The first time she heard the siren, Elissa Hellman froze. The sound rose over the hills of Beit Shemesh like a metallic wail, and for a moment the gynecologist from Milwaukee thought it was a tornado alert. “I actually asked my neighbor what it meant,” she laughs softly. “In Wisconsin, that sound means get to the basement.”
Two months earlier, she and her family had unpacked their lives in their a new apartment on a quiet street in Beit Shemesh. Seven weeks later, the war began. Between learning the Hebrew word for prescription and figuring out which shelter belonged to her building, Hellman began treating her first Israeli patients as part of Meuhedet’s mentoring program for immigrant physicians. “It was chaos,” she says. “But I remember feeling oddly calm. I thought, okay, this is exactly why we came.”
Hellman, now part of Meuhedet’s mentoring program for immigrant physicians, arrived with the steady calm of a veteran doctor and the curiosity of someone learning medicine all over again. “We’d always loved Israel,” she says. “Every summer we visited, and every time we left, we felt pulled back. At some point, we stopped asking if we would move and started asking when.”
“A win-win situation”
In Jerusalem, Dr. Menachem Bitan is familiar with this type of situation. As the Medical Director of Meuhedet’s largest district, the Jerusalem zone, he manages healthcare for over 500,000 individuals. "Every morning,” he remarks with a dry smile, “I remind myself that I am responsible for 570,000 lives."
However, his main passion does not revolve around numbers or budgets. It’s focused on people: the hundreds of doctors like Hellman who have left established careers abroad to rebuild their lives in Israel. “They come with impressive résumés, decades of experience,” he explains. "But when they sit in a clinic, they realize they don’t know how to put a prescription into the system. It’s humbling, for them and for us."
Meuhedet has transformed that humility into a structured approach. By expanding recruitment conferences and offering personal mentoring, it provides foreign-trained doctors with both employment and a welcoming environment. “We meet them where they are,” Bitan states. “Not to plead for their return, but to assure them: there is a place for you here.”
He observes two main types of newcomers. “One group always knew they’d end up in Israel,” he explains. “They’re in their fifties or sixties, kids grown, seeking proximity to family. The second group arrived because their world changed around them.” He recalls a recruitment fair in the U.S. last year. “A doctor told me her colleague refused to share a coffee. Another said a cashier wouldn’t accept her credit card, calling her a ‘bloody Jew.’”
Bitan shakes his head slowly. “When a third- or fourth-generation American Jew says she no longer feels safe, that’s not aliyah out of comfort; it’s out of distress.” For him, these encounters are no longer abstract. “They cry when we meet,” he says. “Not because we promise jobs or titles, but because someone from Israel showed up and said, ‘You’re not alone.’ That simple gesture reminds them they have a home.” Back in Beit Shemesh, Hellman’s motivations were more practical. “We were mid-career, comfortable enough to take the risk,” she says. “It wasn’t about escaping. It was about aligning our lives with our values.” In the U.S., her days were filled with patient rounds, surgeries, and deliveries. “You’re everything at once,” she says. “Surgeon, obstetrician, gynecologist – sometimes all in one day.”
In Israel, the system is different. Doctors work in hospitals or community clinics. “It’s less fragmented,” she notes. “I see patients in the clinic, and that’s it. I have predictable hours and can be home for dinner. At this stage, that’s a gift.” Her first step was a three-month ‘histaglut’ (adjustment), a preparation period at Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital, required for foreign doctors. “They called it orientation,” she laughs, “but it was really survival training. You learn where to click, what button means ‘save,’ which form goes where. Nothing was like America.”
At the end of that period, Meuhedet paired her with Dr. Herman Weiss, an American-born veteran who made aliyah decades earlier and has been working at the Kupah since then. “He was my mentor,” Hellman explains. “I shadowed him in the clinic, watched him manage patient flow, and between appointments I asked: how does this work? What do I click here? He’d say, in America it’s done differently, but here, it’s this way. It sounds small, but it made all the difference.”
Language, however, was another story. “My Hebrew isn’t perfect,” she admits. “Sometimes I use Google Translate or pictures. I’ll pull up an image to show a patient what I mean. Pointing works in every language.” Patients, she says, have been patient in return. “They see you trying. They want you to succeed.” Bitan isn’t surprised. “Language, bureaucracy, even tone – it’s all different,” he says. “That’s why we built the mentorship track. Each new doctor works with a mentor for at least six months, someone who speaks their language, who’s walked the same road. It’s professional, yes, but also deeply human.”
Hellman calls it “a lifeline.” The mentorship gave her more than technical support, it gave her permission to stumble. “When you move countries, you lose your rhythm,” she says. “Having someone to say, ‘You’re fine, you’re doing great,’ matters.” She ends most days with a quiet sense of satisfaction. “Back in the States, the pace was insane. Here, even when it’s hard, there’s purpose. When patients thank me, I feel it.” Bitan smiles when he hears her words.
“There’s something healing about it,” he says. “They come to heal others, and in doing so, they heal something in themselves.” He’s quick, though, to balance the sentiment. “We shouldn’t romanticize this,” he says. “Leaving behind a career, a culture, a pension, it’s not simple. Especially later in life. We owe them a soft landing.”
Meuhedet offers immigrant doctors a salary from their first day in Israel ,even before they’ve built a patient list. “We tell them: take your time, learn the system. You’re part of this from day one.” The policy has paid off in ways no spreadsheet could measure. “It creates loyalty, stability, and above all – trust,” Bitan says. “They know we’re invested in their success.”
The doctors, in turn, enrich the system itself. “It’s not just a win-win between the HMO and the doctors,” says Yonit Amar, Meuhedet’s spokesperson. “There’s a third winner: the patients.” She gestures toward multilingual posters in the clinics. “When people choose a health fund, they ask: will someone there understand me? Language isn’t just convenience, it’s dignity.” Hellman agrees. “Sometimes patients start in Hebrew and then quietly switch to English,” she says. “You can see their shoulders relax. It’s small, but it changes everything.”
Meuhedet’s network now includes doctors from South America, France, the U.S., England, Canada and beyond. “They bring medical expertise, but also empathy across cultures,” Cohen says. “For many immigrants, being treated in their mother tongue is the difference between fear and comfort.” As Israel continues to absorb waves of newcomers, Bitan sees the bigger picture.
“It’s not only about healthcare,” he says. “It’s about belonging.” The doctors, he adds, remind Israelis of the original promise of the country. “We built this place so a Jewish doctor wouldn’t have to explain why she’s Jewish. Every time one of them joins us, that promise gets renewed.”
Hellman feels that renewal each day. Her clinic in Beit Shemesh, she says, is noisy, crowded, and endlessly human “Every time I walk in, I think: this is my place, she smiles.”
“We need more doctors. Come.”
When asked what advice she would give other physicians considering the same leap, she doesn’t hesitate. “Come,” she says. “You’re needed. Just have a plan, financially, professionally, and emotionally. Learn a little Hebrew. But come.”
Bitan echoes her message in his own style. “We can’t tell them it’s easy – it isn’t,” he admits. “But we can promise to support them every step of the way. To ensure their transition is smooth and that they never feel alone. That’s what a health system is for,” he concludes. “To ensure no one – doctor or patient – feels alone.”
This article was written in cooperation with Meuhedet