Please Form an Orderly Stampede: Queuing in Israel

Back in the UK, queuing is more than a social courtesy — it’s a way of life. It’s the glue that holds society together. We queue for buses. We queue at the post office. We even queue to queue at places like the bakery on a rainy Tuesday. The rules are clear, sacred, and unspoken: first come, first served. No pushing, no skipping, no eye contact – just a calm, orderly line and a collective sense of quiet suffering.

And then I moved to Israel.

The Post Office Epiphany

My first encounter with Israeli “queuing” (and I use the term loosely) was at the post office in Tel Aviv. I arrived, ticket in hand, smug in my British certainty that I’d figured out how things worked here. The waiting room was packed, but a digital screen displayed a number system. Easy, I thought. Orderly. Familiar.

And then chaos erupted.

People were standing, sitting, arguing, shouting numbers, pointing at clerks, and in one case – I swear this happened – someone walked straight up to the counter and just started being served, mid-argument. No ticket. No shame. No apologies.

My British brain short-circuited.

The Gospel of the Queue

In Britain, we queue to reaffirm our faith in fairness. It’s not about the speed of service; it’s about respecting the system. Jumping a queue is borderline heresy. It will earn you tuts, passive-aggressive sighs, and in extreme cases, someone might even say something under their breath. I’m sure on one occasion I saw someone begin to write a strongly worded letter.

But an actual confrontation. Terrifying.

So you can imagine my horror when I realized that here, the queue is more like an interpretive dance. There’s no line. Just a loose gathering of people orbiting a central goal, all pretending not to be in competition, while very much being in competition.

“Mi Ha’Acharon?”

There’s a system in place, supposedly. It goes like this: you walk in, look around, and ask, “Mi ha’acharon?” (Who’s last?). Someone grunts, raises a finger, and you mentally track them as your point of reference. When they go, you’re next.

In theory, it’s genius! Organic, democratic, human. In practice, it’s like trying to follow a relay race where no one passes the baton and everyone’s sprinting in different directions.

My Breaking Point

There was a day, about three months in, when I was trying to pay a bill at the Arnona (local council) office. I’d taken a number. I was waiting. Then, out of nowhere, a woman strolled in, walked right up to the desk, and launched into a full-blown conversation with the clerk. Not even a pause to look guilty.

Something inside me snapped. I opened my mouth, I was going to say something. I was going to defend the sanctity of the queue. But before I could, the clerk looked up, pointed at me, and said, “Are you next?”

I’m ashamed to say I nodded. And I went up.

And just like that, I became complicit in the madness.

Adapt or Perish

At some point, you stop fighting it. You start playing the game. You stop expecting signs and start trusting instinct. You learn that raising your voice isn’t rude, it’s just how things are done. That standing your ground isn’t aggressive but survival. That waiting passively is a good way to be forgotten forever.

You begin to understand that, in Israel, queuing isn’t done in a line.

Final Thoughts

I still flinch when someone skips ahead. I still instinctively look for a line that doesn’t exist. But I’m learning. I’ve even caught myself doing the “mi ha’acharon?” shuffle with surprising confidence.

Some days, I miss the gentle misery of British queuing. The shared sigh. The unspoken bond of patience. But there’s something strangely freeing about Israel’s version of order: messy, loud, and alive.