When I arrived in Israel and we went through special aliyah processing, I noticed that there was no address next to my name on the list at the processing.

Everyone else had an address.

After I went through customs and was given a voucher for a free taxi ride, I noticed again that there was no address assigned for me on that voucher.

After asking, I was told that I was to be delivered to the absorption center in Raanana, the very one that had rejected me for being too old.

Blame It on Who?

At that point I was told I was to go to Tel Aviv and someone in charge had to initial and change all my documents. However, that change was never input into the computer system and caused me problems later. But, that is another story.

Despite the antibiotics, I still had a fever. The minute I opened my mouth to speak, I coughed until I choked.

I was staying with my ex-husband's cousins, and they had decided that I looked and sounded so bad that I needed to be seen by a doctor.

Health care is mandatory in Israel. But, it is typical socialized medicine. In order to get signed up for health care, I must take a voucher to the Post Office. They stamp it and send a copy to the medical insurance plan that I have chosen.

So What Is the Difference?

There are four plans, and each is similar. Then I take the stamped voucher to the local clinic. Normally it would take two weeks to get the medical ID card, but technically I am eligible for medical coverage from Day One.

But, the Post Office had decided to go on strike the week I arrived. They still sold stamps and sent mail. But they refused to process the health care vouchers. Everyone in Israel is on strike at one time or another.

­
Lesson No. 2: Act like an Israeli. That means, that the word “no,” or “lo” in Hebrew, is just another way of starting negotiations.

Plant Your Feet and Resist

My cousin stands in line and refuses to move until the postal clerk takes action. He raises his voice, points to me and refuses to budge.

He has the clerk call his supervisor, who already has left the Post Office.

We then go to the local clinic. They won't see me because I am not in their computer, have no id card, and no stamped voucher from the Post Office.

Again, my cousin stands in line and refuses to move. He raises his voice, points to me, and tells them that I might have pneumonia, and Shabbat is coming. What do they intend to do about it.

Could It Get Worse?

I look like death warmed over. They call a supervisor, also someone who is at home. Finally, I am given permission to be seen by one of their doctors.

I had now been in Israel for only two days,
my first, but not last, taste of bureaucracy and strikes. More to come. The saga continues…

l’hitraot, Shachar