six or eight or 10 are common.

But what Bak resents even more than the tax subsidy is the military loophole; those who make a career out of studying the Torah and Talmud are exempt from military duty. By contrast, Bak, aged 51, who went into the army at age 18 and served the standard three years, spent an additional three years of his life in the uniformed reserves, including duty in combat zones such as the Golan Heights in 1973, Lebanon in 1982, and the West Bank in the 21st century. In fact, according to one estimate, just 45 percent of Israeli men of military age serve in the Israel Defense Forces.

No wonder Bak is a strong supporter of the Shinui, or "Change" party that campaigned on a platform of restoring the once-shared ethos of fairly distributed service and sacrifice. Shinui came in third in the Jan. 28 balloting, soaring from six seats in the old Knesset, or parliament, to 15 in the new one, its best showing ever. However, it is not yet clear whether that strong performance will earn it a place in the new Israeli government being formed by Prime Minister Ariel Sharon.

But in large part because of demographics, the relative success of Shinui notwithstanding, the political future of Israel seems destined to tilt toward the right -- and to the religious right at that.

Put simply, the old Zionists, the Ashkenazim from Europe, those who lost their religious faith in the Holocaust but found a new faith in fighting for their country, are dying off now, in gloried old age. Their children and grandchildren might have been born as socialists on a kibbutz somewhere, but as lefty, sweat-of-the-proletariat idealism wears away, many those same sabras are now thinking like capitalists. They have their eyes on careers in science or software, aspiring toward an American-style lifestyle. And yet because it is hard for Israel to be pluralistic, sophisticated Athens when militarist Sparta is more the order of the day, many of these best and brightest, or at least the yuppie-est of them, have one foot in Manhattan or La Jolla. And they have a passport that could get them there, if need be.

But of course, most descendants of the old secular Ashkenazim are staying; indeed, some have become orthodox themselves. This conversion experience is usually a spur for other changes, such as the desire to have large families. And these "born again" Ashkenazi Jews have been strengthened by an influx of True Believers -orthodox, nationalist Jews from the United States and elsewhere in the Diaspora. Many of these newcomers seem to gravitate toward settlements in the West Bank and Gaza, where they are eager to put down roots -- and to pick up guns.

And as the Ashkenazim are waning, other groups are waxing filling the political vacuum and moving the little nation's center of gravity far more to the right.