I got a call from an Oriental man asking for a room for two at my B&B in Israel, and he said one of them would be in a wheelchair. I explained that my establishment didn't meet the proper criteria, but I've had guests in wheelchairs and they got about OK.
Fine, he said, we will be there tomorrow. I didn't think more about it.
Come the following day, a large dirty white van pulls up, and a hyper-active Filipino man jumps out to shake my hand and then sets about energetically decanting his cargo.
In a wheelchair was a large, well-kept, well-dressed, quadriplegic man in his late-40s who couldn't talk and could only grunt. He had to hold his eyelids open with a deformed hand in order to see, his head lolled, and he drooled. He was an utterly ruined physical specimen by the name of Boaz.
While I stood there gawking, his helper, Jackie, all bustle and muscle, got him through the garden and into his room (a 4x4 wheelchair would have been handy).
To see, the Israeli now has to hold his eyes open with a deformed hand
No sooner had they settled into the room than a neighbour of mine was knocking on my gate asking for his buddy Boaz. Boaz was indisposed at that moment, so I asked Eran, my neighbour, to tell me something about my guest.
"You don't know who Boaz is?"
"No. They are just guests."
"I was in the army with him, he was a legend. He carried a wounded comrade six kilometres through enemy lines and minefields to safety. I knew him mainly as a tour guide in the Sinai, and I'd see him every time I was down there.
"You can't imagine what he was
like - he was tall and broad-shouldered with a shock of curly blond
hair, the most amazing vitality, he never stopped.
"I was at the funeral of a mutual friend last year and when I saw this man in a wheelchair, I had no idea that it was Boaz - I'd lost contact with him. This was a far greater shock for me than the reason we were there. I was shattered. Apparently it happened in a work accident. Now I try to see him whenever I can…"
"Can you talk to one another?"
"Sure, it takes a little time, but he communicates fully."
I was much affected by the presence of this man in my house. The following morning, Eran took Boaz off for a walk and Jackie had some time off, so I made him a cup of tea, and proceeded to pump him, as one does.
The story was that Boaz had been doing a repair inside a piece of heavy machinery in the kibbutz factory when a colleague walked in and inadvertently turned the machine on.
Boaz was literally crushed, but lived. He was an old hand in the kibbutz, he got the best medical attention money could buy, and now lived in a house with a view of the sea, surrounded by family and friends, with a Filipino carer.
Jackie had been with Boaz for 15 years, and Jackie's wife and children were with him on the kibbutz.
Every year Jackie would pack a large suitcase and the two of them (and wheelchair) would take off to London, Bangkok or St Petersburg for a holiday. Boaz loves to travel.
So here it is in a nutshell: a crippled Israeli is given a foreign carer with whom he establishes a unique bond. The cripple's loved ones move mountains at the Ministry of the Interior (this is unimaginable) to have citizenship conferred on the foreign care-giver, his wife and children in order to ensure that the two men cannot be separated (they are inseparable).
The Israeli, a one-time tour guide, who now has to hold his eyes open with his fingers in order to see two feet in front of him, likes to travel, pop down to the desert of a weekend, or an annual foreign adventure - and why not?
Jackie is totally cool with this (I saw what is involved in just getting Boaz in and out of the van). It's probably the world's most physically and emotionally demanding job, but he loves his work, and his work loves him back.
They drove off after breakfast. I stood there gawking and stayed that way long after they'd gone.
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