Start-up Nation

CHAPTER 6 An Industrial Policy That Worked

THE STORY OF HOW ISRAEL got to where it is—fiftyfold economic growth within sixty years—is more than the story of Israeli character idiosyncrasies, battle-tested entrepreneurship, or geopolitical happenstance. The story must include the effects of government policies, which had to be as adaptive as Israel’s military and its citizens, and suffered as many turns of fortune.

The history of Israel’s economy is one of two great leaps, separated by a period of stagnation and hyperinflation. The government’s macroeconomic policies have played an important role in speeding the country’s growth, then reversing it, and then unleashing it in ways that even the government never expected.

The first great leap occurred from 1948 to 1970, a period during which per capita GDP almost quadrupled and the population tripled, even amidst Israel’s engagement in three major wars.[102] The second was from 1990 until today, during which time the country was transformed from a sleepy backwater into a leading center of global innovation. Dramatically different—almost opposite—means were employed: the first period of expansion was achieved through an entrepreneurial government that dominated a small, primitive private sector; the second period through a thriving entrepreneurial private sector that was initially catalyzed by government action.

The roots of the first period of economic growth can be traced to well before the country’s founding—all the way back to the late nineteenth century. For example, in the 1880s, a group of Jewish settlers tried to build a farming community in a new town they had founded— Petach Tikva—a few miles from what is now Tel Aviv. After first living in tents, the pioneers hired local Arab villagers to build mud cabins for them. But when it rained the cabins leaked even more than the tents, and when the river swelled beyond its banks, the structures melted away. Some of the settlers were struck by malaria and dysentery. After just a few winters, the farmers’ savings had been exhausted, their access to roads washed out, and their families reduced to near starvation.

In 1883, though, things began to look up. The French-Jewish banker and philanthropist Edmond de Rothschild provided desperately needed financial support. An agricultural expert advised the settlers to plant eucalyptus trees where the river’s overflow created swamps; the roots of these trees quickly drained the swamps dry. The incidence of malaria dropped dramatically, and more families came to live in the growing community.[103]

Beginning in the 1920s and continuing through the decade, labor productivity in the Yishuv—the Jewish community of pre-state Palestine—increased by 80 percent, producing a fourfold increase in national product as the Jewish population doubled in size. Strikingly, as a global depression raged from 1931 to 1935, the average annual economic growth for Jews and Arabs in Palestine was 28 and 14 percent, respectively.[104]

The small communities established by settlers, like those of Petach Tikva, would never have been able to achieve such explosive growth on their own. They were joined by waves of new immigrants who contributed not only their numbers but a pioneering ethos that overturned the charity-based economy.

One of those immigrants was a twenty-year-old lawyer named David Gruen, who traveled from Poland in 1906. Upon arrival, he Hebraized his name to Ben-Gurion—naming himself after a Jewish general from the Roman period of 70 c.e.—and quickly rose to become the uncontested leader of the Yishuv. The Israeli author Amos Oz has written that “in the early years of the state, many Israelis saw him as a combination of Moses, George Washington, Garibaldi and God Almighty.”[105]

Ben-Gurion was also Israel’s first national entrepreneur. Theodore Herzl may have conceptualized a vision for Jewish sovereignty and begun to galvanize Diaspora Jews around a romantic notion of a sovereign state, but it was Ben-Gurion who organized this vision from an idea into a functioning nation-state. After World War II, Winston Churchill described the United States Army general George Marshall as the Allied Powers’ “organizer of victory.” To paraphrase Churchill, Ben-Gurion was the “organizer of Zionism.” Or in business terms, Ben-Gurion was the “operations guy” who actually built the country.

The challenge facing Ben-Gurion in operational management and logistics planning was extremely complex. Consider just one issue: how to absorb waves of immigrants. From the 1930s through the end of the Holocaust, as millions of European Jews were being deported to concentration camps, some managed to flee to Palestine. Others who escaped, however, were denied asylum by different countries and forced to remain in hiding, often in horrendous conditions. After 1939 the British government, which was the colonial power in charge of Palestine, imposed draconian restrictions on immigration, a policy known as the “White Paper.” British authorities turned away most of those trying to seek refuge in Palestine.

In response, Ben-Gurion launched two seemingly contradictory campaigns. First he inspired and organized some eighteen thousand Jews living in Palestine to return to Europe to join the British army in “Jewish battalions” fighting the Nazis. At the same time, he created an underground agency to secretly transport Jewish refugees from Europe to Palestine, in defiance of the United Kingdom’s immigration policy. Ben-Gurion was at once fighting alongside the British in Europe and against the British in Palestine.

Most histories of this era focus on the political and military struggles that led to the founding of Israel in 1948. Along the way, a myth surrounding the economic dimension of this story has arisen: that Ben-Gurion was a socialist and that Israel was born as a thoroughly socialist state.

The sources of this myth are understandable. Ben-Gurion was steeped in the socialist milieu of his era and was heavily influenced by the rise of Marxism and the Russian Revolution of 1917. Many of the Jews arriving from the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe in pre-state Palestine were socialist, and they were highly influential.

But Ben-Gurion was singularly focused on building the state, by whatever means. He had no patience for experimenting with policies that he believed were simply designed to validate Marxist ideology. In his view, every policy—economic, political, military, or social—should serve the objective of nation building. Ben-Gurion was the classic bitzu’ist, a Hebrew word that loosely translates to “pragmatist,” but with a much more activist quality. A bitzu’ist is someone who just gets things done. Bitzu’ism is at the heart of the pioneering ethos and Israel’s entrepreneurial drive. “To call someone a bitzu’ist is to pay him or her a high compliment,” writes author and editor Leon Wieseltier. “The bitzu’ist is the builder, the irrigator, the pilot, the gunrunner, the settler. Israelis recognize the social type: crusty, resourceful, impatient, sardonic, effective, not much in need of thought but not much in need of sleep either.”[106] While Wieseltier is describing the pioneering generation, his words fit those who risk all to found start-ups. Bitzu’ism is a thread that runs from those who braved marauders and drained the swamps to the entrepreneurs who believe they can defy the odds and barrel through to make their dreams happen. For Ben-Gurion, the central task was the wide dispersion of the Jewish population over what would one day become Israel. He believed that an intensely focused settlement program was the only way to guarantee Israel’s future sovereignty. Otherwise, unsettled or thinly settled areas could someday be reclaimed by adversaries, who would have an easier case to make to the international community if Jews were underrepresented in contested areas. Moreover, thick urban concentrations—in cities and towns like Jerusalem, Tiberias, and Safed—would make obvious targets for hostile air forces, which was another reason for dispersing the population widely.

Ben-Gurion also understood that people would not move to underdeveloped areas, far away from urban centers and basic infrastructure, if the government did not take the lead in settlement and provide incentives to relocate. Private capitalists, he knew, were unlikely to take on the risk of such efforts.

But this intense focus on development also produced a legacy of informal government meddling in the economy. The exploits of Pinchas Sapir were typical. During the 1960s and ’70s Sapir served at different times as minister of finance and minister of trade and industry. His style of management was so micro that Sapir established different foreign currency exchange rates for different factories—called the “100 exchange rate method”—and kept track of it all by jotting each rate down in a little black notebook. According to Moshe Sanbar, the first governor of the Bank of Israel, Sapir famously had two notebooks. “One of them was his own personal central bureau of statistics: He had people in every large factory reporting back to him on how much they sold, to whom, how much electricity was consumed, etc. And this is how he knew, well before official statistics were kept, how the economy was doing.”

Sanbar also believes that this system could have worked only in a small, striving, and idealistic nation: there was no government transparency, but “all the politicians then . . . died poor. . . . They intervened in the market, and decided whatever they wanted, but at no point did anyone pocket even one cent.”[107]

The Kibbutz and the Agriculture Revolution

At the center of the first great leap was a radical and emblematic societal innovation whose local and global influence has been wildly disproportionate to its size: the kibbutz. Today, at less than 2 percent of Israel’s population, kibbutzniks produce 12 percent of the nation’s exports.

Historians have called the kibbutz “the world’s most successful commune movement.”[108] Yet in 1944, four years before Israel’s founding, only sixteen thousand people lived on kibbutzim (kibbutz means “gathering” or “collective,” kibbutzim is the plural, and members are called kibbutzniks). Created as agricultural settlements dedicated to abolishing private property and to complete equality, the movement grew over the following twenty years to eighty thousand people living in 250 communities, but this still amounted to only 4 percent of Israel’s population. Yet by this time the kibbutzim had provided some 15 percent of the members of Knesset, Israel’s parliament, and an even larger proportion of the IDF’s officers and pilots. One-quarter of the eight hundred IDF soldiers killed in the 1967 Six-Day War were kibbutzniks—six times their proportion in the general population.[109]

Though the notion of a socialist commune might bring up images of a bohemian culture, the early kibbutzim were anything but. The kibbutzniks came to symbolize hardiness and informality, and their pursuit of radical equality produced a form of asceticism. A notable example of this was Abraham Herzfield, a kibbutz movement leader during the state’s early years, who thought that flush toilets were unacceptably decadent. Even in the poor and beleaguered Israel of the 1950s, when many basic goods were rationed, flush toilets were considered a common necessity in most Israeli settlements and cities. Legend has it that when the first toilet was installed on a kibbutz, Herzfield personally destroyed it with an ax. By the 1960s, even Herzfield could not hold back progress, and most kibbutzim installed flush toilets.[110]

Kibbutzim were both hypercollective and hyperdemocratic. Every question of self-governance, from what crop to grow to whether members would have televisions, was endlessly debated. Shimon Peres told us, “In the kibbutzim, there were no police. There was no court. When I was a member, there was no private money. Before I came, there wasn’t even private mail. The mail came and everyone could read it.”

Perhaps most controversially, children were raised communally. While practices varied, almost all kibbutzim had “children’s houses” where children lived and were tended to by kibbutz members. In most kibbutzim, children would see their parents for a few hours each day, but they would sleep with their peers, not in their parents’ houses.

The rise of the kibbutz is partly a result of agricultural and technological breakthroughs made on Israeli kibbutzim and in Israeli universities. The transition from the extreme hardships and unbending ideologies of the founders’ era, and from tilling the land to cutting-edge industry, can be seen in a kibbutz like Hatzerim. This kibbutz, along with ten other isolated and tiny outposts, was founded one night in October 1946 when the Haganah, the main pre-state Jewish militia, decided to establish a presence at strategic points in the southern Negev Desert. When daylight broke, the five women and twenty-five men who’d arrived to start the community found themselves on a barren hilltop surrounded by wilderness. A single acacia tree could be seen on the horizon.

It took a year before the group managed to lay a six-inch pipe that would supply water from an area forty miles away. During the 1948 War of Independence, the kibbutz was attacked and its water supply cut off. Even after the war, the soil proved so salty and difficult to cultivate that by 1959 the kibbutz members had begun to debate closing Hatzerim and moving to a more hospitable location.

But the community decided to stick it out since it became clear that the problems of soil salinity affected not only Hatzerim but also most of the lands in the Negev. Two years later, the Hatzerim kibbutzniks managed to flush the soil enough so that they were able to start growing crops. Yet this was just the beginning of Hatzerim’s breakthroughs for itself and the country.

In 1965 a water engineer named Simcha Blass approached Hatzerim with an idea for an invention that he wanted to commercialize: drip irrigation. This was the beginning of what ultimately became Netafim, the global drip irrigation company.

Professor Ricardo Hausmann heads the Center for International Development at Harvard University and is a former minister of development in the Venezuelan government. He is also a world-renowned expert on national economic development models. All countries have problems and constraints, he told us, but what’s striking about Israel is the penchant for taking problems—like the lack of water—and turning them into assets—in this case, by becoming leaders in the fields of desert agriculture, drip irrigation, and desalination. The kibbutz was at the forefront of this process early on. The environmental hardships the kibbutzim contended with were ultimately incredibly productive, much in the same way Israel’s security threats were. The large amounts of R&D spending deployed to solve military problems through high technology—including in voice recognition, communications, optics, hardware, software, and so on—has helped the country jump-start, train, and maintain a civilian high-tech sector.

The country’s disadvantage of having some of its area taken up by a desert was turned into an asset. Looking at Israel today, most visitors would be surprised to discover that 95 percent of the country is categorized as semi-arid, arid, or hyperarid, as quantified by levels of annual rainfall. Indeed, by the time Israel was founded, the Negev Desert had crept up almost all the way north to the road between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. The Negev is still Israel’s largest region, but its encroachment has been reversed as its northern reaches are now covered with agricultural fields and planted forests. Much of this was accomplished by innovative water policies since the days of Hatzerim. Israel now leads the world in recycling waste water; over 70 percent is recycled, which is three times the percentage recycled in Spain, the country in second place.[111]

Kibbutz Mashabbe Sade, in the Negev Desert, went even further: the kibbutzniks found a way to use water deemed useless not once, but twice. They dug a well as deep as ten football fields are long—almost half a mile—only to discover water that was warm and salty. This did not seem like a great find until they consulted Professor Samuel Appelbaum of nearby Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. He realized that the water would be perfect for raising warm-water fish.

“It was not simple to convince people that growing fish in the desert makes sense,” said Appelbaum, a fish biologist. “But it’s important to debunk the idea that arid land is infertile, useless land.”[112] The kibbutzniks started pumping the ninety-eight-degree water into ponds, which were stocked with tilapia, barramundi, sea bass, and striped bass for commercial production. After use in the fishponds, the water, which now contained waste products that made excellent fertilizer, was then used to irrigate olive and date trees. The kibbutz also found ways to grow vegetables and fruits that were watered directly from the underground aquifer.

A century ago Israel was, as Mark Twain and other travelers described it, largely a barren wasteland. Now there are an estimated 240 million trees, millions of them planted one at a time. Forests have been planted all over the country, but the largest is perhaps the most improbable of all: the Yatir Forest.

In 1932, Yosef Weitz became the top forestry official in the Jewish National Fund, a pre-state organization dedicated to buying land and planting trees in what was to become the Jewish state. It took Weitz more than thirty years to convince his own organization and the government to start planting a forest on hills at the edge of the Negev Desert. Most thought it couldn’t be done. Now there are about four million trees there. Satellite pictures show the forest sticking out like a visual typo, surrounded by desert and drylands in a place where it should not exist. FluxNet, a NASA-coordinated global environmental research project, collects data from over a hundred observation towers around the world. Only one tower is in a forest in a semi-arid zone: Yatir.

The Yatir Forest survives only on rain water, though only 280 millimeters (about eleven inches) of rain fall there each year—about a third of the precipitation that falls on Dallas, Texas. Yet researchers have found that the trees in the forest are naturally growing faster than expected, and that it soaks up about as much carbon dioxide from the atmosphere as lush forests growing in temperate climates.

Dan Yakir is a scientist at the Weizmann Institute who manages the FluxNet research station at Yatir. He says that the forest not only demonstrates that trees can thrive in areas that most people would call desert, but that planting forests on just 12 percent of the world’s semi-arid lands could reduce atmospheric carbon by one gigaton a year—the annual CO₂ output of about one thousand 500-megawatt coal plants. A gigaton of carbon would also amount to one of seven “stabilization wedges” that scientists argue are necessary to stabilize atmospheric carbon at current levels.

In December 2008, Ben-Gurion University hosted a United Nations–sponsored conference on combating desertification, the world’s largest ever. Experts from forty countries came, interested to see with their own eyes why Israel is the only country whose desert is receding.[113]

The Israeli Leapfrog

The kibbutz story is just a part of the overall trajectory of the Israeli economic revolution. Whether it was socialist, developmentalist, or a hybrid, the economic track record of Israel’s first twenty years was impressive. From 1950 through 1955, Israel’s economy grew by about 13 percent each year; it hovered just below 10 percent growth annually into the 1960s. Not only did Israel’s economy expand, it experienced what Hausmann calls a “leapfrog,” which is when a developing country shrinks its per capita wealth gap with rich first-world countries.[114]

Whereas economic growth periods are common in most countries, leapfrogs are not. A third of the world’s economies have experienced a growth period in the past fifty years, but fewer than 10 percent of them have had a leapfrog. The Israeli economy, however, increased its per capita income relative to the United States’ from 25 percent in 1950 to 60 percent in 1970. That means Israel more than doubled its living standard relative to that of the United States within twenty years.[115]

During this period, the government made no effort to encourage private entrepreneurship and, if anything, was rhetorically hostile to the notion of private profit. Though some of the government’s political opponents did begin to oppose its heavy economic hand and anti–free market attitudes, these critics were a small minority. If the government had valued and sought to ease the path for private initiative, the economy would have grown even faster.

In retrospect, however, it is clear that Israel’s economic performance occurred in part because of the government’s meddling, and not just in spite of it. During the early stages of development in any primitive economy, there are easily identifiable opportunities for large-scale investment: roads, water systems, factories, ports, electrical grids, and housing construction. Israel’s massive investment in these projects—such as the National Water Carrier, which piped water from the Sea of Galilee in the north to the parched Negev in the south—stimulated high-velocity growth. Rapid housing development on kibbutzim, for example, generated growth in the construction and utilities industries. But it is important not to generalize: many developing countries engaged in large infrastructure projects waste vast amounts of government funds due to corruption and government inefficiencies. Israel was not a perfect exception.

Though infrastructure projects were perhaps the most visible element, even more striking was the deliberate creation of industries, as entrepreneurial projects, from within the government. Shimon Peres and Al Schwimmer, an American who helped smuggle airplanes and weapons to Israel during the War of Independence, together dreamed up the idea of creating an aeronautics industry in Israel. When they pitched the idea within the Israeli government, in the 1950s, reactions ranged from skepticism to ridicule. At the time, staples like milk and eggs were still scarce and thousands of just-arrived refugees were living in tents, so it is not surprising that most of the ministers thought that Israel could neither afford nor be capable of succeeding in such an endeavor.

But Peres had David Ben-Gurion’s ear, and convinced him that Israel could start repairing surplus World War II aircraft. They launched an enterprise that at one point was Israel’s largest employer. Bedek eventually became Israel Aircraft Industries, a global leader in its field.

During this stage of Israel’s development, private entrepreneurs may not have been essential because the largest and most pressing needs of the economy were obvious. But the system broke down as the economy became more complex. According to Israeli economist Yakir Plessner, once the government saturated the economy with big infrastructure spending, only entrepreneurs could be counted on to drive growth; only they could find “the niches of relative advantage.”[116]

The transition from central development to a private entrepreneurial economy should have occurred in the mid-1960s. The twenty-year period from 1946 through 1966, when most of the large-scale infrastructure investments had been made, was coming to an end. In 1966, with no more frothy investment targets, Israel experienced for the first time nearly zero economic growth. This should have convinced Israel’s government to open the economy to private enterprise. But instead, needed reforms were staved off by the Six-Day War. Within one week of June 6, 1967, Israel had captured the West Bank, Gaza Strip, Sinai Peninsula, and Golan Heights. Collectively, the territory was equal to more than three times the size of Israel.

Suddenly the Israeli government was once again busy with new large-scale infrastructure projects. And since the IDF needed to establish positions in the new territories, massive spending was necessary for defense installations, border security, and other costly infrastructure. It was another giant economic “stimulus” program. As a result, from 1967 to 1968, investment in construction equipment alone increased by 725 percent. The timing of the war reinforced the worst instincts of Israel’s central planners.

Israel’s “Lost Decade”

Still, Israel’s economy was living on borrowed time. Another war six years later, the Yom Kippur War of 1973, did not yield the same economic boost. Israel suffered heavy casualties (three thousand fatalities and many more wounded) and enormous damage to its infrastructure. Forced to mobilize large numbers of reserves, the IDF pulled most of the labor force out of the economy for up to six months. The effect of such a massive and protracted call-up was jarring, paralyzing companies and even entire industries. Business activity came to a halt.

In any normal economic environment, private incomes among domestic workers would have experienced a corresponding decline. But in Israel they did not. Instead of allowing salaries to fall, the government artificially propped them up through a vehicle that resulted in extremely high levels of public debt. In order to try to offset the ballooning debt, every tax rate—including on capital investment—was raised. Short-term and high-priced debt was used to finance the deficit, which in turn increased interest payments.

All this coincided with a decline in net immigration. New immigrants have always been a key source of Israel’s economic vitality. There had been a net gain of nearly one hundred thousand new Israelis between 1972 and 1973. But the number was down to fourteen thousand in 1974 and almost zero in 1975.

What made recovery especially unlikely—if not impossible—was the government’s monopoly of the capital market. As the Bank of Israel itself described it at the time, “The government’s involvement transcends anything that is known in politically free countries.” The government set the terms and interest rate for every loan and debt instrument for consumer and business credit. Commercial banks and pensions were forced to use most of their deposits to purchase nonnegotiable government bonds or to finance private-sector loans for projects that had been earmarked by the government.[117]

This was the condition of Israel’s economy during what is often described by economists as Israel’s “lost decade,” from the mid-1970s through the mid-1980s. Today, Intel’s decision to search for scarce engineers in Israel seems like an obvious move. But the Israel that Intel found in 1974 was nothing like what it is today. While it may no longer have resembled an expanse of sand, swamps, and malaria, visitors during the 1970s might have been excused for thinking they had landed in a third-world country.

Israeli universities and Israel’s engineering talent were by this time fairly advanced, but much of the country’s infrastructure was antiquated. The airport was small, quaint, and shabby. It had a Soviet-style utilitarian feel as one arrived and entered immigration. There was no major road that could pass for a real highway. Television reception was shoddy, but it hardly mattered since there was only a single government-owned station broadcasting in Hebrew, along with a couple of Arabic channels that, with a powerful enough antenna, one could pick up from Jordan or Lebanon.

Not everyone had a telephone at home, and not because they all had cell phones, which didn’t exist yet. The reason was that phone lines were still being slowly rationed out by a government ministry, and it took a long time to get one. Supermarkets, unlike the small food marts common in neighborhoods, were a novelty, and they did not carry many international products. Major international retail chains were nonexistent. If you needed something from abroad, you had to go yourself, or ask a visitor to bring it back for you. High customs duties—many of them protectionist attempts to coddle local producers—made most imports prohibitively expensive.

The cars on the road were a bland bunch—some produced in Israel (these became the butt of jokes, much like locally produced Russian cars did in Russia) and a motley assortment of the cheapest models of mostly Subaru and Citroën, the two companies brave or desperate enough to defy the Arab boycott. The banking system and the government’s financial regulations were as antiquated as the auto industry. It was illegal to change dollars anywhere except at banks, which charged government-set exchange rates. Even holding an overseas bank account was illegal.

The overall mood was dour. The euphoria that had come with the stunning 1967 victory—which some likened to first receiving a death-row pardon and then winning the lottery—quickly dissipated after the 1973 Yom Kippur War and was replaced with a renewed sense of insecurity, isolation, and, perhaps worst of all, tragic blunder. The mighty Israeli army had been utterly surprised and badly bloodied. It was scarce consolation that, in military terms, Israel had won the war. Israelis felt that their political and military leadership had badly failed them.

A public commission of inquiry was appointed; this led to the removal of the IDF’s chief of staff, its chief of intelligence, and other senior security officials. Though the commission exonerated her, Prime Minister Golda Meir took responsibility for what was seen as a fiasco and resigned a month after the release of the commission’s report. But her successor, Yitzhak Rabin, was forced to resign from his first stint as prime minister when, in 1977, it was revealed that his wife had a foreign bank account.

As late as the early 1980s, Israel also suffered from hyperinflation: going to the supermarket meant spending thousands of almost worthless shekels. Inflation rose from 13 percent in 1971 to 111 percent in 1979. Some of this was due to rising oil prices at this time. But Israeli inflation continued to skyrocket beyond other countries’, rising to 133 percent in 1980 and to 445 percent in 1984, and appeared to be on its way to a four-digit figure within a year or two.[118]

People would hoard phone tokens, since their value didn’t change as their price rose sharply, and would rush to buy basic items in advance of expected price hikes. According to a joke of that time, it was better to take a taxi from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem than a bus, since you could pay the taxi at the end of the ride, when the shekel would be worth less.

A main reason for the hyperinflation was, ironically, one of the measures the government had taken for years to cope with inflation: indexing. Most of the economy—wages, prices, rents—were linked to the Consumer Price Index, a measure of inflation. Indexing seemed to protect the public from feeling the effects of inflation, since their incomes rose with their expenses. But indexing ultimately fed an inflationary spiral.

Path to Recovery?

In this context, it is especially striking that Intel set up shop in Israel in the 1970s. An even greater mystery, however, is how Israel transformed itself from this somewhat provincial and isolated state to a thriving and technologically sophisticated country three decades later. Today, visitors to Israel arrive in an airport that is often far more slickly modern than the one they departed from. Unlimited numbers of new phone lines can be set up with only a few hours’ notice, BlackBerrys never lose reception, and wireless Internet is as close as the nearest coffee shop. Wireless access is so abundant that during the 2006 Lebanon war, Israelis were busy comparing what kind of Internet service worked best in their bomb shelters. Israelis have more cell phones per capita than anywhere else in the world. Most kids above the age of ten have a cell phone, as well as a computer in their bedroom. The streets are full of late-model cars, ranging from Hummers to European Smart cars that take up less than half of a scarce parking spot.

“Looking for a few good programmers?” CNNMoney.com recently asked in a feature listing Tel Aviv among the “best places to do business in the wired world.” “So are IBM, Intel, Texas Instruments, and other tech giants, which have flocked to Israel for its tech savvy. . . . The best place to close a deal is at Yoezer Wine Bar, with its extensive selection of varietals and deliciously doused beef bourguignon.”[119] In 1990, though, there wasn’t a single chain of coffee shops, and probably not a single wine bar, decent sushi restaurant, McDonald’s, Ikea, or major foreign fashion outlet in all of Israel. The first Israeli McDonald’s opened in 1993, three years after the chain’s largest restaurant opened in Moscow, and twenty-two years after the first McDonald’s in Sydney, Australia. Now McDonald’s has approximately 150 restaurants in Israel, about twice as many per capita as there are in Spain, Italy, or South Korea.[120]

The second-phase turnaround began after 1990. Up to that point, the economy had a limited capacity to capitalize on the entrepreneurial talent that the culture and the military had inculcated. And further stifling the private sector was the extended period of hyperinflation, which was not addressed until 1985, when then finance minister Shimon Peres led a stabilization plan developed by U.S. Secretary of State George Shultz and IMF economist Stanley Fischer. The plan dramatically cut public debt, limited spending, began privatizations, and reformed the government’s role in the capital markets. But this didn’t yet generate for Israel a private and dynamic entrepreneurial economy.

For the economy to truly take off, it required three additional factors: a new wave of immigration, a new war, and a new venture capital industry.

CHAPTER 7 Immigration The Google Guys’ Challenge

IN 1984 SHLOMO (NEGUSE) MOLLA left his small village in northern Ethiopia with seventeen of his friends, determined to walk to Israel. He was sixteen years old. Macha, the remote village where Molla grew up, had virtually no connection to the modern world—no running water, no electricity, and no phone lines. In addition to the brutal famine that plagued the country, the Ethiopian Jews lived under a repressive anti-Semitic regime, a satellite of the former Soviet Union.

“We always dreamed of coming to Israel,” said Molla, who was raised in a Jewish and Zionist home. He and his friends planned to walk north—from Ethiopia to Sudan, Sudan to Egypt and through the Sinai Desert, and from Sinai to Israel’s southern metropolis, Beersheba; after that, they would continue on to Jerusalem.[121]

Molla’s father sold a cow in order to pay a guide two dollars to show the boys the way on the first leg of their journey. They walked barefoot day and night, with few rest stops, trekking through the desert and into the jungle of northern Ethiopia. There they encountered wild tigers and snakes before being held up by a band of muggers, who took their food and money. Yet Molla and his friends continued, walking nearly five hundred miles in one week to Ethiopia’s northern border.

When they crossed into Sudan, they were chased by Sudanese border guards. Molla’s best friend was shot and killed, and the rest of the boys were bound, tortured, and thrown in jail. After ninety- one days, they were released to the Gedaref refugee camp in Sudan, where Molla was approached by a white man who spoke crypti-cally but clearly seemed well-informed. “I know who you are and I know where you want to go,” he told the teenager. “I am here to help.” This was only the second time in Molla’s life that he had seen a white person. The man returned the next day, loaded the boys onto a truck, and drove across the desert for five hours, until they reached a remote airstrip.

There, they were pushed inside an airplane along with hundreds of other Ethiopians. This was part of a secret Israeli government effort; the 1984 airlift mission, called Operation Moses, brought more than eight thousand Ethiopian Jews to Israel.[122] Their average age was fourteen. The day after their arrival, they were all given full Israeli citizenship. The New Republic’s Leon Wieseltier wrote at the time that Operation Moses clarified “a classic meaning of Zionism: there must exist a state for which Jews need no visas.”[123]

Today Molla is an elected member of Israel’s parliament, the Knesset; he is only the second Ethiopian to be elected to this office. “While it was just a four-hour flight, it felt like there was a gap of four hundred years between Ethiopia and Israel,” Molla told us.

Coming from an antiquated agrarian community, nearly all the Ethiopians who immigrated to Israel didn’t know how to read or write, even in Amharic, their mother tongue. “We didn’t have cars. We didn’t have industry. We didn’t have supermarkets. We didn’t have banks,” Molla recalled of his life in Ethiopia.

Operation Moses was followed seven years later by Operation Solomon, in which 14,500 Ethiopian Jews were airlifted to Israel. This effort involved thirty-four Israeli Air Force and El Al transport aircraft and one Ethiopian plane. The entire series of transport operations occurred over a thirty-six-hour period.

“Inside Flight 9, the armrests between the seats were raised,” the New York Times reported at the time. “Five, six or seven Ethiopians including children crowded happily into each three-seat row. None of them had ever been on an airplane before and probably did not even know that the seating was unusual.”[124]

Another flight from Ethiopia set a world record: 1,122 passengers on a single El Al 747. Planners had expected to fill the aircraft with 760 passengers, but because the passengers were so thin, hundreds more were squeezed in. Two babies were born during the flight. Many of the passengers arrived barefoot and with no belongings. By the end of the decade, Israel had absorbed some forty thousand Ethiopian immigrants.

The Ethiopian immigration wave has proven to be an enormous economic burden for Israel. Nearly half of Ethiopian adults age twenty-five to fifty-four are unemployed, and a majority of Ethiopian Israelis are on government welfare. Molla expects that even with Israel’s robust and well-funded immigrant-absorption programs, the Ethiopian community will not be fully integrated and self-sufficient for at least a decade.

“Given the context of where they came from not so long ago, this will take time,” Molla told us. The experience of Ethiopian immigrants contrasts sharply with that of immigrants from the former Soviet Union, most of whom arrived at roughly the same time as Operation Solomon, and who have been a boon to the Israeli economy. The success story of this wave can be found in places like the Shevach-Mofet high school.

The students had been waiting for some time, with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for rock stars. Then the moment arrived. The two Americans entered through a back door, shaking off the press and other groupies. This was their only stop in Israel, aside from the prime minister’s office.

The Google founders strode into the hall, and the crowd roared. The students could not believe their eyes. “Sergey Brin and Larry Page . . . in our high school!” one of the students proudly recalled. What had brought the world’s most famous tech duo to this Israeli high school, of all places?

The answer came as soon as Sergey Brin spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys,” he said in Russian, his choice of language prompting spontaneous applause. “I emigrated from Russia when I was six,” Brin continued. “I went to the United States. Similar to you, I have standard Russian-Jewish parents. My dad is a math professor. They have a certain attitude about studies. And I think I can relate that here, because I was told that your school recently got seven out of the top ten places in a math competition throughout all Israel.”

This time the students clapped for their own achievement. “But what I have to say,” Brin continued, cutting through the applause, “is what my father would say—‘What about the other three? ’ ”[125]

Most of the students at the Shevach-Mofet school were, like Brin, second-generation Russian Jews. Shevach-Mofet is located in an industrial area in south Tel Aviv, the poorer part of town, and was for years notoriously one of the roughest schools in the city.

We learned about the history of the school from Natan Sharansky, the most famous former Soviet Jewish immigrant in Israel. He spent fourteen years in Soviet prisons and labor camps while fighting for the right to emigrate and was the best-known “refusenik,” as the Soviet Jews who were refused permission to emigrate were called. He rose to become Israel’s deputy prime minister a few years after he was freed from the Soviet Union. He joked to us that in Israel’s Russian immigrant party, which he founded soon after his arrival, politicians believe they should mirror his own experience: go to prison first and then get into politics, not the other way around.

“The name of the school—Shevach—means ‘praise,’ ” Sharansky told us in his home in Jerusalem. It was the second high school to open in Tel Aviv, when the city was brand-new, in 1946. It was one of the schools where the new generation of native Israelis went. But in the early 1960s, “the authorities started to experiment with integration, a bit like in America,” he explained. “The government said we can’t have sabra schools, we must bring in the immigrants from Morocco, Yemen, Eastern Europe—let’s have a mix.”[126]

While the idea may have been a good one, its execution was poor. By the beginning of the 1990s, when large waves of Russian Jewish immigrants began to arrive following the collapse of the Soviet Union, the school was one of the worst in the city and known mainly for delinquency. At that time, Yakov Mozganov, a new immigrant who had been a professor of mathematics in the Soviet Union, was employed at the school as a security guard. This was typical in those years: Russians with PhDs and engineering degrees were arriving in such overwhelming numbers that they could not find jobs in their fields, especially while they were still learning Hebrew.

Mozganov decided that he would start a night school for students of all ages—including adults—who wanted to learn more science or math, using the Shevach classrooms. He recruited other unemployed or underemployed Russian immigrants with advanced degrees to teach with him. They called it Mofet, a Hebrew acronym of the words for “mathematics,” “physics,” and “culture” that also means “excellence.” The Russian offshoot was such a success that it was eventually merged with the original school, which became Shevach-Mofet. The emphasis on hard sciences and on excellence was not in name only; it reflected the ethos that new arrivals from the former Soviet Union brought with them to Israel.

Israel’s economic miracle is due as much to immigration as to anything. At Israel’s founding in 1948, its population was 806,000. Today numbering 7.1 million people, the country has grown almost ninefold in sixty years. The population doubled in the first three years alone, completely overwhelming the new government. As one parliament member said at the time, if they had been working with a plan, they never would have absorbed so many people. Foreign-born citizens of Israel currently account for over one-third of the nation’s population, almost three times the ratio of foreigners to natives in the United States. Nine out of ten Jewish Israelis are either immigrants or first- or second-generation descendants of immigrants.

David McWilliams, an Irish economist who lived and worked in Israel in 1994, has his own colorful, if less-than-academic, methodology to illustrate immigration data: “Worldwide, you can tell how diverse the population is by the food smells of the streets and the choice of menus. In Israel, you can eat almost any specialty, from Yemenite to Russian, from real Mediterranean to bagels. Immigrants cook and that is precisely what wave after wave of poor Jews did when they arrived having been kicked out of Baghdad, Berlin, and Bosnia.”[127]

Israel is now home to more than seventy different nationalities and cultures. But the students Sergey Brin was addressing were from the single largest immigration wave in Israel’s history. Between 1990 and 2000, eight hundred thousand citizens of the former Soviet Union immigrated to Israel; the first half million poured in over the course of just a three-year period. All together, it amounted to adding about a fifth of Israel’s population by the end of the 1990s. The U.S. equivalent would be a flood of sixty-two million immigrants and refugees coming to America over the next decade.

“For us in the Soviet Union,” Sharansky explained, “we received with our mothers’ milk the knowledge that because you are a Jew—which had no positive meaning to us then, only that we were victims of anti-Semitism—you had to be exceptional in your profession, whether it was chess, music, mathematics, medicine, or ballet. . . . That was the only way to build some kind of protection for yourself, because you would always be starting from behind.”

The result was that though Jews made up only about 2 percent of the Soviet population, they counted for “some thirty percent of the doctors, twenty percent of the engineers, and so on,” Sharansky told us.

This was the ethos Sergey Brin absorbed from his Russian parents, and the source of the same competitive streak that Brin recognized in the young Israeli students. And it gives an inkling of the nature of the human resource that Israel received when the Soviet floodgates were opened in 1990.

It was a challenge to figure out what to do with an immigrant influx that, although talented, faced significant language and cultural barriers. Plus, the educated elite of a country the size of the Soviet Union would not easily fit into a country as small as Israel. Before this mass immigration, Israel already had among the highest number of doctors per capita in the world. Even if there had not been a glut, the Soviet doctors would have had a difficult adjustment to a new medical system, a new language, and an entirely new culture. The same was true in many other professions.

Though the Israeli government struggled to find jobs and build housing for the new arrivals, the Russians could not have arrived at a more opportune time. The international tech boom was picking up speed in the mid-1990s, and Israel’s private technology sector became hungry for engineers.

Walk into an Israeli technology start-up or a big R&D center in Israel today and you’ll likely overhear workers speaking Russian. The drive for excellence that pervades Shevach-Mofet, and that is so prevalent among this wave of immigrants, ripples throughout Israel’s technology sector.

But it was not just an obsession with education that characterized the Jews who arrived in Israel, from wherever they came. If education was the only factor explaining Israel’s orientation toward entrepreneurialism and technology, then other countries where students perform competitively on math and science standardized tests—such as Singapore—would be start-up incubators as well.

What the Soviet émigrés brought with them is symptomatic of what Israeli venture capitalist Erel Margalit believes can be found in a number of dynamic economies. “Ask yourself, why is it happening here?” he said of the Israeli tech boom. We were sitting in a trendy Jerusalem restaurant he owns, next to a complex he built that houses his venture fund and a stable of start-ups. “Why is it happening on the East Coast or the West Coast of the United States? A lot of it has to do with immigrant societies. In France, if you are from a very established family, and you work in an established pharmaceutical company, for example, and you have a big office and perks and a secretary and all that, would you get up and leave and risk everything to create something new? You wouldn’t. You’re too comfortable. But if you’re an immigrant in a new place, and you’re poor,” Margalit continued, “or you were once rich and your family was stripped of its wealth—then you have drive. You don’t see what you’ve got to lose; you see what you could win. That’s the attitude we have here—across the entire population.”[128]

Gidi Grinstein was an adviser to former prime minister Ehud Barak and was part of the Israeli negotiating team at the 2000 Camp David summit with Bill Clinton and Yasir Arafat. He went on to found his own think tank, the Reut Institute, which is focused on how Israel can become one of the top fifteen wealthiest nations by 2020. He makes the same point: “One or two generations back, someone in our family was packing very quickly and leaving. Immigrants are not averse to starting over. They are, by definition, risk takers. A nation of immigrants is a nation of entrepreneurs.”

Shai Agassi, the founder of Better Place, is the son of an Iraqi immigrant. His father, Reuven Agassi, was forced to flee the southern Iraqi city of Basra, along with his family, when he was nine years old. The Iraqi government had fired all its Jewish employees, confiscated Jewish property, and arbitrarily arrested members of the community. In Baghdad, the government even carried out public hangings. “My father [Shai’s grandfather], an accountant for the Basra port authority, was out of a job. We were very scared for our lives,” Reuven told us.[129] With nowhere else to go, the Agassis joined a flood of 150,000 Iraqi refugees arriving in Israel in 1950.

In addition to the sheer numbers of immigrants in Israel, one other element makes the role of Israel’s immigration waves unique: the policies the Israeli government has implemented to assimilate newcomers.

There is a direct connection between the history of immigration policies of Western countries and what would become the approach adopted by Israel’s founders. During the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, immigration to the United States was essentially open, and, at times, immigrants were even recruited to come to America to help with the settlement of undeveloped areas of the country. Until the 1920s, no numerical limits on immigration existed in America, although health restrictions applied and a literacy test was administered.

But as racial theories started to influence U.S. immigration policy, this liberal approach began to tighten. The U.S. House Judiciary Committee employed a eugenics consultant, Dr. Harry H. Laughlin, who asserted that certain races were inferior. Another leader of the eugenics movement, author Madison Grant, argued in a widely selling book that Jews, Italians, and others were inferior because of their supposedly different skull size.

The Immigration Act of 1924 set new numerical limits on immigration based on “national origin.” Taking effect in 1929, the law imposed annual immigration quotas that were specifically designed to prevent entrance of eastern and southern Europeans, such as Italians, Greeks, and Polish Jews. Generally no more than one hundred of the proscribed nationals were permitted to immigrate each year.[130]

When Franklin Roosevelt became president, he did little to change the policy. “Looking at Roosevelt’s reactions over the full sweep of 1938 to 1945, one can trace a pattern of decreasing sensitivity toward the plight of the European Jews,” says historian David Wyman. “In 1942, the year he learned that the extermination of the Jews was under way, Roosevelt completely abandoned the issue to the State Department. He never again dealt really positively with the problem, even though he knew the State Department’s policy was one of avoidance—indeed, obstruction—of rescue.”[131]

With the onset of World War II, America’s gates remained barred to Jews. But the chief problem that faced Jews seeking refuge in the 1930s and the early 1940s was that America did not stand alone. Latin American countries opened their doors in only limited ways, while European countries, at best, tolerated only for a time the many thousands who arrived “in transit” as part of unrealized plans for permanent settlement elsewhere.[132]

Even after World War II ended and the Holocaust became widely known, Western countries were still unwilling to welcome surviving Jews. The Canadian government captured the mood of many governments when one of its officials declared, “None is too many!” British quotas on immigration to Palestine became increasingly tight during this period, as well. For many Jews, there literally was no place to go.[133]

Deeply aware of this history, when Britain’s colonial term in Palestine expired, on May 14, 1948, “The Declaration of the Establishment of the State of Israel” was issued by the Jewish People’s Council. It stated, “The catastrophe which recently befell the Jewish people—the massacre of millions of Jews in Europe—was another clear demonstration of the urgency of solving the problem of its homelessness. . . . THE STATE OF ISRAEL will be open for Jewish immigration.”[134]

Israel became the only nation in history to explicitly address in its founding documents the need for a liberal immigration policy. In 1950, Israel’s new government made good on that declaration with the Law of Return, which to this day guarantees that “every Jew has the right to come to this country.” There are no numerical quotas.

The law also defines as a Jew “a person who was born of a Jewish mother or has become converted to Judaism.” Citizenship status is also granted to non-Jewish spouses of Jews, to non-Jewish children and grandchildren of Jews, and to their spouses, as well.

In the United States, an individual must wait five years before applying for naturalization (three years if a spouse of a U.S. citizen). U.S. law also requires that an immigrant seeking citizenship demonstrate an ability to understand English and pass a civics exam. Israeli citizenship becomes effective on the day of arrival, no matter what the language spoken by the immigrant, and there are no tests at all.

As David McWilliams describes it, most Israelis speak Hebrew plus another language, which was the only language they spoke upon arrival. In some Israeli towns, he says, “there is a Spanish-language paper published every day in Ladino, the medieval Spanish spoken by Sephardic Jews kicked out of Andalucia by Ferdinand and Isabella in 1492. . . . In Tel Aviv’s busy Dizengoff Street, old cafés hum with German. The older German immigrants still chat away in Hoch Deutsch—the language of Goethe, Schiller, and Bismarck. . . . Further down the street, you are in little Odessa. Russian signs, Russian food, Russian newspapers, even Russian-language television are now the norm.”[135]

Like Shai and Reuven Agassi, there are also millions of Israelis with roots in the Arab Muslim world. At the time of Israeli independence, some five hundred thousand Jews had been living in Arab Muslim countries, with roots going back centuries. But a wave of Arab nationalism swept many of these countries after World War II, along with a wave of pogroms, forcing Jews to flee. Most wound up in Israel.

Crucially, Israel may be the only country that seeks to increase immigration, and not just of people of narrowly defined origins or economic status, as the Ethiopian immigration missions evidence. The job of welcoming and encouraging immigration is a cabinet position with a dedicated ministry behind it. Unlike the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service, which maintains as one of its primary responsibilities keeping immigrants out, the Israeli Immigration and Absorption Ministry is solely focused on bringing them in.

If Israelis hear on the radio at the end of the year that immigration was down, this is received as bad news, like reports that there was not enough rainfall that year. During election seasons, candidates for prime minister from different parties frequently pledge to bring in “another million immigrants” during their term.

In addition to the Ethiopian airlifts, this commitment has been repeatedly, and at times dramatically, demonstrated. One such example is Operation Magic Carpet, in which, between 1949 and 1950, the Israeli government secretly airlifted forty-nine thousand Yemenite Jews to Israel in surplus British and American transport planes. These were poverty-stricken Jews, with no means of making their way to Israel on their own. Thousands more did not survive the three-week trek to a British airstrip in Aden.

But perhaps the least-known immigration effort involves post–World War II Romania. About 350,000 Jews resided in Romania in the late 1940s, and although some escaped to Palestine, the Communist government held hostage others who wished to leave. Israel first provided drills and pipes for Romania’s oil industry in exchange for 100,000 exit visas. But beginning in the 1960s, Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceaus¸escu demanded hard cash to allow Jews to leave the country. Between 1968 and 1989, the Israeli government paid Ceaus¸escu $112,498,800 for the freedom of 40,577 Jews. That comes out to $2,772 per person.

Against this backdrop, the Israeli government has made the chief mission of the Ministry of Immigrant Absorption the integration of immigrants into society. Language training is one of the most urgent and comprehensive priorities for the government. To this day, the ministry organizes free full-immersion Hebrew courses for new immigrants: five hours each day, for at least six months. The government even offers a stipend to help cover living expenses during language training, so newcomers can focus on learning their new language rather than being distracted with trying to make ends meet.

To accredit foreign education, the Ministry of Education maintains a Department for the Evaluation of Overseas Degrees. And the government conducts courses to help immigrants prepare for professional licensing exams. The Center for Absorption in Science helps match arriving scientists with Israeli employers, and the absorption ministry runs entrepreneurship centers, which provide assistance with obtaining start-up capital.[136]

There are also absorption programs supported by the government but launched by independent Israeli citizens. Asher Elias, for example, believes there is a future for Ethiopians in the vaunted high-tech industry in Israel. Elias’s parents came to Israel in the 1960s from Ethiopia, nearly twenty years before the mass immigration of Ethiopian Jews. Asher’s older sister, Rina, was the first Ethiopian-Israeli born in Israel.

After completing a degree in business administration at the College of Management in Jerusalem, Elias took a marketing job at a high-tech company and attended Selah University, then in Jerusalem, to study software engineering—he had always been a computer junkie. But Elias was shocked when he could find only four other Ethiopians working in Israel’s high-tech sector.

“There was no opportunity for Ethiopians,” he said. “The only paths to the high-tech sector were through the computer science departments at public universities or private technical colleges. Ethiopians were underperforming on the high school matriculation exams, which precluded them from the top universities; and private colleges were too expensive.”

Elias envisioned a different path. Together with an American software engineer, in 2003 he established a not-for-profit organization called Tech Careers, a boot camp to prepare Ethiopians for jobs in high tech.

Ben-Gurion, both before and after the state’s founding, had made immigration one of the nation’s top priorities. Immigrants with no safe haven needed to be aided in their journey to the fledgling Jewish state, he believed; perhaps more importantly, immigrant Jews were needed to settle the land, to fight in Israel’s wars, and to breathe life into the nascent state’s economy. This is still seen as true today.

CHAPTER 8 The Diaspora Stealing Airplanes

TODAY,” JOHN CHAMBERS SAID AS HE TOOK LARGE sideways steps across the stage to illustrate his point, “we’re making the biggest jump in innovation since the router was first introduced twenty years ago.” He was speaking into a cordless microphone at a 2004 Cisco conference.[137] Though he was in a business suit, the fifty-four-year-old chief executive of Cisco—which during the tech boom had a market value higher than General Electric’s—looked like he might break into a dance routine.

After properly building the drama, Chambers walked over to a large closetlike enclosure and opened the doors to reveal three complicated-looking boxes, each about the size and shape of a refrigerator. It was the CRS-1, in all its glory.

Most people do not know what a router is, and so might have trouble relating to Chambers’s excitement. A router is something like the old modems we used to use to connect our computers to the Internet. If the Internet is like a mighty river of information that all of our computers connect into, then routers are at all the junctions of the tributaries that feed in, and are the main bottleneck that determines the capacity of the Internet as a whole.

Only a few companies can build the highest-end routers, and Cisco—like Microsoft for operating systems, Intel for chips, and Google for Internet searches—dominates this market. Upon its unveiling, the CRS-1, which took four years and $500 million to develop, earned a place in the current volume of Guinness World Records as the fastest router in the world. “We liked this entry, because the numbers are so huge,” said David Hawksett, science and technology editor at Guinness World Records. “I just installed a wireless network at home and was quite pleased with 54 megabits per second of throughput, but 92 terabits is just incredible.”[138]

The tera in terabit means “trillion,” so one terabit is a million megabits. According to Cisco, the CRS-1 has the capacity to download the entire printed collection of the U.S. Library of Congress in 4.6 seconds. Doing this with a dial-up modem would take about eighty-two years.

A chief proponent of the CRS-1 was an Israeli named Michael Laor. After earning an engineering degree at Ben-Gurion University in Beersheba, Israel, Laor went to work for Cisco in California for eleven years, where he became director of engineering and architecture. In 1997, he decided he wanted to return to Israel, and Cisco, rather than lose one of its leading engineers, agreed that he would open an R&D center for the company in Israel—its first outside the United States.

At around this time, Laor started to argue for the need for a massive router like the CRS-1. Back then the Internet was still quite young and the idea that there might be a market for a router this big seemed far-fetched. “People thought we were a little nuts to be developing this product four years ago,” Cisco’s Tony Bates said at the time. “They said, ‘You’re biting off more than you can chew,’ and they asked, ‘Who is going to need all that capacity?’ ”[139]

Laor argued that, to paraphrase the movie Field of Dreams, if Cisco built it, the Internet would come. It was hard to see back then that the Internet, which was just starting off with e-mail and the first Web sites, would in a few years balloon exponentially with an insatiable need to move the massive data flows produced by pictures, videos, and games.

Though the CRS-1 was the company’s biggest ever and thus a company-wide project, Laor’s team in Israel was pivotal in designing both the chips and the architecture needed to bring the technology to a new level. In the end, when Chambers unveiled the CRS-1 at the 2004 conference, he was right to be enthusiastic. Fully configured, the routers sold for about $2 million each. Yet by the end of 2004, the company had sold the first six machines. And in April 2008, the company announced that CRS-1 sales had doubled in less than nine months.[140]

By 2008, the center opened by Laor a decade earlier had seven hundred employees. It had swelled quickly with Cisco’s acquisition of nine Israeli start-ups, more companies than Cisco had bought anywhere else in the world. In addition, Cisco’s investment arm made another $150 million in direct investments in other Israeli start-ups, and also put $45 million into Israel-focused venture capital funds. All told, Cisco has spent about $1.2 billion to buy and invest in Israeli companies.[141]

Yoav Samet, a graduate of the IDF’s elite 8200 intelligence technology unit who now runs Cisco’s acquisitions department for Israel, the former Soviet Union, and central Europe, says that Cisco Israel is among the company’s largest overseas centers, along with those in India and China. “But,” he notes, “whereas in China and in India there is quite a bit of engineering work done, when it comes to pure innovation and acquisition activity, Israel is still holding the front line.”[142]

It is unlikely that Cisco would have become so deeply invested in Israel, and that its Israeli team would have almost immediately become central to the company’s core business, if Michael Laor had not decided it was time to come home. As with Dov Frohman of Intel and many others, Laor’s decision to gain knowledge and experience in the United States or elsewhere ultimately redounded to the benefit of both the multinational company he worked for and the Israeli economy.

While many countries, including Israel, bemoan the fact that some of their brightest academics and entrepreneurs go abroad, people like Michael Laor show that the “brain drain” is not a one-way street. In fact, international-migration researchers are increasingly noting a phenomenon they call “brain circulation,” whereby talented people leave, settle down abroad, and then return to their home countries, and yet are not fully “lost” to either place. As Richard Devane writes in a study issued by the World Bank, “China, India, and Israel enjoyed investment or technology booms over the past decade, and these booms are linked . . . by expatriate leadership in all three countries.”[143]

AnnaLee Saxenian is an economic geographer at U.C. Berkeley and author of The New Argonauts. “Like the Greeks who sailed with Jason in search of the Golden Fleece,” Saxenian writes, “the new Argonauts [are] foreign-born, technically skilled entrepreneurs who travel back and forth between Silicon Valley and their home countries.” She points out that the growing tech sectors in China, India, Taiwan, and Israel—particularly the last two countries—have emerged as “important global centers of innovation” whose output “exceeded that of larger and wealthier nations like Germany and France.” She contends that the pioneers of these profound transformations are people who “marinated in the Silicon Valley culture and learned it. This really began in the late ’80s for the Israelis and Taiwanese, and not until the late ’90s or even the beginning of the ’00s for the Indians and Chinese.”[144]

Michael Laor at Cisco and Dov Frohman at Intel were classic new Argonauts. Even while gaining knowledge and status within their major international companies, they always intended to return to Israel. When they did, they not only became catalysts for Israel’s technological development but founded Israeli operations that provided critical breakthroughs for the companies they worked for.

The new Argonaut, or “brain circulation,” model of Israelis going abroad and returning to Israel is one important part of the innovation ecosystem linking Israel and the Diaspora. Another Diaspora network is a non-Israeli Jewish Diaspora.

Israel owes much of its success to a deep Diaspora network that other countries, from Ireland to India and China, have also developed. Yet the non-Israeli Jewish Diaspora ties are not automatic, nor are they the key catalysts to the development of the tech sector in Israel. In fact, whereas China’s Diaspora is the source of 70 percent of foreign direct investment (FDI) into China and India’s Diaspora did much to help build its homeland’s high-tech infrastructure when the country’s economy and legal system were both underdeveloped, Israel’s experience has been different. The vast majority of American Jewish investors historically would not touch the Israeli economy. It was not until much later, when Israel became more successful, that many Diaspora Jews started looking at Israel as a place to do business, not just as a draw for their sympathy and philanthropy.

So it has required creativity for Israel to learn how to use its Diaspora community in order to catalyze its economy. The tradition of Israelis’ tapping into a very small but passionate subset of the Jewish Diaspora to help build the state has its roots in institutions like Israel’s start-up air force.

The fantasy of an Israeli aircraft industry took shape on a bumpy flight over the North Pole in 1951, inside what was to become the first aircraft in Israel’s new national airline. The conversation was between a pair of opposites: Shimon Peres, the erudite future president of Israel, who in 1951 was the chief arms buyer for the new Jewish state, and Al Schwimmer, a swashbuckling American aviation engineer from Los Angeles, whose pals included Howard Hughes and Kirk Kerkorian. Schwimmer’s first name was Adolph, but against the backdrop of World War II, he’d opted for Al.[145]

Peres and Schwimmer were on one of their many flights over the Arctic tundra in used planes purchased for Israel’s fledgling air force. Flying over the North Pole was dangerous, but they took the risk because the route was shorter—no small consideration when piloting planes that were falling apart.

Al Schwimmer was a raconteur who’d been captivated by the airline business in its earliest days, when flying machines were an exotic novelty. He was working for TWA when the United States entered World War II and the entire airline was drafted into the war effort. Though not officially in the U.S. Air Force, Schwimmer and his fellow fliers were given military ranks and uniforms and spent the war ferrying troops, equipment, and the occasional movie star all over the world.

During the war, Schwimmer’s identity as a Jew meant little to him and had almost no influence on his thinking or way of life. But seeing a liberated concentration camp and the newsreel footage of countless bodies and speaking with Jewish refugees in Europe trying to reach Palestine transformed him. Almost overnight, Schwimmer became a committed Zionist.

When he heard that the British in Palestine were turning back ships full of European Jewish refugees, Schwimmer came up with what he was convinced was a better way: fly over the British navy patrols and smuggle the Jews in by landing them at hidden airfields. He tracked down Ben-Gurion’s secret emissary in New York and pitched him the idea. For months, the representative of the Haganah, the main underground Jewish army in Palestine, sat on the idea. But when it became clear that the British would soon withdraw and a full-scale Arab-Jewish war over Israel’s independence would ensue, the Haganah contacted Schwimmer.

By this time they had an even more urgent need than smuggling refugees: building an air force. The Haganah did not have a single aircraft and would be completely exposed to the Egyptian air force. Could Schwimmer buy and repair fighter planes and smuggle them into Israel?

Schwimmer told Ben-Gurion’s agents that he’d start immediately, even though he knew he would be violating the 1935 Neutrality Act, which prohibited U.S. citizens from exporting weaponry without government authorization. This wasn’t just chutzpah. This was criminal.

Within days, Schwimmer had tracked down a handful of Jewish pilots and mechanics from the United States and the United Kingdom for what he told them would be the first civilian Jewish airline. He was obsessed with secrecy, and did not even want to bring them into the fold about the idea of building fighter planes. Few were even informed that the planes were destined for Israel. When outsiders inquired, the cover story was that they were building a national airline for Panama and would ferry cattle to Europe.

Though the FBI impounded the largest aircraft he bought—three Constellations—Schwimmer and his gang succeeded in smuggling out other aircraft, some by literally flying over the heads of the FBI agents who’d demanded that the planes be grounded. At the last minute, the Haganah cut a separate deal to buy German Messerschmitts from Czechoslovakia, which Schwimmer was also drafted to fly to Israel.

When the 1948 War of Independence came, Schwimmer’s aircraft fought off Egyptian planes that were bombing Tel Aviv. In certain battles, the barely trained Israeli pilots were instrumental in ensuring that the Negev Desert—a relatively large triangular swath of land starting a few miles south of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, between the Egyptian Sinai and Jordan—became part of Israel.

After Israel prevailed in the War of Independence, Schwimmer returned to the United States, despite being a wanted man. The FBI had figured out the smuggling scheme, and the U.S. Justice Department had built a criminal case against him. His trial, along with those of a number of the pilots he had recruited, was a public sensation. The defendants pleaded not guilty, on the grounds that the law itself was unjust. Schwimmer got off with paying a fine, which was widely seen as exoneration.

Once Schwimmer was cleared, it didn’t take him long to get back into the smuggling game. By 1950, Schwimmer had joined forces with Shimon Peres, then a young Ben-Gurion protégé working for the new Israeli Defense Ministry. Peres had tried to buy thirty surplus Mustang aircraft for the Israeli Air Force, but the United States had decided to destroy the planes instead. Their wings were sliced off and their fuselages cut in two.

So Schwimmer’s team bought the cut-up planes at cost from a Texas junk dealer, reconstructed them, and made sure they had all their parts and were operational. Then the team disassembled the planes again, packed them in crates marked “Irrigation Equipment,” and shipped them to Israel.

But because of the urgency with which they had to get the aircraft to Israel, a few of the planes were left assembled, and Schwimmer and Peres flew these to Tel Aviv. And that is how they found themselves in 1951 talking about a future Israeli aviation industry. Peres became captivated by Schwimmer’s ideas for creating an aircraft industry in Israel that would serve a purpose beyond short-term military strategy. It was part of Peres’s fascination with creating industries in Israel.

Schwimmer insisted that in a world flooded with surplus aircraft from the war, there was no reason why Israel could not buy planes cheaply, repair and improve them, and sell them to militaries and airlines in many countries, while building Israel’s own commercial industry. Shortly after they returned to the United States, Peres took Schwimmer to meet Ben-Gurion, who was on his first visit to America as Israel’s prime minister.

“You learning Hebrew now?” was Ben-Gurion’s first question when Schwimmer reached out his hand to greet him; they had met repeatedly during the War of Independence. Schwimmer laughed and changed the subject: “Nice girls here in California, don’t ya think, Mr. Prime Minister?”

Ben-Gurion wanted to know what Schwimmer was working on. Schwimmer told him about the renovations he was carrying out.

“What? With this tiny collection of machines you can renovate planes?”

Schwimmer nodded.

“We need something like this in Israel. Even more. We need a real aviation industry. We need to be independent,” Ben-Gurion said. This was exactly what Schwimmer had discussed with Peres, while flying over the tundra. “So, what do you think?”

Unbeknownst to Schwimmer, Ben-Gurion had recently instructed the Technion to build an aeronautical engineering department. In giving the order, he’d said, “A high standard of living; a rich culture; spiritual, political and economic independence . . . are not possible without aerial control.”

“Sure, I think you’re right,” said Schwimmer, falling into the prime minister’s trap.

“I’m glad you think so. We’ll expect you to come back to Israel to build one for us.”

Schwimmer stared dumbfounded at Peres.

“Just do it, Al,” said Peres. Schwimmer resisted. He immediately began thinking of the run-ins he would have with the Israeli Air Force chiefs and the small but powerful Israeli establishment. Plus, he didn’t speak Hebrew. He wasn’t a party insider. He hated politics and bureaucracy. And the Israeli combination of socialist economic planning and cronyist politics could be stifling for anyone, let alone someone trying to build an aviation industry.

He told Ben-Gurion that he could build the company only if it would be free from cronyism—no political hacks getting jobs. A private company, organized along commercial lines, he told Ben-Gurion.

“You’re just right for Israel. Come,” Ben-Gurion responded.

Schwimmer did go to Israel. Within five years, Bedek, the airplane-maintenance company he founded with two Israelis, became the largest private employer in the country.

By 1960, Bedek was producing a modified version of the French Fouga fighter plane. At an official unveiling and test flight of the plane, dubbed Tzukit (“swallow” in Hebrew), Ben-Gurion told Schwimmer, “This place isn’t just Bedek anymore. You’ve gone beyond repairs. You guys have built a jet. The new name should be Israel Aircraft Industries.” Peres, who by now was deputy defense minister, translated the new company name.

Peres and Ben-Gurion had managed to recruit an American Jew to help provide one of the biggest long-term jolts to Israel’s economy, all without asking anyone for one investment dollar.

CHAPTER 9 The Buffett Test

WE’RE NOT HERE TO STEAL WORKERS FROM MICROSOFT,” said Google’s Yoelle Maarek. “But,” she continued, grinning mischievously, “if they think they’ll be happier with us, they’re welcome.”[146] Only ten weeks earlier, Hezbollah missiles had been raining down on Haifa, home to the Google R&D center she headed. Now she was in Tel Aviv, opening Google’s second research facility in the space of a year.

Yoelle Maarek grew up in France, where she studied engineering, then earned her PhD in computer science at Columbia University and the Technion in Haifa. Before being tapped to head Google Israel’s R&D operations, she worked at IBM Research for seventeen years, specializing in a field called “search” before Google existed and when the Internet was in its infancy.

To Maarek, the roots of search go deep into history. Scholars in the sixteenth century would consult a Bible concordance to see where Moses was mentioned and in which context. A concordance is “basically an index, which is the data structure that every search engine is using. Five centuries ago, people would do that manually. . . . As Israelis and as Jews, we are the people of the Book. We like to consult texts. We like to search,” Maarek said.

In 2008 Google Israel sold $100 million in advertising, about double the previous year and 10 percent of the total advertising market in Israel—a higher market share than Google has in most countries.

While Google has become a growing empire of products and technologies—from search, to Gmail, to YouTube, to cell phone software, and much more—the heart of the company remains its ubiquitous home page. And if the most trafficked home page in the world is Google’s temple, the search box on it is the holy of holies.

It was somewhat ambitious, then, for Google Israel to take on a project that went right to the heart of the company, to the search box. The Israeli team took a small experimental idea that had been sitting untouched for two years—Google Suggest—and made it something that millions of people see and use every day.

For those who have not noticed it, Google Suggest is that list of suggestions that pop down as you type in a search request. The suggestions update as you type in each letter of the request, just about as fast as you can type.

Google is famous for delivering results almost instantaneously. But Google Suggest had to achieve this feat with each letter. Information had to go to Google’s servers and send back a list of relevant suggestions, all in the split second before the next letter was typed.

Two months into the project, the team got its first break. Kai-Fu Lee, who was the president of Google China, said that he was willing to take the risk that queries would be slowed down. Chinese is very hard to type, so having Suggest to fill words in was particularly valuable in China. Suggest worked, and it expanded quickly to Google’s sites in Hong Kong, Taiwan, Russia, and Western Europe, and soon to Google around the world.

Microsoft was not far behind in capitalizing on Israel. While the damage from two thousand missile strikes during the 2006 Lebanon war was still being repaired, a defiant Bill Gates arrived for his first visit to Israel. He came with a clear message: “We are not afraid of Google,” he told an Israeli news agency. While he couldn’t resist getting in a dig about Internet search engines being “in a terrible state compared to where they could be,” he also conceded that Google and Microsoft were in fierce competition. And the new battlefront was Israel. Earlier Gates had said that the “innovation going on in Israel is critical to the future of the technology business.”[147]

No sooner did the richest man in the world leave Israel than the second-richest, Warren Buffett, showed up. The most revered investor in America had arrived to visit the first company he’d bought outside the United States. Buffett spent fifty-two hours touring Iscar, the machine-tool company he’d purchased for $4.5 billion, and Israel, the country he had heard so much about. “You think of people walking those steps 2,000 years ago,” he said of his visit to Jerusalem, “and then you look at the Iscar factory on a mountaintop, supplying 61 countries—whether it’s Korea or the United States or Europe or you name it. It’s pretty remarkable. I don’t think you can really find that kind of combination of the past and the future, in such close proximity, virtually any place in the world.”[148]

But it seems unlikely that it was an appreciation of history that convinced Warren Buffett to choose Israel as the place to change his decades-long policy of not making acquisitions outside the United States. And nor was it, for this apostle of risk aversion, an indifference to Israel’s vulnerabilities.

You do not have to be Warren Buffett to worry about risk. Every company carefully considers the risks of doing business anywhere far from headquarters, let alone somewhere perceived as a war zone. The question, according to Buffett, is how you think about risk.

We sat in Jon Medved’s office—at the Vringo headquarters, in Beit Shemesh, a neighborhood between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv—to discuss the risks of investing in Israel.[149] But before he would answer our questions, Medved posed one of his own. He pulled out one of the slides from a PowerPoint presentation, the “Israel Inside” presentation he often gives in his role as unofficial economic ambassador.

“Look at this graph,” he told us (figure 9.1).

FIGURE 9.1

“What do you see here?” Medved probed. The horizontal x-axis showed the years 2002 through 2004; the vertical y-axis was unlabeled. And there was a line heading—in a relatively linear, diagonal direction—up into the upper-right corner of the graph. But with no y-axis label, the graph was incomplete. We figured Medved had posed a trick question.

“Well, there is something increasing over the 2002-to-2004 time frame,” we hazarded. “But the vertical y-axis doesn’t tell us what the ‘it’ is.”

“Exactly,” he quickly responded. “The ‘it’ could be a number of things. For one: violence. It was, tragically, one of Israel’s most violent periods in our history, during the second intifada and leading up to the second Lebanon war. The graph illustrates the number of rockets that hit Israel over those years.”

But, Medved told us, the graph also illustrates the performance of Israel’s economy, which also rose steeply in the first half of the decade. He then pulled out another slide that was virtually identical to the first (figure 9.2 ).

FIGURE 9.2

The vertical y-axis on this next slide was labeled “Foreign Investment in Israeli High Tech.” Remarkably, during the same period, there was an increase in investments coming in as the rocket attacks were increasing.

In fact, as we researched other economic metrics, we found that a number of sets of data would fit roughly along this generic graph structure. For example, foreign direct investment (FDI)—another macroeconomic metric—measures the total amount of overseas direct investment in any form that comes into a country. During the period from 2000 to 2005, Israel’s FDI tripled, and Israel’s share of the global venture dollars invested inside Israel doubled.

Medved was not suggesting that there was a correlation between violence in Israel and its attractiveness to investors. Rather, he believes that Israel has managed to divorce the security threat from its economic growth opportunities. In other words, Israelis are confident that their start-ups will survive during war and turbulence. And Israeli entrepreneurs have managed to convince investors of this, too.

Alice Schroeder, the author of The Snowball, is the only authorized biographer of Warren Buffett. We asked her about the perceived risk of investing in Israel. “Warren has been in the insurance business for a long time, and looks at every investment decision through that lens,” she told us. “It’s all about assessing risk like you would in an insurance policy. The things you really worry about are the potential for earthquakes and hurricanes. Warren asks: What kind of catastrophic risk is there, and can I live with it?”[150]

Iscar, the Israeli company Buffett bought, has its main factory and R&D facilities in the northern part of Israel and was twice threatened by missile attacks—in 1991, when the whole country was targeted by Iraq’s Saddam Hussein during the Gulf War, and during the 2006 Lebanon war, when Hezbollah fired thousands of missiles at Israel’s northern towns. “Doesn’t this constitute catastrophic risk?” we asked her.

Buffett’s view, she told us, is that if Iscar’s facilities are bombed, it can go build another plant. The plant does not represent the value of the company. It is the talent of the employees and management, the international base of loyal customers, and the brand that constitute Iscar’s value. So missiles, even if they can destroy factories, do not, in Buffett’s eyes, represent catastrophic risk.

During the 2006 Lebanon war, just two months after Buffett acquired Iscar, 4,228 missiles landed in Israel’s north.[151] Located less than eight miles from the Lebanese border, Iscar was a prime target for rocket fire.

Eitan Wertheimer, chairman of Iscar, who’d made the sale to Buffett, told us that he called his new boss on the first day of the war. “Our sole concern was for the welfare of our people, since wrecked machines and shattered windows can always be replaced,” Wertheimer recalled of his conversation with Buffett. “ ‘But I am not sure that you understand our mind-set,’ I told him. ‘We’re going to carry on with half the workforce, but we will ensure that all the customers get their orders on time or even earlier.”[152]

One rocket did slam into Tefen Industrial Park, which was founded by the Wertheimer family and centered around Iscar, and a slew of rockets landed nearby. And though, during the war, many workers did temporarily relocate, with their families, to the southern part of the country, Iscar’s customers would never have known it. “It took us a brief time to adjust, but we didn’t miss a single shipment,” Wertheimer said. “For our customers around the world, there was no war.”

By responding to the threat this way, Wertheimer and others have transformed the very dangers that may make Israel seem risky into evidence of Israel’s inviolable assets—the same assets that attracted Buffett, Google, Microsoft, and so many others in the first place.

Few illustrate Israeli grit better than Dov Frohman, who was born in Amsterdam just months before the onset of World War II. As the Nazis’ grip on Holland tightened, his parents decided to hide Dov with the Van Tilborgh family, devout Christian farmers they found through the Dutch underground. Dov was only three years old when he arrived at their farmhouse in the Dutch countryside, but he remembers having to cover his dark hair with a hat, since the rest of his adopted family was blond. When the Germans periodically searched the house, he would hide under a bed, in a cellar, or in the woods with his adopted brothers. Years later, Dov learned that his father died at Auschwitz; he never knew for sure where his mother was murdered.[153]

After the war, Frohman’s aunt, who had escaped to Palestine in the 1930s, tracked down Frohman’s Dutch family and convinced them to put him in a Jewish orphanage, so that he could emigrate to Palestine. In 1949, ten-year-old Dov landed in the brand-new State of Israel.

In 1963, as Dov Frohman was about to graduate from the Technion (Israel Institute of Technology), he decided to pursue graduate studies in the United States in order to “bring a new field of technical expertise back to Israel.” He was admitted to MIT but instead went to the University of California at Berkeley, which offered him a stipend. It was a fortuitous choice.

While still a graduate student, Frohman was hired by Andy Grove to work at Fairchild Semiconductor. A few years later, Grove joined Gordon Moore and Robert Noyce to found Intel. Frohman became one of the new start-up’s first employees. He quickly made his mark by inventing what would become one of Intel’s most legendary and profitable products, a new kind of reprogrammable memory chip. Then, with a senior management position within reach, Frohman announced that he was leaving Intel to teach electrical engineering in Ghana. In his words, he was “looking for adventure, personal freedom, and self-development”—another “person of the Book.”

Colleagues at Intel thought Frohman was crazy to leave just as the company was about to go public and shower its employees with lucrative stock options. But Frohman knew what he wanted: to start an enterprise, not just work for one. He also knew that if he stayed on the management track he might never be able to return to Israel, where he had a revolutionary idea for the local economy: he wanted Israel to become a leader in the chip design industry.

By 1973, the time to realize his idea had arrived. Intel was facing an acute shortage of engineers. Frohman returned to Intel, pitched the idea of an Israeli design center to Grove, and quickly organized an exploratory mission to Israel. Delayed by the Yom Kippur War, the Intel team arrived in Israel in April 1974 and quickly hired five engineers for its new design center in Haifa. Intel had never before established a major research and development center in a foreign country. “At the end of the day, we are in the R&D business. We could not risk the company’s future by putting our core mission and operations overseas—out of our control,” recalled one former Intel employee from California. “Israel was the first place we did that. A lot of people thought we were nuts.”[154]

The Israel team began with an investment of $300,000 and five full-time employees. But it would become Israel’s largest private employer, with fifty-four hundred workers, by the nation’s thirtieth anniversary. Intel’s investment in Israel, while seemingly a gamble at the time, would go on to become central to the company’s success. Intel Israel was responsible for designing the chip in the first IBM personal computers, the first Pentium chips, and a new architecture that analysts agree saved Intel from a downward spiral during the 1990s, as we chronicled in chapter 1. In the southern Israeli town of Qiryat Gat, Intel built a $3.5 billion plant where Israelis designed chips with transistors so small that thirty million of them can fit on the head of a pin. As remarkably, Israel’s emergence as a critical manufacturing center for Intel proved that nothing could stop its production, even a war.

“We will trust your judgment, Dov. Do whatever you must do.” That was the message of Intel’s management days after the January 1991 start of the Gulf War.

Iraq had invaded Kuwait five months earlier. From the moment Frohman heard the news, the worry that he might have to send all his workers home began to creep into his thoughts—during quiet moments driving into work, waiting on the tarmac for takeoff, or before bed at night. He knew that to shut everything down would be devastating for Intel Israel. So he tried to put it out of his mind.

While hundreds of thousands of U.S. troops deployed to Saudi Arabia in preparation for war, Frohman was distracted by the risk Intel was undertaking. That gamble was a product of IBM’s decision, in 1980, to give Intel its big break, choosing the 8088 chip to power the IBM PC. But the computer giant had forced Intel to license its technology to a dozen manufacturers; even though Intel had designed the 8088, IBM thought it was risky to rely on Intel alone to manufacture the chip. So Intel was able to earn only 30 percent of the total revenues. Security and price leverage for IBM meant lower profits for Intel.

In 1983, with the 286, its next-generation chip, Intel had managed to convince IBM to cut the number of manufacturers to four, thereby increasing Intel’s own share of the work. And by 1985, after investing $200 million and four years of development in its even faster 386 chips, Intel had been prepared for a gamble. This time, IBM had acquiesced to Intel’s request to become the sole manufacturer of the chip that would power most of the world’s new desktops. This strategy would maximize Intel’s profits, but also its risk. What if Intel could not ramp up its manufacturing capability in time? And the bigger risk was the decision made by Intel’s management in Santa Clara to center much of this new responsibility in Israel.

The main burden fell on Intel’s Israeli chip plant in Jerusalem, which produced about three-quarters of Intel’s global output by running two twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week.

But now that output was under threat. Saddam Hussein had declared that if the United States launched an offensive, he would respond with missile strikes against Israel.

The Israeli government took Saddam at his word. Iraq had Scud missiles that could reach Tel Aviv in under ten minutes, and those missiles might be armed with chemical warheads. In October 1990, the Israeli government ordered the largest distribution of gas masks anywhere since World War II.

It was a surreal time in Israel. In kindergartens, teachers showed five-year-olds how to put on their gas masks in case of attack, and everyone practiced rushing to specially prepared “sealed rooms” if the sirens went off. The distribution system for the masks was elaborate, with every household receiving a note in the mail telling them where they could pick up the equipment. The IDF placed its Home Front Command offices in malls, so it was not uncommon to pick up some new shoes and a cup of coffee along with a set of gas masks for the whole family.

Frohman did what every Israeli manager does during or in advance of war: he drew up contingency plans for the “standard” war scenario, in which employees would be called up for reserve duty. Most Israeli men under forty-five serve in the reserves for one month every year. During an extended war, these civilian-soldiers can be called up for as long as the government deems necessary. This exacts a huge economic toll on businesses in Israel—including lost work days and less productivity—even during peaceful times. During a war, employees can be absent for weeks or even months. As a result, some Israeli businesses go bankrupt during war.

In early January 1991, U.S. and European commercial airlines suspended or curtailed their flights to the region. On January 11, four days before the United Nation’s deadline for Iraq to withdraw from Kuwait, the U.S. government advised its nationals to leave Israel. On January 16, the Israeli government announced that all schools and businesses, except for certain essential enterprises (the electric utility, for example), must close for the week and maybe longer. The government wanted people at home, off the roads, and poised to hop into their sealed rooms at the sound of air-raid sirens.

For Frohman, compliance with the government’s directive would mean suspending the production of Intel’s 386 microchip at a critical moment for the company. Frohman expected to have management’s full support for a shutdown, but he also knew that just because an employer is willing to grant an employee sick leave, it does not mean that their relationship will go on unaffected. Especially when the “ailment” is one that could conceivably repeat itself in the future.

“We already had a number of struggles inside the company over the transfer of strategic technologies and critical products to the Israeli operation,” recalled Frohman. “I was convinced that if we had to interrupt production, even for a brief period of time, we would pay a serious price over the long term.” Frohman had expended time and political capital to persuade Intel’s management to put the future of the company in the hands of an overseas outpost, a dream of his since he’d first left Intel. And it was this outpost that was about to find itself on the receiving end of Scud missiles.

But Frohman had another—surprisingly far greater—concern: “I kept thinking about the survival of Israel’s . . . still small high-tech economy.” The key stumbling block to further investment in Israel was the lingering impression of geopolitical instability in the region. If Intel couldn’t operate in an emergency situation, then any confidence that multinationals, investors, or the markets had in Israel’s stability would instantly crumble.

Frohman had spent enough time abroad to be familiar with the rap against investing in Israel. Almost every day a bad headline about Israel ricocheted around the world: another terrorist attack . . . another provocation on its border . . . more bloodshed. Intifada. Violence, terror, war. It was the only narrative people knew.

He believed that both Israel and its economy needed a counternarrative. As the January 15 deadline approached, he became fixated on an imaginary boardroom debate—taking place somewhere in the United States—between an executive who was enthusiastic about investing in Israel and a cautious board that thought he was reckless. What would the enthusiast need in his back pocket? I understand your skepticism. I saw the news, too. But let’s not forget that Intel was producing the 386 chip—one of Intel’s most important microchips—in Israel during the Gulf War, and the Israelis never missed a beat. They stayed on schedule. They were not late . . . not even once . . . not even when missiles were falling on them.

On January 17, Frohman informed his employees of his unilateral decision to keep Intel Israel open during the war, in defiance of government orders, but on a voluntary basis: no worker would be punished for not showing up.

At 2:00 a.m. on January 18, Frohman, like most Israelis, was awoken by air-raid sirens. He and his family quickly put on their gas masks and sealed themselves into their home’s safe room. When the all clear sounded, they learned that eight missiles had struck Tel Aviv and Haifa—near Intel’s main R&D facility—but they had not been armed with chemical warheads. More missiles were expected in the days ahead. Whether Saddam would arm future Scuds with chemical capabilities was still unclear.

At 3:30 a.m., when Frohman arrived at the plant with his gas mask, he went straight to the clean room—the heart of the chip factory, where, to maintain a dust-free environment, technicians worked in sealed suits that made them look like astronauts. Work there had already resumed. He was told that when the sirens had sounded earlier, the employees had gone to a sealed room in the plant, but after quick calls home, they had returned to their work stations. When the first postattack morning shift began, Frohman expected to see—best-case scenario—half of the shift; 75 percent showed up. Following a second Iraqi missile attack the next night, turnout at Intel’s Haifa design center increased to 80 percent. The more brazen the attacks, the larger the turnout. Welcome to Israel’s “new normal.”

The executives in Intel’s Santa Clara headquarters could not get their heads around this. During a conference call with Santa Clara two days later, air-raid sirens went off again. The Israeli team members asked for a moment to relocate, put on their gas masks, and continued the call from their sealed room. A group of Intel workers even set up a wartime kindergarten on the premises, since schools were still closed and if employees wanted to be part of Frohman’s defiant mission, they had no choice but to bring their children to work. On top of their regular jobs, the workers volunteered to serve shifts on kindergarten duty.

The legacy of Frohman’s commitment is still seen in the decisions of new multinational companies to set up critical operations in Israel. And some of these facilities, such as Google’s, were being built around the time of the 2006 Lebanon war.

The explanation for this concerns more than just engineering talent. It is also a matter of less tangible factors, such as a drive to succeed that is both personal and national. Israelis have a term for this: davka, an untranslatable Hebrew word that means “despite” with a “rub their nose in it” twist. As if to say, “The more they attack us, the more we will succeed.”

As Eitan Wertheimer told Warren Buffett at the start of the 2006 Lebanon war, “We’re going to determine which side has won this war by ramping up factory production to an all-time high, while the missiles are falling on us.”[155] Israelis, by making their economy and their business reputation both a matter of national pride and a measure of national steadfastness, have created for foreign investors a confidence in Israel’s ability to honor, or even surpass, its commitments. Thanks to Dov Frohman, Eitan Wertheimer, and many others, the question of catastrophic risk, for investors and multinationals looking to do business in Israel, is virtually irrelevant.

CHAPTER 10 Yozma The Match

ORNA BERRY’S SON, Amit, delivered what would be the $32 million message. Amit had retrieved the voice-mail message for his mom. A vice president from Siemens, the German telecommunications conglomerate, had called. Orna Berry, away on yet another trip abroad to pitch her start-up to bigger companies looking to buy, had missed the call. The message from Siemens marked the beginning of a process that culminated in the first acquisition of an Israeli start-up by a European company. The transaction was finalized in 1995.

Though today it’s a pretty commonplace event—Europeans have invested hundreds of millions of euros in Israeli companies—in 1995, for an Israeli start-up to be acquired by a European company was unheard-of. Orna Berry believes a new Israeli government program at the time, called Yozma, was what made it possible. She also believes that hundreds of other start-ups have had similar experiences because of the government’s initiative.

Berry is hailed as one of Israel’s leading business leaders.[156] In 1997, she was named Israel’s chief scientist in the Ministry of Industry, Trade, and Labor—Israel’s innovation czar; in 2007, she became chair of the Israel Venture Association. She earned a PhD in computer science from the University of Southern California, worked for the technology consulting company Unisys in the United States, and then returned to Israel to work for IBM and, later, for Intel.

But in 1992, she was a first-time entrepreneur. She founded Ornet Data Communications with five colleagues from Fibronics, one of Israel’s early tech companies. Ornet Data developed software and equipment for local area networks (LANs), to double the speed of data transmission.

While most users were dialing into the World Wide Web through telephone lines, the Ethernet networking technology was growing as a way to connect LANs—groups of computers that were close together in homes and offices. LANs could move more information, faster, between computers in the network, but bandwidth was still quite limited. Ornet Data’s solution created a switch for these networked computers that, Berry estimated, multiplied the bandwidth fifty times.

Ornet Data had just a handful of employees in Karmiel, a city in northern Israel, and an office in Boston that Berry used when she came through town. In the early days of the company, she flew to the United States repeatedly to try to raise money, but she soon realized there was none available.

“There was no mechanism for early-stage high-risk funding in the absence of local venture capital,” she told us.[157]

Venture capital is investment funding that is usually put to work in high-growth technology companies. But for most foreign investors, putting money into Israel seemed absurd. To them, Israel was synonymous with ancient religions, archaeological digs, and deadly conflict. Even those investors who had marveled at Israel’s R&D capabilities were spooked by the surge in violence that came with the Palestinian uprising—or intifada—in the late 1980s. This was before Dov Frohman’s decision to keep Intel open during the 1991 Gulf War.

According to Jon Medved, founder of Israel Seed Partners, “You could talk to an American fund until you were blue in the face and say, ‘Hey, come invest in Israel,’ and they would laugh at you.”[158]

Israel’s dearth of venture capital through the 1980s was also creating other problems. In the West, the role of the venture capitalist is not simply to provide cash. It’s mentoring, plus introductions to a network of other investors, prospective acquirers, and new customers and partners, that makes the venture industry so valuable to a budding start-up. A good VC will help entrepreneurs build their companies.

“It was very clear that something was missing in Israel at the time,” said Yigal Erlich, another chief scientist, who was serving in the government in the late 1980s. “While Israel was very good at developing technologies, Israelis didn’t know how to manage companies or market products.”[159]

Israeli entrepreneurs had to think globally from the start, creating products for markets thousands of miles and several time zones away. But serious questions loomed: How to customize the product for the market? How to manufacture, market, and ultimately distribute the product to customers so far from the shores of the Mediterranean?

Before the introduction of venture capital in Israel, there were only two sources of funding. First, Israeli start-ups could apply to the Office of the Chief Scientist (OCS) for matching grants. These grants, however, didn’t provide anywhere near the amount of money start-ups actually needed, and as a result, most failed. A government report published in the late 1980s claimed that 60 percent of the technology companies deemed worthy of OCS grants were unable to raise follow-on capital to market their products. They may have created great products, but they couldn’t sell them.[160]

Second, Israeli companies could apply for what are called BIRD grants. Created from $110 million put up by the U.S. and Israeli governments, the Binational Industrial Research and Development (BIRD) Foundation created an endowment to support U.S.-Israeli joint business ventures. BIRD gave modest grants of $500,000 to $1 million, infused over two to three years, and would recoup funds through small royalties earned from successful projects.[161]

Ed Mlavsky became the executive director of BIRD when, in 1978, he made an offhand comment at a meeting of the U.S.-Israel Advisory Council on Industrial R&D. BIRD had been established two years earlier, but the foundation had not funded a single project. The council was meeting to choose a successor to run the foundation, and members were disappointed with the flock of candidates. Mlavsky, born in England but by now an American citizen, said, “Gentlemen, this is horrible; even I can do a better job than any of [the candidates].” The committee thought this was a great idea and tried to convince Mlavsky to quit his job as executive vice president of Tyco International and move his family to Israel. Mlavsky’s wife wasn’t Jewish and he didn’t have a strong emotional connection to Israel, but at the urging of Jordan Baruch, the U.S. assistant secretary of commerce for science and technology, Mlavsky went to Israel to, as he says, “interview for a job I did not want in a country in which I had no wish to live.” His wife was supportive; she had visited Israel in 1979 and fallen in love with the pioneering culture of the still young country. So Mlavsky took a sabbatical from Tyco, put their furniture in storage, and went to Israel. He would end up staying in the position for thirteen years, until he cofounded Gemini, one of Israel’s first government-funded venture capital firms. Part of what appealed to Mlavsky was an openness in Israel to experiment with any idea, which he didn’t fully appreciate until he was on the ground and immersed in Israeli life.

Mlavsky called BIRD a kind of “dating service,” because he and his team played matchmaker between an Israeli company with a technology and an American company that could market and distribute the product in the United States. Not only that, but this matchmaker would subsidize the cost of the date.

Most of the U.S. tech companies BIRD pursued had limited R&D budgets. Because they were midsized to large publicly traded companies, they were skittish about dipping into the quarterly revenues to pay for costly research.

Mlavsky recalls, “We came to [U.S. companies] and said, ‘There is this place called Israel, which you may or may not have heard of. We can put you in touch with smart, creative, and well-trained engineers there. You don’t have to pay to hire them, relocate them, and you don’t have to worry about what happens after the project is over. We will not only introduce you to such a group—we’ll give you half the money for your part of the project and half the money the Israelis will need for their part.”

To date, BIRD has invested over $250 million in 780 projects, which has resulted in $8 billion in direct and indirect sales.[162]

The impact of the BIRD program far surpassed mere revenues: it helped teach burgeoning Israeli tech companies how to do business in the United States. The companies worked closely with their American partners. Many rented office space in the United States and sent employees overseas, where they could learn about the market and their customers.

In the absence of equity financing, BIRD provided a shortcut to American markets. Even when the venture failed, there was tremendous learning about how to create products designed for markets, as opposed to simply developing technologies.

By 1992, nearly 60 percent of the Israeli companies that went public on the New York Stock Exchange and 75 percent of those listed on the NASDAQ had been supported by BIRD.[163] American venture capitalists and investors were beginning to take notice. And yet 74 percent of high-tech exports out of Israel were generated by just 4 percent of high-tech companies.[164] The benefits were not being widely dispersed. If new tech companies couldn’t get BIRD or government grants, they had to master the art of “bootstrapping”: using personal resources, connections, or any other means to cobble together funds.

Jon Medved tried bootstrapping when he went door-to-door to sell his father’s optical transceivers in 1982. At the time, the company consisted of just ten people working out of an actual garage, building optical transmitters and receivers. Medved admitted that he had not taken a single math or physics class in college and knew nothing about the nuances of the business that his father had put together. He also didn’t know Hebrew.

“I would speak before groups of Israeli engineers who knew nothing about fiber,” Medved recalls, “and give them a lecture about fiber optics. If they ever asked a tough technical question, I’d hide behind their Hebrew—‘I can’t understand you, sorry!’ ”[165] Medved did write a business plan for the company, and he developed revenue projections on the first spreadsheet software available on his suitcase-sized computer; but, like Orna Berry, he found fund-raising to be impossible.

Chief scientist Erlich became fixated on ways to overcome the funding challenges facing entrepreneurs. But there was some opposition: “Don’t waste your time and money on new, small companies. They’re a losing proposition,” detractors told him.[166] Instead, government economists called for increased funding and partnerships between Israel and the big multinational companies, which at this point were employing thousands of Israelis.

There was also another challenge bearing down on Israel at the time: how to deal with the nearly one million Soviet Jewish immigrants beginning to flood the country. The government believed that to absorb these immigrants, the Israeli economy would have to create half a million new jobs. With one out of every three Soviet immigrants a scientist, engineer, or technician, Israel’s high-tech sector seemed to be the best solution. But existing R&D centers alone would never be able to handle that many new employees.

In 1991, the government created technology incubators—twenty-four of them. These incubators gave most Russian scientists the resources and financing they needed in the early stage of R&D for their innovations. The goal was not only to develop the technology but to determine whether or not that product could be commercialized and sold. The government funded hundreds of companies through payments of up to $300,000. This got many of the new Russian immigrants working at their craft, but those doling out the money had little, if any, experience with start-up ventures. The government financiers were unable to give these entrepreneurs the support and management they needed to turn these R&D successes into commercially viable products.

“Every year when I tried to review the success of these small companies, it was disappointing,” said Erlich. “While they may have succeeded in R&D, we didn’t see them succeed in growing companies.”[167] He became convinced that a private venture capital industry was the only antidote. But he also knew that in order to succeed, an Israeli VC industry would need strong ties with foreign financial markets. The international connections were not just about raising funds; aspiring Israeli VCs needed to be mentored in the art of business mentoring. There were thousands of venture capital firms in the United States that were involved in the nuts and bolts of successful tech start-ups in Silicon Valley. They had experience building companies, understood the technology and the funding process, and could guide first-time entrepreneurs. That’s what Erlich wanted to bring to Israel.

That’s when a band of young bureaucrats at the Ministry of Finance came up with the idea for a program they called Yozma, which in Hebrew means “initiative.”

As Orna Berry told us, “John Lennon once said about the early years of rock and roll, ‘Before Elvis, there was nothing.’ On the success of venture capital and high-tech entrepreneurship in Israel, to paraphrase Lennon, before Yozma, there was nothing.”[168]

The idea was for the government to invest $100 million to create ten new venture capital funds. Each fund had to be represented by three parties: Israeli venture capitalists in training, a foreign venture capital firm, and an Israeli investment company or bank. There was also one Yozma fund of $20 million that would invest directly in technology companies.

The Yozma program initially offered an almost one-and-a-half-to-one match. If the Israeli partners could raise $12 million to invest in new Israeli technologies, the government would give the fund $8 million. There was a line around the corner. So the government raised the bar. It required VC firms to raise $16 million in order to get the government’s $8 million.

The real allure for foreign VCs, however, was the potential upside built into this program. The government would retain a 40 percent equity stake in the new fund but would offer the partners the option to cheaply buy out that equity stake—plus annual interest—after five years, if the fund was successful. This meant that while the government shared the risk, it offered investors all of the reward. From an investor’s perspective, it was an unusually good deal.

“This was a rare government program that had a built-in get in and get out,” said Jon Medved. “This was key to its success.” And it was also rare for a government program to actually disappear once it had served its initial purpose, rather than continue indefinitely.

At the time, most business-savvy Diaspora Jews were not investing in Israel. They viewed philanthropy and business as two distinct activities. While they would make huge donations to not-for-profit organizations that benefited Israel, for the most part they were reluctant to invest in Israel’s high-tech endeavors.

There were exceptions, of course.

Stanley Chais, a money manager in California, helped raise money for the first round of Yozma funds by setting up parlor meetings in California with wealthy Jews. He raised millions of dollars for the funds. Erel Margalit, who left the Jerusalem Development Authority to manage one of the first funds, said that most of the first round of funding was raised from people who had a “warm place in their heart for Jerusalem or Israel.” Margalit’s first institutional investor was the French insurance giant GAN, whose chairman was a French Jew Margalit met by chance on a flight to Paris.

“The government was used as the catalyst,” said Erlich. The first Yozma fund was created in partnership with the Discount Israel Corporation, an investment bank, and Advent Venture Partners, a premier VC firm from Boston. It was led by Ed Mlavsky, the longtime director of the BIRD Foundation, and Yossi Sela.

Clint Harris, a partner at Advent, said he knew something was different about Israel on his first trip. In the taxicab on the way from the airport to his Tel Aviv hotel, the driver asked him why he was visiting Israel. Harris replied that he was there to get a sense of the venture capital industry. The driver then proceeded to give Harris a briefing on the state of VC in Israel.

The Advent-sponsored fund would be called Gemini Israel Funds. One of its first investments was in November 1993, when it allocated $1 million to Ornet Data Communications. This investment, as well as the managerial help, was just what Ornet needed to succeed. Recognizing the company management’s lack of business experience, Mlavsky and Sela helped recruit Meir Burstin to serve as chairman of the board for the new company. Burstin was an old hand in the high-tech entrepreneurial world, having founded and led Tekem, one of Israel’s first software companies, and then served as president of Tadiran, one of Israel’s big defense-technology companies. Burstin brought instant credibility and experience to Ornet.

When the company was teetering on the brink of closing down after wasting the first big financing round, Yossi Sela from Gemini took over as interim CEO of the company and commuted from Ramat Hasharon to Karmiel, a two-hour drive, four days a week. “It took six months of single-minded determination,” Sela recalled, “from both Gemini and the Ornet founding team, to sell the company and keep the management team from splintering—not to mention more hours driving from Ramat Hasharon to Karmiel than I’d like to remember—but we did it.”[169]

The other piece that was critical to the company’s success was Gemini’s ability to bring Walden Venture Capital in as an investor. Walden, an established firm in Silicon Valley, had experience in the kind of technology Ornet had developed. Returning over three times its investment in about two years made Ornet Gemini’s first success story.

The ten Yozma funds created between 1992 and 1997 raised just over $200 million with the help of government funding. Those funds were bought out or privatized within five years, and today they manage nearly $3 billion of capital and support hundreds of new Israeli companies. The results were clear. As Erel Margalit put it, “Venture capital was the match that sparked the fire.”[170]

Several of the Yozma funds had high-profile successes early on, with investments in companies such as ESC Medical, which designed and built light-based medical solutions like lasers; Galileo, a high-end semiconductor firm; Commontouch, an enterprise e-mail and messaging provider; and Jacada, which builds online work spaces for customer-service employees at leading companies.

Along the way, others jumped into the venture capital world—even without the government’s Yozma backing. Jon Medved just missed the Yozma financing. Years after he sold the company he and his father had built, he heard that there was a $5 million Yozma allotment available to invest in very-early-stage companies. Known as seed funds, these investments tend to be considered the riskiest, so Yozma offered a one-to-one match: investors had to bring $2.5 million to the table to get the government’s $2.5 million.

Medved went to Yigal Erlich with investors ready to write checks and asked for the grant. Unfortunately, it was too late. But it didn’t matter. The Yozma program was generating the buzz in the U.S. venture community to overcome investors’ reticence about doing business in Israel. “Israel had excited investors enough that we were able to bring in the $2.5 million and start Israel Seed Partners in 1994,” even without the government’s matching grant, Medved said. The fund would quickly grow to $6 million, and Israel Seed would go on to raise $40 million in 1999 and $200 million in 2000.

According to the Israel Venture Association, there are now forty-five Israeli venture capital funds. Ed Mlavsky said that over the period from 1992 to early 2009, there have been as many as 240 VCs in Israel, defined as companies both foreign and domestic investing in Israeli start-ups.

Soon other governments around the world were taking notice of Yozma’s success. Chief scientist Erlich got calls from foreign governments, including Japan, South Korea, Canada, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, Singapore, and Russia, all wanting to come to Israel and meet the founders of Yozma.

In December 2008, Ireland launched a 500 million “innovation fund” designed to attract cofinancing from foreign venture capitalists. “The Irish state—ironically for a country that didn’t have diplomatic relations with Israel for the first 40 years of its existence—has copied the Jewish state,” wrote Irish economist David McWilliams.

Like Yozma, the Irish innovation fund lures foreign VCs to Ireland through a series of state-backed venture capital funds that partner up with private-sector funds.

McWilliams said, “The big idea is not to attract only U.S. capital and commercial know-how, but to suck in entrepreneurs from all over Europe. At the moment, Europe has huge reservoirs of scientific talent, but a very poor record at creating start-ups. The question many investors ask is: where is the European Google? It’s a fair question. In the next ten years, what if that European Google was set up here using Irish and European brains and U.S. capital? That is the prize.”[171]

Yozma provided the critical missing component that allowed the Israeli tech scene to join in the tech boom of the 1990s. But in 2000, the Israeli tech sector was hit by multiple blows at once: the global tech bubble burst, the Oslo peace process blew up into a wave of terrorism, and the economy went into a recession.

Yet Israel’s start-ups quickly adapted and rebounded. During this period, Israel doubled its share of the global venture capital pie with respect to Europe, growing from 15 to 31 percent. This growth occurred, however, within a tax and regulatory environment that, while favoring technology start-ups and foreign investors, did not offer the same support to the rest of the economy.

For example, while a technology start-up could attract financing from numerous sources, anyone trying to launch a more conventional business would have a lot of trouble getting a simple small business loan. Israel’s capital markets were highly concentrated and constrained. And a particular industry that would seem to be a natural for Israel—financial services—was prevented from ever getting off the ground.

In 2001, Tal Keinan graduated from Harvard Business School. “Many of my friends who were going off to work on Wall Street were Jewish, and it struck me that the Jewish state doesn’t have such an industry. When it came to managing investments, Israel was not even on the map,” Keinan said.

The reason was government regulations. In venture capital, Keinan discovered, “the way the regulatory and tax regime was set up here, you could essentially operate as though you weren’t in Israel, which was great, and it created a wonderful industry. The government basically kept its hands off of venture capital.” But, he adds, “you couldn’t do anything outside of venture capital in any meaningful way. You weren’t allowed to take the performance fees on any money you managed, so you could forget that entire industry. It was a nonstarter.”[172]

The asset-management business has a simple model: firms receive a flat management fee of about 1 to 2 percent of the money they manage. But the real upside is in performance fees, which are typically 5 to 20 percent of the return on the investment, depending on the firm.

Until January 2005, it was illegal for Israeli money-management firms to charge performance fees. So not surprisingly, there was no industry to speak of.

The change came from then finance minister Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu.

With Prime Minister Ariel Sharon’s backing in 2003, Netanyahu cut tax rates, transfer payments, public employee wages, and four thousand government jobs. He also privatized major symbols of the remaining government influence on the economy—such as the national airline, El Al, and the national telecommunications company, Bezeq—and instituted financial-sector reforms.

“In the sense that he tackled the stifling role of government in our economy, Bibi was not a reformer but a revolutionary. A reform happens when you change the policy of the government; a revolution happens when you change the mind-set of a country. I think that Bibi was able to change the mind-set,” said Ron Dermer, who served as an adviser to four Israeli ministers of finance, including Netanyahu.[173]

Netanyahu told us, “I explained to people that the private economy was like a thin man carrying a fat man—the government—on its back. While my reforms sparked massive nationwide strikes by labor unions, my characterization of the economy struck a chord. Anyone who had tried to start a [nontech] business in Israel could relate.”[174] Netanyahu’s reforms gained increasing public support as the economy began to pull out of its rut.

At the same time, a package of banking-sector reforms pushed through by Netanyahu began to take effect. These reforms launched the phaseout of the government’s bonds that had guaranteed about 6 percent annual return. Up until that point, asset managers for Israeli pensions and life insurance funds simply invested in the Israeli guaranteed bonds. The pension and life insurance funds “could meet their commitments to beneficiaries just by buying the earmarked bonds. So that’s exactly what they did—they didn’t invest in anything else,” Keinan told us. “Because of these bonds, there was no incentive for Israeli institutional investors to invest in any private investment fund.”

But as the government bonds began to mature and could not be renewed, they released some $300 million a month that needed to be invested elsewhere. “So all of a sudden, boom, you’ve got a local pool of capital to spark an investment industry,” noted Keinan, as we sat, looking out at the Mediterranean, in his thirtieth-floor office in Tel Aviv, which is where his new investment fund is headquartered. “As a result, there are very few large international money managers that don’t have some exposure in Israel now, either in equities or the new corporate bond market, which didn’t exist three years ago, or in the shekel.”

Because of Netanyahu’s financial-sector reforms, it also became legal for investment managers to charge performance fees. Keinan didn’t waste any time; he founded KCPS, Israel’s first full-spectrum financial-asset-management firm, in Tel Aviv and New York. “The moment I read the draft law of Bibi’s reforms, my wheels started turning,” Keinan said. “It was clear that this truly could liberate our non-high-tech economy.”

Keinan argues that a ton of local talent was untapped. “If you think about what young Israelis learn in some of the army intelligence units, for example . . . often highly sophisticated quantitative analytical skills—algorithms, modeling out macroeconomic trends. If they wanted to go into high tech, there were plenty of start-ups that would gobble them up after their army service. But if they wanted to go into finance, they’d have to leave the country. That’s now changed. Just think about this,” he continued. “There are Israelis working on Fleet Street in London because there was no place for them here. Now, since 2003, there is a place for them in Israel.”