The meaning of Independence

What does independence mean when your body doesn’t move the way you want it to—but your heart and mind are fully awake?

This Independence Day, something extraordinary happened. At the annual torch lighting ceremony, my children Asaf and Maya were chosen to light a torch together. The theme this year was siblings—and theirs is a bond that runs deep, beyond speech, beyond convention. But even as I write this, I’m still trying to find the words for what that moment meant to me.

In advance Maya shared with Asaf what information she had shared with the organisers of the event, and which pictures of them she had chosen to display. The next day, during his typing session with Naama, he wrote proudly:

“Maya and I will light the torch.”

He knew. He was proud. He was ready.

The night before the torch-lighting, we attended Remembrance Day Ceremony for fallen soldiers. This was the first time Asaf had ever been to such a ceremony. In the past, I assumed it would be too much for him. I didn’t believe he’d grasp the meaning. I worried that his natural sounds would disturb others.

But this year, it wasn’t even a question, Asaf was attending with us. He didn’t want to sit in the crowd, that was too overwhelming for him, so he quietly moved to the side and remained there the entire time—fully present, in his own space, on his own terms. His quiet participation filled me with awe. It made me realize how many doors I had unknowingly closed for him over the years, based on assumptions.

And then came the next day. Asaf’s excitement was unmistakable. Fifteen minutes before we were meant to leave for the ceremony, he was pulling me toward the door. When we arrived, he stood tall and smiling, eyes bright. The happiness never left his face.

When Maya and Asaf were called up to light the torch, the whole crowd went quiet. The emcee told their story, and I stood there watching them—my heart too full for words. Just one year ago, I couldn’t have imagined this. Honestly, neither could Asaf. I didn’t believe he was capable. I didn’t yet know the full depth of his understanding.

But there they stood—Asaf and Maya—side by side, beaming.

And in that moment, as he leaned gently toward her and smelled her hair, something so simple, so full of love, I saw everything differently. That gesture wasn’t random. It was his way of staying grounded when emotions surge. And Maya, with her quiet strength, simply let him be.

This past year, I’ve begun to discover the real Asaf. He is 24. He is autistic. He is non-speaking. But he is not disconnected. Far from it. He has a huge heart, a sharp mind, a deep soul, and a dry, sarcastic sense of humour. He has frustrations, preferences, dreams—and when things align and the message gets through, you can feel the power of it light up the room.

Which brings me to a bigger question:

What does independence mean for someone like Asaf?

It begins with simple things—being able to open the fridge and choose what to eat, deciding where to sit, when to rest. But independence is so much more than tasks. It’s about choice. It’s about voice. And for Asaf, who lived for years unable to express himself, learning to communicate through typing is nothing short of a revolution.

And just last week, I learned a new word: Interdependence.

What a powerful idea. Independence doesn’t mean isolation. It means building supportive structures so someone can be as free as possible—while staying connected to the people who care for them.

I find myself asking:

How can I help Asaf grow into his independence, while honouring the support he still needs?

How can I push for his freedom, without pushing too hard?

How can I ensure that he is never, ever invisible again?

This journey with Asaf keeps reshaping my world. Independence isn’t just a goal—it’s a dance. It’s the ability to choose, to be heard, to belong.

And sometimes, it looks like standing beside your sister, under a night sky, as a torch is lit and your whole being whispers:

“I am here.”

Nachal Hakibutzim