Rachel runs a small business in Israel. Not a unicorn. Not a “startup.” A real small business, the kind where you still know the names of your regulars and you can tell who’s calling by the way they sigh into the phone.

She lives in an apartment in Rishon LeZion with three kids and exactly one modest wish: to go one full week without opening her bank app and feeling personally offended.

She has a mortgage from 2016, back when the bank smiled at her like they were dating. “Congratulations,” they told her. “You’re building a future.” They handed her coffee in a paper cup, the kind that tastes like optimism and printer ink, and she signed papers so thick they could’ve stopped a small missile. She walked out thinking, okay, this is adulthood. This is stability.

Then 2020 happened. COVID hit, the world got weird, customers disappeared, and Rachel took a business loan. Not because she wanted a new Mercedes. Because she wanted her business to keep breathing. The bank was suddenly less romantic. Same building, different mood. In 2016 they were her partner. In 2020 they were her landlord, and she was late on rent.

Now it’s 2026, and the main relationship in Rachel’s life isn’t with her husband or even her kids. It’s with the interest rate.

Every month, her mortgage payment shows up like a surprise guest who eats everything in the fridge and then complains there’s no dessert. And the business loan? That one has the personality of a WhatsApp group admin. Very active, always sending reminders, never asking how she’s doing.

What makes Rachel call the banks thieves isn’t even that they want their money back. Fine. Loans aren’t gifts. But the way they do it feels like a magic trick where her wallet is the rabbit, and........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)