I began this post over a month ago, on the winds of a 747 jet carrying me homeward bound. It was a long flight, totaling nearly 24 hours of flying/layovers from Kilimanjaro to Dar es Salaam to Amsterdam, then home. At the time I was planning to spend the night and day aboard the silver sleigh describing every last detail about Africa. Unfortunately exhaustion and more exhaustion hit, and the annals of Africa stayed lodged somewhere deep inside until now. But that is okay—maybe it just means that Israeli’s story was not meant to be told just then. Maybe the time was now.
There were nine kids at Nyumba ya Furaha, and Israeli was one of two boys that I was a little scared of at the start. Tall and rough looking from the bones that pressed unabashedly at his skin, Israeli seemed maybe the least friendly of all the boys. Or at least the least affectionate. I have never been so wrong about anyone in my life.
Israeli may have come off crude and rough, but not one of his escapades with hammers and machetes and stoning some poor lizard gave any real reflection of his soft heart and unusual thoughtfulness. Israeli, in a line, was akin to the Rambo edition of Rodin’s Il Penseur, the famous statue of a man resting his head upon a closed fist, lost in deep reverie. Il Penseur was probably the last thing you’d think of when you happened to catch Israeli in his natural habitat--wildly chasing after donkeys with a stick or scaling trunks of wispy saplings and swaying back and forth, singing at the top of his lungs. But then again, moments where Israeli walked me back to the base and taught me the song “I see the Moon” in the fading rays of an equatorial sun were hardly reminiscent of Rambo, either. The real revelation of Israeli’s life all unfolded in one amazing afternoon at Nyumba ya Furaha.
It was a day when three other volunteers had come to Nyumba ya Furaha and suddenly you could focus all your attention on one kid at a time instead of listening to six kids stumbling through English words at all once. I made a bold move and singled Israeli out to read to me, then read several books to him. Later that night Israeli chased after me when I got up to go back to my home at the base. Catching my arm beneath the ethereal glow of the moon, he planted dozens of loud kisses from the hand all the way up to the elbow and back down again. It was impossible not to laugh, and simultaneously impossible not to cry. Israeli was more than lovestruck--he was showing that he had felt loved that day. Loved beyond the average. Could it be that what we do—even the simplest of things like pulling a little kid up next to you and reading him a crazy book—show kids that they are loved? That night it showed me that it was, and from then on, Israeli was my friend.
I’m not going to pretend that Israeli was a sappy romantic every moment after that. There were still plenty of shenanigans ending many a spider or scorpion’s life at the threshold of Nyumba ya Furaha. On one memorable occasion I caught him rubbing dirt into a fresh, open wound won in a flailing race around the house. The dirt, he thought, would stop the bleeding, and when it didn't he put leaves over it to try and cover the cut. He was amazed when I cleaned out the cut on his foot and placed a band-aid over the small, red gash. And I, in turn, was amazed that he felt this was unusual care for a cut or bruise. I don't think that it was unusual care, but I do wonder that perhaps Israeli never took the time to show anyone his scrapes and bruises.
Israeli asked me a lot of questions about myself, about America, about my home. On one occasion he accused me of lying when I told him about a box that washes your dishes for you (how do you explain a dishwasher appliance to someone who’s never seen even a washing machine?). It’s hard to say how long or how much of all our talks Israeli will remember, but there is one thing I hope he will never forget. He will never forget his wish. And neither will I.
One afternoon, Israeli and I were reading a book about a small little bear who wished for all sorts of things. I nonchalantly inflected my tone up and down according to the voices and the ridiculousness of all the little bears wishes, until Israeli stopped me and asked me what the word “wish” meant. I was half amazed. How do you explain a wish? How does a nine-year-old not know what it was? I didn’t know the word in Swahili but I explained it as best as I could in English and he moved on, leaving me no indication that it would be a significant word later on. Two and a half hours later, after homework and showers and eating ugali with our hands, Israeli and I found ourselves facing a pile of plastic bowls in sudsy water. As we talked and sang, we began to laugh until someone talked about home. Israeli grew more serious and turned to me, wet rag dripping water on the floor, and asked, “What was that word you taught me earlier?” My mind began racing back through the day to all the words we could have talked about. “Wishii?” Israeli’s accent added an extra syllable to “wish” as it rolled off his tongue with a long vowel sound.
“Oh yeah, 'wish.' It means something you want very much. The thing you want more than anything in the world. It doesn't have to be a thing--it could be being with a person, or going to a place, or having something you dream about happen...”
“Yes, that is the word,” Israeli nodded. “I know what my wishii is. My wish is to go home.” Israeli’s eyes glazed over a little bit and he continued, “I was supposed to go home last Christmas, but then couldn’t. I don’t know why. Maybe this year, for Christmas, then I can go. I have a friend at home…I like my friend. I want to see my friend again. Next time I see Nasari, I tell him I want to go home.” Israeli turned and went back to wiping the next cheap plastic dish in his hand and thinking about his wish. I stood there, taking in the deepest wish of his young heart, and learning something from this little boy. In all my years of living and breathing and thinking, I wished many a wish, too. But never was my wish like his, never were any of them so profound. Israeli wished for a long-lost reunion; he held on to the edges of a love frayed by time and distance and the life in African villages. Yet the time and distance did nothing to diminish the love that Israeli had connecting him to his nameless friend. Of all the things Israeli wanted in the universe, it was to be with someone he loved being with.
I’ll let his wish affect you the way it will—I know that his wish affected me in a way I never expected to find as I continued on this journey of life. Simultaneously humbling and emboldening, I’ve never forgotten that sweet, unexpected wish that day, enlivened by his own burgeoning hope that this could be the year that he could go home for Christmas. It didn’t matter what he had lost in the year before when he couldn’t go home to see his friend. Disappointment swallowed none of his hopeful zeal. He knew what he wanted, and he was ready to make a wish.
I see the moon
And the moon sees me
Lord love the moon
And the Lord love me...
-Israeli's Song