Natalie

You all know the story of the old man who walked along the beach picking up starfish that had been washed up onto the sand and tossing them back into the ocean.
A young man stopped him and said
Are you crazy old man, there are thousands of starfish along the shore, do you really think that your tossing them back into the ocean one at a time will make a difference?

The old man bent down, picked up a star fish and tossed it back into the ocean. He looked at the young man and replied
To that one, it just made a difference

Natalie is sixteen. She lives with her boyfriend and his family in a 'block' in Pardes Hanah. A 'block' is an apartment building, but 'apartment' is too luxurious a word to describe where and how Natalia lives. There is no elevator in her building, no lights on the landings between the six flights of stairs that are littered with used clothes and electrical goods that no longer work. There are no paintings on the landings, no balconies, no plants. When I walk up to her apartment neighbours open their doors and curse us. There is no body corporate. You get the picture.

Natalie is bright and lovely, she is tall with long dark curls which she straightens daily with a hair iron her boyfriend picked up and fixed. She has infinite patience for straightening hair, I know because she straightened mine, and I saw in her a love for all things to do with hair that frankly I just don’t share. Why don’t you do hairdressing? I suggested from the little stool on which I sat in her boyfriend's bedroom one evening, in front of a makeshift dresser. The white wardrobe doors had disengaged revealing the contents of their shared life and it dawned on me that Natalie's boyfriend carried a tremendous load by having this young girl live with him and his aged parents.

"I want" she said giggling a little at the possibility of fulfilling a dream, of being a productive human being with a future, and then in a moment the sparkle in her eyes faded, she came back to the reality of the realisation that in all likelihood this would never happen, " maybe, one day", she said. For now, she reluctantly drags herself to school almost every day but she has no interest or future in academia. She prefers to clean my house which she has done from time to time. But it's such a waste, this young girl with so much potential, cleaning toilets at sixteen.

I ask her about her parents. Her toothless, jobless mother lives downstairs in the same block, in fact it was she who cursed us when we walked past her apartment. When her husband beat her up one too many times, accusing her of lying about Natalie being his daughter, she left him and had a breakdown. She was taken to the mental ward of the hospital where she stayed for six months and Natalie was taken in by her aunt. She was one year old. She was brought up in the home of her aunt who now receives her meagre social security benefits. From time to time, her aunt gives her a hundred shekels, pocket money. In all her sixteen years her father has not contributed one single shekel towards her upbringing, has not bought her one pair of shoes. Natalie never lived with her mother, whom I have met and suffice it to say, I can understand why.

It's not an unfamiliar story in these parts, and yes it could be far worse. Natalie was fortunate that her aunt took her in, and she was fortunate that her boyfriend took her in, and she is fortunate that she is passionate about something in her life, that she knows what it is that she wants to do - she wants to be a hairdresser, and I know she will be a great one. I also know that if she had the contacts you have, if she had the network you have if she had the opportunities you have, if her parents had come to Australia instead of going to Israel, if she grew up in a community where wealth was a given, if she woke up every morning to a fridge full of food, and a newspaper full of jobs, she could do it on her own, but here I cannot see this outcome for this young Israeli girl. Here she will stay at school because she has nowhere else to go during the days, and she will live with her boyfriend because quite frankly he is a good guy with a good heart who knows she will be on the street if not with him and then when she finishes school, if she finishes school, she will wash floors and clean toilets, probably for the rest of her life.

I would like to raise some money to put Natalie through hairdressing school, and in return if you ever find yourself in Israel, you can go visit Natalie and have your hair cut or straightened, curled or coloured. She will welcome you and make you the best black coffee ever and you will see a little star in her eyes as she smiles down the valley of her future and you will know that you helped to throw this starfish back into the ocean.

The Block

The open concrete area under the block in which Yuri lives, is filled with large wailing women. They sit on plastic chairs between pillars in a large square clapping their folded hands over their chests in grief, lamenting the tragic and sudden loss of the father of my friend Yuri. In the cultural code of the Kazakhstan, they are all dressed alike for the occasion, wearing finely decorated black and dark blue summer dresses and patterned scarves to cover their heads. I am noticeably out of place in my jeans and my genes, dwarfed by their heavy bodies and swollen legs which show out beneath mid calf hemlines. They are, each and every one, magnificent, with eastern european faces that express a lifetime of experience; expulsion, war, famine, migration, poverty, loss, grief and suffering. These are not women who care about carbs, these are women who work two jobs a day to pay for their children's fake designer jeans and tobacco and Hash habbits.

I have noticed these heavy set women with crooked backs sitting three to a bench outside their 'blocks' on hot summer nights down the main road of Pardes Hanah. When the air inside their small apartments is unbearably still and the smell of fried food lingers, even though the street offers no relief from the heat, there is nowhere else to go. They meet and talk, no doubt swapping remedies for ailments and ancient womens fables of suffering and woe. I long to listen and to understand.

Now the women wail and the men sit separately talking in small groups while the sounds of songs of lamentation fill the neighbourhood like a call to prayer, bringing the entire community through the gates and into the outdoor basement, where trestle tables have been set up for the meal that will follow the funeral.

I walk up the six flights of stairs into Yuri's apartment to see if I can help. Two large Kazakh women stand in the small kitchen while a third one with a pretty face and swollen purple legs stirs a camp size pot over an outdoor gas cooker that has been set up in the living room. The dining room table is covered in sacks of potatoes, pots, plastic cutting boards and knives. Yuri's girlfriend is at the sink washing oversized alluminium pots and strainers. When she sees me, she takes the opportunity to offer me and all the working women a cold cola which of course there is no refusing. 'Drink Rebecca, drink' she says in Hebrew, mimicking the ways of her ancestry without even noticing. It is strangely out of place because she is only sixteen, but it is she who will clean the apartment and carry the heavy pots of food up and down the six flights of stairs and take care of her boyfriend's family for the next seven days, while they mourn the loss of their father and husband, and then she will go to school.

I watch the largest and loveliest of the women cut fatty beef ribs into large chunks and cover them with salt, paprika and prunes while another adds a can of tomato paste to a large pot of boiling potatoes. I tell her my grandfather was Russian and she says she recognises me from somewhere. She asks if I live in the neighbourhood. No, I don’t I say but I tell her I recognise her too. She could be my grandmother. Any of these women could have been my grandmothers and in a way I feel like all of them are. I am comfortable with them like I have known them for a thousand years. I watch closely as she adds the potatoes to the meat and lifts the heavy pot to the gas burner. I tell her my name is Rebecca and her face lights up. She tells me something about a 'black and beautiful Rebecca' but I don’t know what she is talking about, perhaps her daughter, perhaps her grandmother, perhaps a character from a Kazakh Jewish legend I know nothing about.

After the funeral we return to the block. The long rows of tables have been set with plates of fruit, heavily salted battered fried fish, bowls of potatoes, hard boiled eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, bread and crackers. There is a bottle of Vodka on each table, which my friend says will 'mess with your head' if you drink it, so I dont.

Now that the body is in the ground, it is the men's turn for spiritual work. Blessings are said over the various types of food, and symbolisms are explained. The egg represents the life cycle and we are all instructed to say as many blessings as possible because the angel of 'death' hovers. Then the meat is served with bowls of rice and I devour as much of this simple food as I can. My mother always said we come from peasant stock; this is my food, and these are my people. The women sitting next to me turn to me frequently throughout the meal and ask me why I am not eating. I show them my bowl full of bones and they nod in satisfaction before returning to their lively conversations in Kazakh.

A young man opens his prayer book, stands up and begins to lead the tefilla but not before demanding silence from all. He bangs his hand down on the table and the women are quiet for a few moments. His prayers are important no doubt but the real spiritual work of the day has already been done. These large Kazakh women carry the complete cultural mythical, spiritual and physical load of their entire community. Their sobbing, shrieking and the singing of their Kazakh songs of lamentation are the spiritual meat of this rite of passage and they know it in their bones. Again he bangs his hand down on the table, his spiritual ego demanding respect, and again the women humour him with a few minutes silence before starting up again. This young man who has just found his religious persona is in battle against the entire force of Jewish Russian Matriarchy - there is not a women in the group who's heartfelt grief alone would not force open the gates of heaven; let him bang his hand on the table all he likes, to them he is just a child. In time he will understand. Death will teach us all that it is the heart alone that moves the heavens.

The KGB and The Mosad

I have inside information that leads me to believe that the staff in Bank Hapoalim are trained in the secret Mosad Agents Programme TSANMECWAWEB. Otherwise known as 'The Strategic Art of Not Making Eye Contact with Anyone Who Enters the Building'. I am certain it's a compulsory state run course for all staff of all Israeli banks though I personally have not had the pleasure. And yet, once you break through the code, once you get through the (Israeli developed) 'concrete glass' wall that separates the 'server' from the 'served', suddenly and without warning, like a 'sleeper' a hidden consciousness is awoken, eye contact is made, service is given(albeit reluctantly) and even recipes have been known to switch hands.

It's the same with the staff at Macabbi Health, but in their case the training I believe is stricktly KGB. Last week I had the great pleasure of visiting the Kippat Hulim (Government Health Centre) in Pardes Chanah for the first time. My regular, South African born, English speaking, warm, intelligent, human family doctor in Zichron was unavailable and I needed to see someone urgently, so I thought I'd try my luck at the government health service in Pardes Chanah.

To my advantage it became immediately apparent that the KGB not only train their staff in 'the strategic art of not making eye contact with anyone when enters the building' but also in foreign tongues, as well as in the masterful art of 'confusing the enemy'. I entered the building and found my way to the front desk where a woman was staring intently at her monitor, trying her hardest not to notice my human form. After ten minutes of my own personal meditation in 'savlanut (patience...not to be confused with sagvaniot, doughnuts) she weakened and against her better wishes she turned her head towards me and looked up.

'Aha, I've got her now', I thought and not wanting to miss the opportunity I quickly asked if she spoke English, as I always do when approaching an unknown species. 'Yes' she said, 'I do'. This always gets them, these KGB trained Israelis. This is their weakness; an opportunity to practice their English, the language of the 'great yonder'.

She soon realised this was my first visit to a government health service centre and she proceeded to educate me on the long list of medical specialists and practitioners that were available to me, clarifying at the end that today none of them were available, 'except Dr Iliad, who is in today', she said. She then pointed me towards a phone down the end of a long corridor and gave me the secret code. I was to call this number and make an appointment with Dr. Ilaid who, she assured me was in today. Always one to follow instructions I went to the phone and waited for the dome of silence to close over my head. I made the call.

'For the English menu press four' said a voice and I did. 'Efshar l'daber b'Englit?' I asked (Is it possible to speak in English?) 'Shniya' said the voice in Tel Aviv. 'The English menu', means just that and that alone. She put me through to a different voice and I repeated my question. He put me through to a different voice and I repeated my question and then she put me through to a different voice and I repeated my question. By this time, my Ulpan teacher was starting to scream in my brain and I blurted out my simplest Hebrew 'I am in Pardes Chanah at the Macabbi Kipat Chulim and I want to make a meeting with Dr.Illaid for this morning. Please. '

'No, Dr. Iliad is not in Pardes Chanah today' the women said. 'Yes he is' I said' 'I am here, now, and he is in today'. 'No he's not', she said 'but I have made an appointment with you at the other Macabbi Centre in Pardes Chanah with Dr.Pizat at ten to eleven'. OK I said politely, not wanting to sabotage my chances of seeing someone. I walked back towards the desk and mustering up all the anger of a frustrated women with a possible bladder infection and thrush I explained that the KGB were adamant that Dr Ilaid was not in today and explained that they were sending me into enemy territory and as it was I could barely stand never mind walk the five blocks across town to the other Macabbi Centre. I asked if she could please take pity on me, being from a neutral country like Australia, and make an appointment from HER computer with the doctor who was or was not in.

So she swivelled her chair across to the 'other computer' (do you see the problem here?) and she booked me an appointment with Dr. Iliad for ten thirty.

At eleven thirty exactly I went in to see the esteemed Dr. Iliad. My first mistake was to ask him if he was Russian. 'No' he said, giving nothing away, 'I'm Israeli'. That's what Israeli's say when they don’t want to tell you their parents are from Uzbekistan. 'This place is like socialist Russia' I said. He didn't agree. He smiled happily like he had just had great sex with the woman he had seen before me for some forty five minutes.

'What are your symptoms?' he asked. 'I have a UTI' I explained.
'That's a diagnosis' he said, ' what are your symptoms?'
I decided it was time to come clean.
'I have no real symptoms I said, I am actually an undercover agent from the Department of Frustration and Anger Development, pretending to writhe in pain and not understand what anyone is saying, just here to check that you and your staff are doing their jobs properly.'
'No further training is required.'
He looked pleased

Change Your Tampon Before You Leave Home

Sanitation was never my strong point. I mean of course I wash my hands after I go to the bathroom and sometimes even before, but I was never one of those moms who carried baby wipes in my bag and who bathed my children every day. I believe a little 'shmootz' is a good thing; it builds a healthy immune system. Still there are some places even I will not go.

After a long day rushing around, I found myself in the supermarket late at night in desperate need of a change of tampon. A woman knows these things, not by the time on her mobile phone, but rather by the intuitive knowledge that if she does not get to a bathroom soon, even the most lax sanitary boundaries will have been crossed, and so it was that I found myself searching for the toilets in the ludicrously cheap King supermarket in the Arab Village of Urm El Farhem. A friend had told me about her husband's shopping experiences in the town and I was keen to find an alternative to the local Zichron supermarkets, the cheapest of which are expensive, so when two local Israeli friends told me they were going to check it out, I grabbed my courage, dropped my prejudices and keenly went along.

The supermarket turned out to be significantly cheaper than any other I had been to and well worth the extra time to get there. It was well stocked and across the board and noticeably cheaper on almost all products. I threw a few items into the trolley, and left the boys, oblivious to my growing sense of urgency, to do their shopping while I went to find a box of tampons. Scanning the shelves with my expert shopping scanner eyes, I was surprised to find a variety of brands of pads but only one choice of tampons: that old and familiar brand Tampax, with its little yellow plastic applicators that remind me of disposable needles and thrush. Since there was no alternative I decided to pay the twenty eight shekels and bought the brand I would never otherwise have bought.

I left my friends to finish packing and paying for the shopping, grabbed a tampon from the box, shoved it into my bag and went off to find the toilets. It takes a new orlim many months and a solid grade at Ulpan Aleph to learn that even though the Hebrew word for 'women' ends in the traditional male ending, 'Anashim', the toilet with the picture of the chic in a skirt is indeed the one allocated for the female species. The difference in sanitary upkeep between the men and women's toilets is negligible in this country, so it's important to know. It took me six months to get it in Hebrew, with pictures, so what were my chances in Arabic? I walked down the hallway attached to the supermarket, following the directions of the well travelled girl at the cash out counter, who put her hands to her mouth, shook her pretty head in disbelief and asked an exacerbated WHY? as do all Israeli's when they discover I had come to live in Israel from Sydney, Australia.

Needless to say, when I finally came to the place where one 'washes one's feet' there was nothing to clearly differentiate the mens from the womens toilets, unless of course you understand Arabic which I don't. There were no toilet seat on either(Israeli women don't need toilet seats, it's a statement of our independence from colonialism), no locks on either doors (neither of which closed completely) and no running water. After careful consideration, the one I finally deduced to be the women's toilet was the one with damp toilet paper spread unevenly around the bowl as if to suggest it had once been used by someone who cared about their sanitation (which I took to mean a woman). The other had no paper at all, so the choice was easy.

Still with no running water after a big day out and a long night shopping I knew this was not an act that could be performed without running water...and that's when it struck me, suddenly it was clear and I came to fully understand why it was that the only brand of tampons available at this supermarket were the ones that come with an applicator.

Back in Zichron I roam the supermarket winging at the prices, almost double on many basic items and wonder if it's worth paying twice the price for rice and toilet paper just for the luxury of being able to wash ones hands when one goes to the toilet. Probably not I conclude, as long as you change your tampon before you leave home.

Rambam Hospita Emergency Ward, Haifa

Everyday I'm thinking, Thank G-d it's not yesterday.

Robby was not getting any better and we realised if we left him in his hotel room in Tel Aviv alone over Shabbat he might just freeze to death, though the thought of moving scared him to bits. He was not well enough to make the drive and he could not pack up and check out but mostly he could not bare to be in our hot house with a million teenagers and air conditioning units that, much like us, worked some times, randomly and not at maximum efficiency.

Still we had no choice but to save him and so we drove to Tel-Aviv, packed him up and brought him home against his better judgment. The house was clean, and we had run the air conditioning all day to cool it down. There was hot chicken soup on the stove. By Sunday morning he still had a fever so I took him to the doctor who sent him for an x-ray. "Ze iy efshar"- it's not possible, said the woman at reception, he has no details, no Israeli ID number, it can't be done. Just like that she was willing to let this tourist slip away from sheer neglect. "Really" I said, bewildered that a fellow human could be so clear about the possible demise of another. The doctor sent us here, surely that's a sign that this chest needs to be X-rayed. No, she said, it's not possible, and she looked back at her monitor, untouched. At this point Robby perked up with an offer of cash. She too came alive. It will cost 200 shekels she told me annoyed that we were still there and presuming that his life was not actually worth that much, and that we wouldn't go for it.

A few minutes later the disc was begrudgingly handed over with the words - massive pneumonia spat out at us like we were criminals. The crime of course was hers, but no Israeli will admit to such negligent behavior, fear of litigation has not yet reached this primitive country.

The doctor immediately put him on a double course of anti-biotics and since it was already late in the day, sent us to Rambam hospital first thing the next morning.
Walking in through emergency is always confronting, old men in wheelchairs propped up with foam props, half naked, exposing the inevitability of old age to the already vulnerable, faces exhausted from waiting too many hours filled with anxiety and helplessly surrendered to a system that offers no sympathy to the weak and frail. Security guards brazenly showing off their Arabic to beautifully groomed nurses harshly reflecting the fast deflating life-force of the ill at hand who meekly wait in line to give their details to women who are poorly paid to take them, in the slowest and most painstaking way possible.

The woman behind the glass looks up blankly after twenty minutes filling in forms "Oh", she says, "I suppose you want the receipt in English for your health Insurance?" and she starts again, with a carbon copy invoice book and a ball point pen. How quaint, I think, a hospital that invoices the old fashioned way coupled with a medical system that promises to cross ID all patients across the country. What are they planning on doing, photocopying every body's records and sending them down a long tube to a silent underground centre that funnels information to every doctor's surgery in the state through a secret hole in the floorboards via Mosad retired mice?

But like all Jews, we have a plan. We have protectzia, we know the best of the best, we know people who have donated so much money to so many worthy institutions in this country, that we already have our own little underground network busy securing the best treatment by the best doctors in the country. Still beurocracy must take its due process and as Robby sits shivering in a corner, we shuffle from one corridor to the next and await his fate as rabbi's hustle in the background shouting our cause to professors who themselves have no power in a system stuck in the post socialist quagmire that is the Israeli Health Care System.

Finally he is submitted, but there are no beds in the Emergency Ward, so we take him downstairs to the hospital mall, where a zillion patients (and their families) furiously shop and eat fast food in their pajamas attached to their drips. It's a veritable commercial hub down underground at Rambam and I myself manage to pick up three singlets from a bargain table outside the Fox shop for ten shekels each. A Russian Israeli has set himself up with a little table from where he reads the palms of the already vulnerably ill, giving them hope perhaps for a better life next time round.

We return to the Emergency Ward after Robby and Gray finish their kosher McDonalds. He is given a bed and we wait, trying to distract him from the Russian man who's just been wheeled in shivering and moaning in shock, his cowboy boots telling of life on the street, his son standing suspiciously far away from him, offering no comfort to the man whom he probably just pushed down the stairs himself. Across the way an elderly Arab woman sits tending to her dying mother whose lungs have filled with fluid, and who no longer has the will, strength or consciousness to try and cough up the mucous in which she will inevitable drown. She weeps into a tissue and I try consoling her in my broken Hebrew.

And so the day passes, and as patients disappear into the big unknown upstairs we leave Robby and return to our own chaos back home. And then things heat up again in the Emergency Ward as a new wave of disabled bodies start arriving, most notably a man in an Orange jump suit, handcuffed to his bed and accompanied by two police officers. The room is full but for a small space between Robby and the sink into which they squeeze Robby's new roommate.

That's it, Robby gets up. "After being there for eight hours being promised a bed all day, I said enough is enough, You gotta get me a room". Oh, OK, said the pretty nurse, there's one upstairs waiting for you, and so it was that Robby left the stench and the fear of life in transition and made his way to the first floor. He would miss the small bathroom who's unsubstantial sink served only to splash water from its high arched tap onto the floor leaving it wet and dirty all day, and who's hole in the ceiling made one wonder if some pervert hadn't planted a video camera from which he would later post the daily bowel movements of the infirm on U-tube for his amusement. He would miss the gargling sound of vomit from the women next to him, regurgitating three times over before being puked out for all to hear, sending everyone gagging and running off to the little wet floored toilet down the hall. Later he said, "that sound and that smell will stay with me forever."

"I'm in a hotel" he said reporting from the first floor of the hospital "and everyone is really nice up here, even though you can hear what the person on the other side of the phone is shouting to the guy across from me in Russian". I listen hard, but all I can hear is the hideous sound of a wild boar coughing up incessantly in the background, no polite conversational pauses between labored breaths.

The next day we go visit - he looks better, he can breathe. He looks at us and says, "Everyday I'm thinking, Thanks G-d it's not yesterday".

Park This Way

There's an Israeli comedian that tells how in Israel you have to take twenty eight driving lessons before you can take your driving test to get your licence. His punch line is aptly delivered in a simple "Why?"

Our seventeen year old daughter has been working hard to pay for her own driving lessons of which she has so far completed half the required amount. She has also been studying the theory book in English and today I drove her to Hadera to take her theory test which she passed. Since I would be in Hadera with a few hours to spare I called my friend who is a police and traffic officer to meet for a coffee and a chat.

Hadera is Golans beat; he walks through the streets and is greeted by all with affection. Once there was a time where he handed out tickets and fines, but now many years on he knows everyone and they all know him. He no longer hands out fines but rather warm greetings and small reminders for all to be on their best. He agreed to meet me outside the driving school a block away from the centre of the small city and as I pulled up outside he was there to greet us.

On the way Tay had read out loud from her theory book and I had tried to explain the logic behind the answers to her questions. I was curious when she came to the question about parking on the opposite side of a two way street. Can one park on the left side of a two way street facing the same direction? In Israel you drive on the right so the obvious answer would be no. Yet my husband had asked a booking officer that very question one day in Zichron as he rushed out of the American Pizza bar to save himself from getting a ticket. "Ze b'seder", he was told, in fact "b'seder gamor" (absolutely OK) by the cop. I was relieved to discover that indeed it was not absolutely OK, in fact it was absolutely illegal to park on the opposite side of a two way street facing the wrong way and explained to my daughter the seemingly obvious reasons why.

Yet lo and behold as I pulled up outside my daughters driving school, a parking spot appeared on the opposite side of the street and Golan proceeded to stop the oncoming traffic and directed me to park in the spot, facing the wrong way. Luckily a spot appeared on the right side of the road, and I was able to pull in facing the right way, saving myself the enormous stress of having to negotiate Israeli traffic down the narrow side streets of Hadera and the internal conflict of doing something completely illegal with the absolute blessings and guidance of the law itself.

I got out the car and gave Golan a big hug, grateful that at least in Hadera I was on the right side of the law, whatever side that was. "What's wrong with you Israeli's?" I asked him," how can you park on the wrong side of the road like that? And you, a cop right outside a driving school? "
"Here, I am the law" he said shrugging his shoulders ..."and this is Israel."

Marketing Israel to Itself

At this moment in time, Israel sits between that casual non affected place we all fell in love with in the seventies and a slick stylised future of the new century - hovering somewhere between the collapse of the Berlin Wall and Kylie Mons 'locomotive'. Last weeks Yom Ha'atzmaut celebration was a case in point. Podiums designed to look like large blue underpants , a pompous staged military presence, endless formations of predictable Israeli symbols visible only to the camera's eye, and masses of dancers all doing the same thing over and over again to the backdrop of (I concede) some relatively impressive entertainment technology.

I imagine some big Israeli names were called in to produce the event but still it felt staged and flat. Of course in the Tel-Aviv world of design Israel is well and truly up there with the best, as it is in the world of the arts, music and dance, but the rest of the country, is still very much stuck in flared jeans and gaudy fonts.

During the week I attended a small Yom Ha'atzmaut celebration where Children from all the kindergardens in the town gather at the local military courtyard to sing national songs, wave Israeli flags and be indoctrinated through a somewhat dated socialist youth project. Scattered parents hovered close to their children as they all swore emotional allegiance to the State through song and dance. Of course there isn't a dry eye when little Jewish children sing Hatikvah but it's the military and nationalistic overtone that I found somewhat dated. If this country wants to market itself to the next generation, it's going to have to find a better strategy.

I understand why Israeli children need to be indoctrinated, they will all give at least two years of their life to the country in service and it's important that they have a strong sense of National Pride to do so. Still as I watched little mouths yawning away to no less than six official speeches, I couldn't help but feel that these ceremonies are more about the adults reaffirming their allegiance to the state than the children who would be just as easily bought off with a Magen-David shaped chocolate on a stick and a bag of Bambas.

Last week I went with my daughter to the Misrad Haklita, the Absorbtion Centre in Hadera to sign some forms. On the way up to the office, we went in to what looked like a regular pharmacy, though the name of one of the National Health Funds was clearly signed. My daughter needed to buy a packet of tissues. When we finally get to the counter, the woman serving us asked if we were members of Macabbi. What, to buy a tissue? I ask back, astounded. Yes, she replied, you can only buy tissues here if you are a member of Macabbi. My daughter and I burst out laughing; the woman serving us doesn't get the joke.

When we got upstairs I shared my tissue story with the woman at the misrad - who has been nothing short of a Godsend to us. She told us that during Chol Hamoed, across the state, the misrad employ staff to sit in the office all day to answer the phone, even though the office is officially closed. Their sole purpose, for that week is to tell whoever calls that the office is closed. She shrugged her shoulders and explained in a word - "Inertia".

'Inertia' indeed – the country that markets itself on its intelligence is still running on the generators of a dated socialism, reflecting the cumbersome sluggish style of its post hippy era. We will never return to the Zionistic free-style of long days in the Sinai but the conservative style of the eighties and nineties has been replaced by diversification and vitality that must be reflected in all things Israeli not just its hi-tech industry.