What Great Recession?

I left America in the Great Recession. I expected Israel to be in no less.


I had heard inklings otherwise. The housing market didn’t taking as big of a hit here. Mortgage lenders resisted the temptations of sub-prime bundling funny money. Unemployment didn’t soar. The gap between rich and poor continued to widen, but that – chaval (unfortunately) – was not news.

Still, I expected a land half-drowning in the gargantuan recessionist wake of its sponsor across the seas.

Lihefech. How wrong I have been.

It’s a place of considerable economic optimism. And for good reason. Israel understands itself and its role in the world economy. It’s a producer of one great resource, which multiplies into many. Ideas. Jewish brainpower given the license, and the financial backing, to dream, invent, and innovate. Almost behind the world’s back – so bent as it is on delegitimizing Israel politically -- Israel has become one of the world’s leaders in research and development.

People with ideas do great things in this economy, and in the world economy. And it trickles down to daily life in the village. One look at the ubiquitous on-line “Modi’in list” yields a roster of individuals determined to transform their ideas into a living. Jobs sizzle on employment websites like burgers at (a kosher) McDonald’s. And are devoured likewise. High-tech companies envelop the Sharon-plain highways like the buns on the burger.

An atmosphere of opportunity abounds – even for an ex-congregational Conservative rabbi from the States, not the most employable of designations here in this land of regrettable “official” Judaism.

Granted, the economics of Israel are hard. Wages are much lower than the US. The cost of living – excepting health care and education – not much different. Where the twain shall meet? Lives piecing together 5 jobs, and consistent overdraft. Making end of the month payments, period. On a grand scale, severe underfunding of national priorities outside of defense. And if you’re an oleh, best to still follow the adage that in order to make a small fortune here, bring a large one.

But, friends, this is not your dad’s Israel. Israel is now a capitalist country with some socialist leanings, not vice versa. Israelis are not sitting waiting for Iran. They have better things to do. Better things and better ideas than most anywhere, I venture to say.

It Happened: My Hebrew Breakthrough

It happened, of all places, on the basketball court. Not a classroom. Nor a sabra’s Shabbat table. Not the bank, the post office, city hall, the supermarket, and dozens of other places where I’ve felt like half-a-dummy for the first half-year of my life as an oleh. My Hebrew breakthrough, on the basketball court.


I’ve been playing five-on-five, weekly, for the past four months, back on the court after a bar-mitzvah long absence. At times exhilarating – hitting that game-winning shot once again (at least once…). At times frustrating – I ain’t 30 no more. And always – lonely. I don’t know the guys. And I don’t know the language to get to the know the guys. Let alone the language to let a teammate know he’s about to be felled by a stunning pick.

As a student of Hebrew, I’ve long been like a computer with with no operating system. Full of detail, no good way to spit it out. An academic’s dream. A layperson’s nightmare. Cracking my teeth when I speak Hebrew in the street. Sorely lacking in confidence. Fearful of making mistakes. Lacking in the lingo of the day-to-day, not to mention the meelot yachas, the prepositions, to connect my fancy High-Hebrew words. Which I shouldn’t use anyways….

I’ve needed to know how to play a full-court game. No cheap fouls. No referees. For fun, for competition, for jostling, for lifing. Joking, laughing, words under and over my breath.

Two months ago I realized I was making no progress on the Hebrew front – neither within the pages of the dailies, the broadcasts of the news, nor on the street. So I got a tutor who has set me straight. Get rid of the perfectionism. You’re not giving a sermon, rabbi. Listen to the news like you would in America. You don’t need to know every word. Enjoy yourself – it’s not a mountain to conquer, but a process.

A process. Aliyah is all about processes. Not finished products. And I’m usually aiming for that finished product, to be impossibly good.

So, the other day, I told my first joke on the court. I didn’t think, “What is the right way to say ‘hello?’” I asked plainly for the Hebrew words for some basic basketball terms. Time to start moving around on hatkafa, offense. Leezrok, leezrok, shoot! Time to start talking with the guys about their lives, their families, their job. Breaking through the invisible line that divides me from the Israeli army guy.

Well, I did it. I’m speaking Hebrew now. It’s my other language, not just my fraudulent attempt at bi-lingualism. I feel authentic. I can be here.

Skype World

I started out a skeptic. No longer. Skype is the real deal, friends.

Telephone calls are terrific, but you’re not there. With Skype Video, you are.

Last night Amy and I, in Modiin, spent an hour with family, gathered together for the New Year in Manhattan. It was our longest Skype Video get-together to date. 1 hour, 3 minutes and 43 seconds, to be precise. We enjoyed it with relish.

What made it different than a telephone call? Mom Judy’s facial expressions , which I’ve spent my life trying to read. Niece Jenna’s enormous, I-am-a-delightful-but-humble-third-child, want-to-hug-her smile. Dad Arthur’s bear-like girth, his trusted newspapers in hand as he strolls the first floor. Brother-in-law Dan’s mini-cowlick, after one of his patented day-off naps on the couch. Sister Alisa’s presence in the video background, regarding the scene with great satisfaction. Niece Jesse’s impish scuttle in and out of camera view. Even niece Ariel’s Yankees shirt. The winter woolen sweaters that we don’t see in mild Modiin. The clear pictures of my sister’s homey kitchen area.

After two Shabbatot dearly missing our families in the States, cognizant of the traditional end-of-year get-together no longer ours, life could not have been better for us between 11:30 pm and 12:30 am Modiin-time last night.

We’re living in a Skype world, and aliyah-as-hardship will never be quite as hard again.

Mark -- skype address:  markrobbins67

The Beginning, of the End, of December

If ever a moment encapsulates what I chose to leave -- and what I want to embrace -- this was it.

It was not grand, but rather pedestrian. Very pedestrian, in fact.

Let me take you back a “step,” to Tel Aviv’s Arlozorov train station. We’re leaving the station, amused by the vendors hacking their wares. Like magnets, my eyes are drawn to the red, green and white puppets sold by one rather quiet vendor.

“What are they doing here?” I feel defensive. I take a brief, close look and feel even more defensive.

But within seconds the episode is over. I’m back in Israel, helping to chase 4 Chanukah-wild children down a leafy, blessedly-undecorated boulevard in the heart of Tel Aviv.

I’m doing my child-centered best until we pass another red, green and white display. This time in the window display of a fine chocolateria. My blood boils. “They must be catering to the diplomatic crowd here in Tel Aviv,” I comment to my cousin Lila.

“It doesn’t bother me, Mark. Here it’s just an amusement. There’s no threat. What, is everyone all of a sudden going to become Christian?”

For Lila, it’s painless nostalgia of her life long ago in America. For me, it’s just painful, the ever-present bogeyman who, I must remind myself, is no longer trying to get me.

Adina and Coby "Germs"

Adina and Coby germs?


Last night brought back the vivid memories of welcoming non-English speaking immigrants to my classroom when I was a first grader. It could not have been “welcoming” from their perspective. We looked at Boris (name changed) as an exceedingly tall freak who couldn’t speak our language. We branded Shira (name changed) immediately with her own “germs.” Not as bad as those of Jason (name changed), undisputably the class dogpile. Bug getting “Shira germs” would not make you happy.

It took Boris and Shira years to emerge from their stigmatized status – and until they spoke English well. Until they looked the part of Americans. Said goodbye to the Russian sweaters. Until they separated enough from their parental culture to fit into ours. Thank God they don’t seem to have been scarred by the experience, but who am I to know?

Back to last night. Moments of realization that Coby and Adina are now Boris and Shira. Adina walks into her class Chanukah party and is greeted by 2 persistent nemises as an American figure doll, to be touched and played with at will. She knows what she wants to say to them, but cannot say it in Hebrew. Later, the kids sit on the floor, buzzing around each other during the lighting of the candles. Except no one is buzzing around Adina, and she’s not buzzing around the others. She sits alone, amongst the pile of children, in her own world. She can’t yet quite manipulate the finger food of her new world.

I was sad. My child was alone. And there wasn’t anything I could really do about it, except wish away the rest of the tekes, ceremony.

At the same moment, I stood in awe of her. Here she was bearing by herself the weight of our move. Day after day – 5 ½ hours one day, 8 hours the next. Hour after hour, with little letup. Thrown into the language, into the culture, without yet knowing them. Me – I engage them at my will, and then return when I want to my English cocoon.

I have never and will never do something as difficult as she and Coby are doing now. I told Adina so, as I rested the seat belt around her tired body. “I am so proud of you.”

Coby bears the weight a bit more easily – thanks to youth; his blessedly naïve, pre-elementary disposition; and the relative pressurelessness of the gan environment. But it’s still an enormous weight.

I hope there are no Adina and Coby “germs” in their classes. I have my doubts, no matter the upbeat evaluations of their teachers. Who can follow the nuances of childhood interchange with 36 or 37 kids in the classroom?

Adina and Coby germs?

I'm Back

I’m back. I can’t promise I won’t take other hiatuses. But I’m back.


So why haven’t I blogged recently?

Trying to get over the self-promotion thing, which is not my style. I’m also not a from-my-mind-to-the-airwaves kind of guy. I choose my words carefully. I’m repelled by the orgy of words in the blogosphere, and don’t want to contribute to that. If it’s under my name, it will be good, concise, and well thought-out.

I want to create thoughtful communal discussion, not pat myself on the back.

I’ll tell the truth as I see it. I’m here to offer candid observations about the ups and downs of aliyah to Israel, to enable you to experience it vicariously, and to hopefully better prepare those of you considering taking this crazy ride. And it will certainly be a forum to celebrate/wring my hands over whatever victories/challenges aliyah brings next.

That very candidness that has scared me away from “these pages” for a while. I turned 42 last week (If you want to send me a present, how ‘bout a copy of a recent Sports Illustrated?). I’ve left career, economic security, family, and language mastery behind. For a wobbly, unsecured ride with my wife and kids that may lead to a dream. But also not.

And I’m managing a transition more difficult (at least for me!) than any of the above. Living the life of a full-time dad. Yes, let’s say it, full-time dad. It’s taken me a long time to “get into the groove,” to embrace the role, to validate it, to do it capably – and to then carve out the time for my other endeavors.

No need to ramble, which I am getting close to doing.

It’s also almost time to leave for Adina’s class Chanukah party. She was literally jumping out of her skin after school today, just bursting with excitement about the festivities of the school day – making liveevot and sufganiyot (latkes and donuts) in preparation for tonight. The kids are off school next week for Chanukah, so the school festivities happen now. Then they’ll be back in school to celebrate Christmas and New Year’s…..

Health Care, A Personal Comparison

Health care – A Personal Comparison


The health care debate rages back in the States. Between those who believe that health care is a basic right and those who believe it is a privilege. Between those ready to sacrifice some of the individual choice basic to the American privileged-based system, and those unwilling to tamper with the market dynamics of the current system. There is considerable middle ground to be had, but a basic philosophical fault line beneath all.

The Robbins family is living this debate. We have just completed the first five years of our son Coby’s life. Hampered by interstitial lung disease, stomach dysmotility, reflux, and eating disorders. We know the American health care system – its greatness, its weakness. Now we live in Israel, where Coby is just completing his first lengthy hospital stay, as a high risk child struck with swine flu. As we do, Amy and I have been switching places in the hospital and at home, and have had a bird’s eye view into the operation of a high-quality Israeli hospital.

In the United States, I thanked God every day that I had a job and a good health insurance policy. I liked my work as a rabbi. I liked it even more because it paid me enough money to pay the massive premiums for its excellent health insurance policy. Before departure, we put down in the vicinity of 1600/month to protect our family.

It was sadly and woefully pathetic to regard the families regularly sitting next to my child and me in Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia Emergency Department, knowing that the ER was their only possible medical destination. With little or no chance to acquire the fabulously specialized treatment that our son regularly enjoyed beyond the confines of the ER into the vast web of medical services offered by CHOP, its satellite care centers, and affiliated pediatric offices.

It was humiliating to navigate the maze of insurance alleyways. So many manned by people eager to serve and help. Yet with a mighty market headwind relentlessly trying to keep your hands off the prized benefits. Pre-certification. Pre-authorization. Expired referrals. Keystone this instead of Keystone that. The wrong department, sorry, and they’re not open now. No, I can’t give you my name or telephone number. You’ll need to call back the same switchboard.

Money, of course. Always money. Time to discharge, because of money.

We wanted privilege, and we got it. Cookies. Shampoo. A parents’ and kids’ center filled with videos, literature, newspaper, computers, and everything else to help make a long or short-stay easier. Not bad things at all. Good things. But how relatively important compared to giving another kid access to the basic health services that our son had?

Here, in Israel, I thank God every day that I don’t have to have a job to have health insurance. We pay relatively miniscule premiums – 50$/month – to avail Coby and the rest of the family of the services that every other citizen of this country is entitled to. That every other citizen of this country is entitled to, by virtue of basic humanity and residence in the society.

There is the bureaucracy, and there are the waits. I cannot get non-emergent specialized care tomorrow unless I pay for it out of my own pocket, purchase an expensive “private insurance” plan, or get lucky. So I have to walk on my painful hammer toe for another couple of months before getting it addressed by a specialist. Should this really be so hard?

In the hospital, I, not the nurse, need to physically give my son his oral medications. I have to strain to take his temperature with a mercury thermometer, because there are just not enough of the digital ones to go around. There is not an endless supply of linen and care-ware for parents and visitors. What you need, bring yourself. Television – pay for it if you want it. Remember those days?

But here, doctors give you their cellphone numbers. Call me when you need. They take their quasi-parental responsibilities quite seriously. Office visits do not require your cash or credit card. Can you imagine that? You’re not reminded of HIPPA every single time you do anything medically.

Friends, I’m rolling on too long. Truthfully exhausted. A fried oleh. Wanting to share a creative thought after a hiatus. Wanting to hopefully make a little impress on your health-care thoughts. And wanting to tell you that the socialist ethic so maligned in the American media is alive and well here in Israel, expressed not everywhere but in some of the absolute right places. Like health care.