Everyone knows that driving in Israel is not for the faint-hearted. Some may even call it verging on a death trap. Israeli drivers and roads are notorious for being among the worst worldwide. So, the idea of taking a driving test here is even more terrifying - particularly for Olim. One friend even told me how a driving instructor reduced her to tears during her test.
We all dread it, yet somehow we have to face it eventually if we want the sacred privilege of independence and mobility.
But getting a driver’s license in Israel can feel like surviving an obstacle course - between arbitrary rules, expired documents, and contradictory demands, it’s not just a test of driving skill but also of patience, resilience, and pure willpower.
And for some, it’s still ongoing.
Now imagine trying to navigate the sheer mountain of bureaucracy needed to convert your driver’s license. Nightmare! I can personally attest to this, although in the end, I was very lucky, as I didn’t have to retake my test. As someone who has repeated driving tests more times than I care to admit and who is - at best - a semi-functional driver, I was hugely relieved to be spared the trauma of taking yet another test.
Unfortunately, some of my friends were not as fortunate, forced to fight tooth and nail to obtain this tiny plastic card that represents freedom.
For those unfamiliar with the process, or who are just beginning, here's the catch (of Israeli bureaucracy): you must have had five full years of consecutive driving experience prior to your date of aliyah in order to be exempt from retaking the test. It has to be five years, and it has to be consecutive. A friend of mine learned this the hard way—turned away at the transport ministry because he missed the five-year mark by a single month.
Importantly, you are granted a five-year window within which to convert your license once you have made aliyah. If the deadline passes, or if your foreign license expires, you have to start the process from scratch, meaning that you have to retake the entire test - both the theory and driving sections.
Some friends had encountered this exact conundrum. They’d arrive at the transport ministry with all the correct documents in hand and the magical five years of consecutive driving history, only to discover that their international license had expired - rendering them incapable of applying to convert their license. However, by the time they had managed to renew their original license, the five-year window had passed, meaning that they were back to square one.
After interviewing several people, one story stood out to me in particular - Sarah’s.
Stuck in the system: Sarah’s quest for a driver’s license
Sarah is a young British olah living and working in Jerusalem. Several months ago her workplace informed her that she would need to get a driver’s license in order to meet new job requirements — a frustrating but understandable ask.
Although not thrilled at the prospect of driving in Israel, Sarah accepted that she would need to get her license at some point in any case. So, she rolled up her sleeves and started the process.
Since she doesn’t have a license yet and has no prior driving experience, this means that she has to do a theory test first. So carefully and diligently, Sarah filled out the online form, including the legally required note that she takes daily medication - for a medical condition totally unrelated to her ability to drive - only to receive a message that it hadn’t been approved. She was informed that someone would check what had gone wrong and follow up, but of course no one did.
Thinking maybe she’d made a mistake the first time, Sarah filled out the form again and resubmitted it. This time, she received a message: her application had an issue, and she’d need to make an appointment at the ministry.
But when she arrived for her appointment, she was asked for her doctor’s letter. Unaware that she needed one, Sarah promptly contacted her doctor, who wrote and sent it to her. Armed with the letter, Sarah made another appointment and returned to the ministry, hopeful to finally be approved — only to be told that they couldn’t accept it because it didn’t include three very specific words: fit to drive. Her account remained blocked. Irritated at this point, Sarah called her doctor again, who informed her that as much as she’d like to help, legally, she couldn't write these words. “I can’t declare you fit to drive. That’s not within my legal ability.”
So now Sarah is stuck in a classic bureaucratic catch-22, astounded that she is being prevented from driving due to a medical condition that poses no risk to her driving skills. The transport ministry insists that it can’t move forward without those three magic words. The doctor insists she legally can’t write them.
What is she supposed to do?
Stories like Sarah’s remind us we’re not alone in navigating Israel’s infamous bureaucracy. By sharing our experiences, perhaps we can start pushing for clearer processes and real solutions. As for Sarah, her story is still unfolding. With enough voices, hopefully the next chapter brings not just a license, but lasting change. Stay tuned.