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Shilo Sapir

Why is Israel discouraging Aliyah?

Generated using the DALL·E tool by OpenAI

When I decided to make Aliyah, I believed I was stepping into a dream. I felt immense pride knowing I was making Israel my home, committing myself to its future. I can say with pride that I have given my all to the State of Israel—physically, mentally, and emotionally. However, it pains me to reflect on the many hardships I faced as an oleh, hardships that all too often stemmed from challenges the state needlessly caused easily could have prevented. After all, making Aliyah should be a journey of connection and hope, but all too often, it felt like a never-ending battle. In many moments it even felt as if the State of Israel was doing all it could to discourage me from making Aliyah.

The best way to demonstrate the difficulties I have mentioned above is by sharing some of the experiences I faced upon arriving in Israel. In August of 2021, I came to Israel in order to study in yeshiva. Though I dreamed of moving to Israel and knew it was where I belonged, I was hesitant to start the formal Aliyah process. After all, I didn’t fully know what awaited me in this new chapter of my life, and my family in America opposed my decision to leave for Israel. To navigate these uncertainties, I decided to take time to settle in and “test the waters” before committing to officially begin the Aliyah process.

After about four months in Israel, I felt more confident in my decision to stay and sought to confirm my health insurance coverage as an Israeli citizen, given that I was born in Israel. As I had been covered under Maccabi when I lived in Israel as a child, I visited a Maccabi branch for clarification. However, the clerk informed me that my status was “undetermined” and directed me to Bituach Leumi, the National Insurance Institute. At Bituach Leumi, the clerks told me I needed to go to Misrad Hapnim, the Interior Ministry. When I arrived at Misrad Hapnim, I was sent to Misrad HaAliyah, the Ministry of Immigration. And when I reached Misrad HaAliyah, I was redirected back to Misrad Hapnim. It felt as though every ministry was intent on passing me off to the next, unwilling to take responsibility or handle the paperwork.

The most disheartening experience, however, came during one of my visits to Misrad Hapnim. After explaining my desire to make Aliyah and requesting the appropriate paperwork, the clerk looked at me with a mix of sadness and pity. He softly asked where I was from. When I replied that I was from the United States, he replied: “You’ve got nothing to look for here. Don’t do it.” He then silently stared at me and did not make any moves to provide me with the necessary forms.

As someone who was already hesitant about making Aliyah, his words were devastating. If even a government official tasked with facilitating the Aliyah process thought moving to Israel was a mistake, how could I feel confident in my decision? Never had I expected to hear such words from a government official.

After failing to make any progress in Misrad Hapnim, I decided to try my luck with Misrad HaAliyah. After speaking with a clerk over the phone, I was finally informed of the specific documents I needed to bring in order to claim my Aliyah status. However, the branch of Misrad HaAliyah in my area was open only once a week. This meant I had to wait another week before I could take the next step in the process.

When the day finally arrived, I traveled to the office in Sderot. Upon reaching the address, I found myself in front of a large building with no clear indication of where to go. Unsure of which floor to head to, I called the branch for guidance. As I began explaining my situation, the clerk on the other end abruptly cut me off, saying she was busy with someone else and would call me back shortly. I sat down on a nearby bench, waiting for her call—five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen, and finally twenty. Realizing I had likely been forgotten, I called back. This time, I was told that the Sderot branch would not be opening that week after all and that I should instead go to the branch in Netivot.

Frustrated but determined, I made my way to the Netivot branch. Upon arriving, I was once again met with the same issue: a large building with no clear signage or instructions about where to go. I picked up my phone and called the branch for help. A clerk answered, and I explained that I was unsure of which floor I needed to go to. Instead of providing directions, she asked me where I was coming from. When I told her I had traveled from Sderot, her tone immediately turned sharp, and she angrily demanded to know why I hadn’t gone to the Sderot branch instead. I explained, as calmly as I could, that the Sderot office was closed that week, which is why I had made the trip to Netivot.

Ignoring my explanation, she asked if I had all the necessary documents. I told her I did—or at least, I thought I did. She began listing the required documents, but then added one that had not been mentioned by the Sderot branch: proof that my parents were employed in America. Confused and caught off guard, I explained that I had not been informed I would need such a document. I tried to reason with her, suggesting that she could look up my parents’ names online to see the businesses they owned in the US, but she was uninterested in listening. I also mentioned that, as someone without access to a printer, it was impossible for me to produce this new document on such short notice.

At this point, her tone escalated, and she raised her voice. She accused me of trying to make her do my work for me and made it clear that she had no intention of helping me. Still lacking any instructions about which floor to go to, I realized I had hit another dead end.

Exhausted, defeated, and with no other options, I was forced to leave Netivot empty-handed, having wasted my entire morning, transportation costs, and most importantly, my hope that this would be the day I could finally resolve my Aliyah status. Throughout my entire journey up until that point, it seemed as if the clerks felt like they had no one they had to give an account to. Consistently it felt as though they were trying to avoid dealing with me by any means: be it by directing me to other ministries or by refusing to help me outright.

The following week, I was fortunate enough to finally complete the Aliyah process through Misrad HaAliyah in Sderot, receiving the status of Katin Chozer, a Returning Minor. While I was relieved to have my Aliyah status resolved, this moment of triumph was quickly overshadowed by yet another challenge—this time caused by poorly conceived government policy.

As a Katin Chozer, I was entitled to receive an absorption basket, a critical financial lifeline for someone in my position. At only eighteen years old, I was unemployed, financially unsupported, and living on a very limited budget. The absorption basket was essential for me to cover basic living expenses. In addition, the government provides Dmei Kiyum, a supplementary payment to help unemployed olim for the remainder of their first year in Israel after the absorption basket payments end. This additional assistance would have been a lifeline, as I was studying in yeshiva at the time in preparation for my IDF service and had no means of earning a stable income.

However, when my absorption basket payments ended, I was shocked to discover that I was not eligible for even a few months’ worth of Dmei Kiyum. The reason? The government retroactively considered my Aliyah date to be August 4, 2021—the day I first landed in Israel—instead of March 2022, the date I officially received my Aliyah status. Because I was categorized as a Katin Chozer, my Aliyah status was backdated to the moment I had been in the country for more than 120 days. This arbitrary rule meant that, by the time I completed the Aliyah process, I was already considered to have used up most of my first year as an oleh and was therefore ineligible for these vital payments.

The absurdity of this policy cannot be overstated. For all other purposes, I was not considered an oleh after those 120 days. I was not obligated to be drafted into the army, nor did I qualify for any other oleh benefits. I couldn’t register for Bituach Leumi or sign up for one of the national health insurances. Yet, when it came to financial aid, the government conveniently decided to treat me as if I had been an oleh since the day I entered the country. This policy seemed designed solely for the purpose of ensuring that olim like me would lose out on the financial support they desperately need.

Had the Aliyah process been smoother and the clerks less obstructive, I would have gladly completed the process months earlier and avoided this entirely. Instead, the bureaucracy delayed my Aliyah, and this flawed policy ensured I was denied thousands of shekels—money that would have made an enormous difference in my life at the time. It was a bitter reminder that, despite my love for Israel, the system often feels indifferent to the challenges faced by olim.

My next challenge in the Aliyah process came when I attempted to convert my driver’s license. In the United States, I received my license about five months before moving to Israel. According to Israeli law, I was allowed to drive in Israel without any restrictions for a full year before needing to convert my American license into an Israeli one.

However, after more than a year in Israel, when I went to the licensing office to begin the license conversion process, I was surprised to learn that, because I had held my American license for less than six months before arriving in Israel, I was required to undergo the full licensing process from the beginning. This included passing a theory test, completing all the required driving lessons, and taking a driving test—all entirely unnecessary and costly.

I can understand the need for some sort of verification to ensure a driver is competent before converting a foreign license. However, the absurdity of forcing me to redo driving lessons after I had already been driving legally and unrestricted in Israel for over a year—and while holding a valid U.S. driver’s license—was simply absurd. Not only would this have cost me thousands of shekels at a time when I could not afford such an expense, but it would also have required significant effort and time, all for no clear purpose.

For the first time in my Aliyah journey, I encountered a clerk who was eager to help. The clerk at the licensing office granted me special approval to bypass the driving lessons, requiring me to only take the theory and driving tests. I shudder to think what would have happened had I encountered the same obstructive and unhelpful clerks I had dealt with during other parts of this process. Without that clerk’s willingness to assist, I would have been subjected to an unnecessary, frustrating, and costly ordeal, all a result of inherently flawed government policy.

Throughout this entire process, my Aliyah journey has been marked by a deep love for Israel and an unwavering commitment to this country, but it has also been fraught with unnecessary bureaucratic obstacles and systemic inefficiencies. I share my experiences not out of resentment, but out of a desire to advocate for future olim. Every individual who chooses to make Aliyah should feel supported and valued by the state they have sacrificed so much to join. Currently, it often feels as if the state is at times actively discouraging Aliyah, needlessly making the process significantly more difficult than need be. After having given everything I had to the state since moving to Israel, all I wish is that the state would have met me halfway.

About the Author
Shilo Sapir made aliyah three years ago from the United States. He is currently completing his mandatory national service.
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