22 Words

Some people can talk endlessly and still not really say anything.

And then there’s Asaf.

He took two full years of his life and turned them into 22 words. (written in hebrew.. the translation comes out at 33)

22 words.

How many people can actually do that?

I want to be clear about something.

Asaf doesn’t just sit and type the way we do. He can only communicate through typing with an experienced therapist, in a very specific space that was built over time.

It’s not always accessible. It’s not easy. It’s a process.

And within that space, within the limited time he has to express himself - I asked him to sum up the past two years.

“Meaningful, call for celebration, you changed my life Naama mom brought you to me you brought light with words to the darkness around me, that scattered like clouds, spring will come, we will celebrate.”

22 words that hold so much.

When you only have one hour a week to be heard, you don’t waste words. Every word matters.

But this isn’t just about words. It’s about what we see - and what we miss.

So maybe the real question is:

what do we need to believe in order to really see?

There’s a huge and growing gap between Asaf’s inner world and the way he appears on the outside.

People often tell me they find it hard to believe that Asaf is capable of writing words like these.

They see the disconnection. The silence. The blank look.

And it’s hard for them to believe there is more.

That hurts but I also understand. Because I was there too.

I know what it feels like to be influenced by what I see and what I believe. To hear and still not fully believe.

This is where presuming competence comes in. It’s a choice. To believe in something you can’t yet see. To make space for something that is there, but is shielded by his autism and apraxia.

Asaf wrote something I can’t let go of:

“We look different, but we understand everything.”

That sentence stays with me.

Maybe it’s not about what Asaf is capable of -but about whether we believe him - and his capability.