Friendship Beyond Words

Friendship is often defined by words—shared conversations, exchanged thoughts, and spoken expressions of care. But what does friendship look like when words are not an option? For those who communicate without speech, like my son Asaf, friendship reveals itself in quieter, yet no less profound ways. It can be a gentle presence, shared laughter, the comfort of simply being together. True friendship transcends words, reminding us that the language of the heart can be felt just as powerfully in silence.

During Asaf's first hospitalization two years ago, I received a video from the hostel that left a deep impression on me. His friends from the apartment had come together, each expressing how much they missed him—some using words, others through gestures. Asaf was visibly moved, his eyes reflecting just how much the message touched him. It warmed my heart, but also left me wondering—what does friendship look like when words aren't the main bridge? How do they connect, share, and comfort each other in their daily lives? I found myself pondering for hours about the unique forms of communication they must rely on to build such meaningful bonds.

Do they communicate telepathically? I often wondered. I know Asaf can read my thoughts—it's happened too many times to dismiss. On countless occasions, he's been in a joyful mood, making his “happy noises” as I like to call them, his whole being radiating contentment. Yet, in those very moments, when a dark thought has crossed my mind, I've watched his happiness crumble almost instantly, his energy shifting as if he had felt the weight of my unspoken pain. It leaves me questioning the invisible threads that connect us—how much do words really matter when the heart can sense so deeply?

Five months into typing, Naama told us about a day center called Merchavim, where non-verbal individuals visit once a week for four hours. During this time, they have two conversations with each other in small groups through typing, discussing different topics of interest, and also participate in horse riding. She suggested we consider enrolling Asaf. I have to admit, I was skeptical. I was convinced he wouldn’t be interested in the horse riding, and I thought my money would be better spent on two individual typing sessions. Still, we went to visit. We joined one of the typing classes where they were watching the TV show “Sorry about the question”, a reality show where individuals from different groups in Israeli society answer questions sent in by the public. The episode they were watching featured autistic individuals answering questions about autism. All but one, who communicated through typing, were verbal. After each question was asked, the facilitator paused the episode, and each individual in the room typed their own response to the same question. To say I was blown away by their answers would be an understatement. Their insights, honesty, and depth amazed me. Yet despite how impressed I was, I couldn't picture Asaf being part of the group. I chose to ignore those thoughts, and I signed him up.

Later, on one of our weekend walks, I told Asaf about Merchavim. As usual, when the conversation ended, I was left unsure how much he had truly understood. At that stage, I was still learning how to presume competence. But during his next typing lesson, Asaf wrote how excited he was to start at Merchavim. He even mentioned the facilitator's name and added how sad he was that it wasn’t starting the next day. I was both surprised and so happy.

At his first session, something incredible happened. Nimrod, one of the participants, typed, I want Asaf to be my friend. My heart swelled—Asaf never had any real friends that I knew of, and here was someone openly reaching out to him. In response, Asaf typed:

 I want to try and ride on the horse with Nimrod. Once I used to horse ride, and I liked it. I'd like to try again.

 I have to admit, I doubted him. We had stopped horse riding when he was around nine because he refused to wear the helmet. He also has balance issues, and I was sure he wouldn’t feel confident enough to climb onto a horse. The following week, I received a picture of Asaf sitting tall and proud on the horse, Nimrod leading him. I was blown away and annoyed at myself for ever doubting him and his desires. Another reminder to me about the importance of presuming competence.

Over the weeks since Asaf started attending Merchavim, I saw a dramatic change in him. It's difficult to describe, but it was as if he became more present—he had a different look in his eyes, he was standing taller, and on his trips home, it was noticeable that he wanted to be among our presence more. You could visibly see that his life had taken on a new meaning. Very soon, the group began talking about meeting for pizza. They discussed their favorite toppings, and one of the moms offered to host the event. I can't even begin to express how happy I was for Asaf. This felt like a revolution. My child who once seemed to exist outside the rhythms of typical social life now had a peer group, one in which he felt equal. My heart was bursting with joy for him.

One of the important things I have learned since I began this journey with Asaf is that his and the non-verbal world is very different from our world. They communicate in ways that aren't visible to our eyes. During the pizza gathering, each one of them was in a different place within the house—one sat on the sofa, one outside on the patio, one was on a chair in the garden, and another was too overwhelmed by the experience and spent most of the visit sitting in the car. There was no visible interaction between them, yet they all wrote afterward how much they enjoyed it and were already planning their next meetup.

Asaf and another one of the boys often write about visiting each other at their houses. What amazes me just as much is how deeply they care for one another. They respond to each other's words, offering advice or support when someone shares a struggle.

Another thing that leaves me in awe is their ability to express disagreement, frustration, or even anger toward one another. After the ceasefire was signed between Israel and Hezbollah, they watched the Prime Minister’s speech together. The conversation that followed was astounding—each had a different perspective, and not only did they disagree, but they also expressed frustration and even anger at each other’s opinions. I read their exchange, and my jaw dropped. It was a completely normal discussion, the kind taking place in homes and workplaces all over Israel. The only difference was that for them, this debate happened through a keyboard, passed back and forth between them.

As I continue to witness Asaf's growth and the friendships he has formed, I'm struck by how much I’ve learned from his world. The more I observe, the more I realize that friendship, communication, and connection are not bound by words alone. They transcend spoken language, existing in gestures, shared experiences, and quiet moments of understanding.

What once seemed like limitations have revealed themselves as powerful opportunities—opportunities for Asaf to show us, in his own unique way, that he is capable of so much more than I ever imagined. His journey is a constant reminder that competence, connection, and love are not determined by how we speak, but by how we listen, understand, and support one another.

Asaf's world is not one of isolation or silence, but one of depth, emotion, and incredible potential. I feel so fortunate to be part of this journey with him, and I can't wait to see how his friendships continue to flourish in ways that words could never fully capture.

The morning sunrises that help me maintain my balance