I don’t mean to sound ungrateful about being on the “winning side” and witnessing the downfall of the axis of evil but, while the whole country kind of knew for some time that this was going to happen any day, the finance ministry, Bituach Leumi, the Bank of Israel and the education ministry seem to have been taken by surprise. While clemency is on the cards for some (no names mentioned), bankruptcy and repossession are the reward for others.

It’s honestly impressive. You’d think an entire nation living on push notifications, Home Front Command updates, and that one uncle who “has a guy in intelligence” would give the state a little head start. But no. The minute reality actually arrives, half the ministries respond like someone just walked into their office and whispered: “War. Now. Also, can you please file it in triplicate?”

We’ve been told for years that we’re a startup nation. Which is true, in the sense that every week we launch a new emergency framework, a new “temporary” regulation, and a new hotline that immediately plays you a recording saying “due to unusually high call volumes” in a tone that suggests this is a cosmic mystery. Unusually high call volumes. During a war. In Israel. Sure.

The Bank of Israel, bless its calm central-banker soul, has already put out an “assistance program” like it’s rolling out a festive holiday bundle. It’s got a name, too, because everything has a name now. Not “we are trying to prevent people from losing their homes,” but a branded operation, as if the economy needs a logo and a slogan. You can almost hear the meeting: “Great, we’ll freeze some payments, restructure some loans, and then, important, we need a heroic title. Something with an animal. Lions test well.”

Great, we’ll freeze some payments, restructure some loans, and then, important, we need a heroic title. Something with an animal. Lions test well.

Great, we’ll freeze some payments, restructure some loans, and then, important, we need a heroic title. Something with an animal. Lions test well.

Meanwhile, the Finance Ministry is doing that classic move where it announces the budget like it’s dropping a new album. The 2026 budget draft arrives with all the drama of coalition politics, defense outlays swelling, and the faint sense that the numbers were assembled at 2:00 a.m. by people eating cold burekas over Excel. And listen, maybe that’s inevitable. But it does create a weird vibe when the same government that can find billions for urgent national priorities suddenly discovers the concept of “personal responsibility” the second you ask for a three-month grace period on your mortgage.

You get this split-screen morality play.

On one side, there are people who somehow always fall into the category of “exceptional circumstances.” The kind of exceptional where the rules gently part like the Red Sea. Procedures become flexible. Deadlines become “guidelines.” Penalties become “we’ll look into it.” Paperwork becomes “send it when you can.” The system is practically making them tea.

On the other side, there’s you. Or your neighbor. Or the guy from the third floor who used to smile in the elevator and now looks like he’s aging in real time. For you, the state has an iron belief in process. You will be asked to provide documentation you can’t obtain because the office that issues it is closed because of the situation that caused you to need the documentation in the first place. Then you’ll be told to use the website, which will time out. Then you’ll call, and you’ll be placed on hold with the same looped music that sounds like it was composed to accompany the slow sinking of a ship.

Bituach Leumi deserves its own paragraph here. In theory, it’s the safety net. In practice, it’s also a place where you can spend forty-five minutes listening to a recording and start questioning whether the real axis of evil is the automated phone tree. There’s something darkly funny about being told you can’t do a certain thing “until you settle the debt,” like the debt is a personality flaw and not, say, the outcome of being alive in a country where “normal life” is a limited-time offer.

There’s something darkly funny about being told you can’t do a certain thing “until you settle the debt,” like the debt is a personality flaw and not, say, the outcome of being alive in a country where “normal life” is a limited-time offer.

There’s something darkly funny about being told you can’t do a certain thing “until you settle the debt,” like the debt is a personality flaw and not, say, the outcome of being alive in a country where “normal life” is a limited-time offer.

And then there’s education.

Israelis have developed this bleak talent for treating children’s schooling like a decorative item you can move around when guests come over. War? Close schools. Tension? Remote learning. Calm? Reopen for a week, then close again because something flared up, then reopen with “reinforced spaces” and a note asking parents to send two bottles of water and a snack “that doesn’t crumble,” which is a hilarious request if you’ve ever met a child.

The Education Ministry’s communications are always optimistic in that specific bureaucratic way. “We are examining the possibility of reopening.” “We are preparing various frameworks.” “We are working in coordination.” Meanwhile, parents are running a home logistics operation that would make the IDF proud. One kid has a Zoom lesson. Another kid’s teacher sent a link that doesn’t work. The third kid is “asynchronous” which is a nice word for “watch YouTube and please don’t set anything on fire.” At 9:12 a.m., the Wi-Fi collapses. At 9:13 a.m., a teacher is patiently asking thirty tiny muted microphones to “please turn on cameras.” At 9:14 a.m., you’re googling “how many days of school are legally required” like you’re planning a jailbreak.

And somewhere in the background, the banks are doing their own interpretation of compassion.

A lot of Israelis now speak mortgage the way they speak traffic. Casual, bitter, expert. We all know someone who got a “top-up,” refinanced, stretched, combined, bridged, and somehow ended up paying more for the same apartment while being told it was “smart financial planning.” Then the Bank of Israel tightens rules and suddenly everyone’s learning acronyms like LTV because the only thing more comforting than uncertainty is a three-letter abbreviation for it.

Here’s the part that really lands: the state is incredibly capable when it wants to be. We’ve all seen it. Systems can move. Decisions can be made. Budgets can appear. Regulations can be rewritten overnight. Entire sectors can switch to emergency mode in a few hours. It’s not incompetence in the simple sense. It’s more selective astonishment. Like, yes, of course we have an emergency plan for the macroeconomy. We have committees and frameworks and branded operations. But the moment an ordinary person asks, “So what happens to me this month?” the country suddenly becomes very philosophical.

“What is a month, really?” “What is hardship?” “Have you tried calling during non-peak hours?” “Please press 7 for ‘other.’”

And if you’re tempted to say, fine, but these are complicated times, everyone is suffering, be fair: sure. But fairness is exactly what feels missing. Not the speeches, not the ceremonies, not the big national posture. The small stuff. The stuff that decides whether someone keeps their car, their apartment, their sanity.

The war may have surprised the ministries. The paperwork didn’t. The paperwork never does. The paperwork is always ready. The paperwork has been training for this moment its whole life. So we watch the big story unfold, the historic headlines, the speeches, the flags. And then we go back to the small story, the direct debit, the letter, the call waiting tone, the mortgage payment that doesn’t care about geopolitics. A masterclass, really. Not in governance. In who gets held, and who gets dropped.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)