Rediscovering Asaf: Meeting the son I thought I knew

Twenty-four years ago, I gave birth to my son, Asaf, a beautiful, mysterious child whose world I was never quite able to fully access. But in many ways, it feels as though I’ve given birth to him again, not in the physical sense, but through the discovery of his voice. After years of silence, Asaf has finally found a way to communicate with us through typing, and with every word, a new world unfolds.

The first thing that became glaringly clear was Asaf’s immense heart—the love he feels for his family. I always knew he loved us, but now, I can hear it directly from him.

In one typing session, he wrote, "I want a holiday in the Kinneret (Sea of Galilee) with Mum and my siblings." I wasn’t sure how to arrange a camping trip, so I decided to start small. We arranged to spend the afternoon together and have a barbecue. Noam received special permission from the army to return home for 24 hours so we could all be together. Nothing makes me happier as a mother than having all my children together, something that happens less frequently as they get older. Those few hours were so special, and I’m so grateful to Asaf for allowing us to spend quality time together. Watching the interactions between the kids and their love for each other reminded me how much they mean to me, despite the challenges they’ve put me through as they grew up.

Asaf’s worry for Noam, as he enrolled in the army, was also very evident. His heartfelt message, "I'm worried about you, stay safe.”

His question "Is he scared to die?" shattered the assumption I’d carried for so long—that individuals with autism have no empathy. I had wondered, but I was wrong in believing that Asaf couldn’t understand the world around him.

One day, he typed, "I want to plant a tree at Mum's house." When asked what kind of tree, his answer was simple: "A mango tree." Surprised, we asked, "Do you like mangoes?" He replied, "No, but it's sweet like my family."

In that moment, I realized how much he sees, how deeply he feels for those around him. His ability to care for others extended beyond his family, too. He once wrote that Naama should come to the hostel every day to help his friends communicate as well. He even joked, "It’s worth it, we pay you a fortune!" His ability to notice, care for, and love those around him continues to leave me in awe.

Alongside these beautiful discoveries, however, I also had to face emotions that were difficult and unexpected—criticism, anger. Asaf, now able to express his needs, felt that I wasn’t listening to him. He couldn’t understand why I wasn’t acting on his requests immediately. Though painful to read, I knew these words came from a place of deep frustration and despair. I had to balance the knowledge that I no longer had the the privilege to ignore his voice, now that he could finally use it, with the reality of finding a solution that worked for everyone. I explained to him that some things take time, that the fight for his freedom wasn’t as simple as saying "yes." But he found it hard to accept; he just wanted out. His words were a reminder of the silence I had accepted for so many years.

And then, I began to discover more about Asaf—his likes, his dislikes, his memories. He typed the name of the horse he used to ride when he was seven years old. I had never been sure if he had memories like that, but here he was, sharing a piece of his past. He also recalled the memory of me returning from hospital after giving birth to Ayala.

 I learned about his fears, his wishes, and his desires. With every conversation, I discovered more about my son, and each discovery felt like just the tip of the iceberg. The more I learned, the more I realized how much more there was to understand.

Asaf shared his desire for a girlfriend—a true romantic at heart. Another belief of mine burst. Never in my wildest dreams did I believe this could even be an option for him. But there it was—his desire to experience love in a way I hadn’t imagined before. He also wanted to spend time with his new found friends. His wish to connect with others was becoming more apparent, as was his ability to relate to those around him.

I was also granted a window into how Asaf copes with the silent world he inhabits. One sentence he typed left me in awe: "Images from when I was a child flood my mind and pacify my silence." His ability to reflect on such deep thoughts, especially within the silence of his own mind, was overwhelming.

As I continue to uncover the layers of Asaf’s thoughts, desires, and emotions, I realize that the more I learn, the more I realize how much I still don’t know. Each new word he types offers a glimpse into a world that was always there, waiting for the chance to be seen. And though the journey is only just beginning, I am filled with a sense of wonder, gratitude, and awe. To know my son in this way—this deeply—is a gift I never imagined possible. It's a rebirth, a second chance at understanding him, and at seeing the incredible person he has always been.

Asaf with Dill, his new carer, in the cycling club he attends.