Every morning, before the sun fully rose over the city of Tel Aviv, Manuel “Nuel” Santiago carefully helped his patient, Dov Levi, out of bed. Dov, 82 years old, was a Holocaust survivor with fading memory and fragile bones. For Nuel, he was not just a client he was family, even if they shared no blood.
Nuel had been a caregiver in Israel for seven years. Back in the Philippines, he was a licensed physical therapist in a provincial hospital in Bicol. But with a salary that barely paid for groceries and no opportunities for growth, he took the leap and applied abroad. Her wife Lorie, was hesitant. Their son, Gab, was only six at the time. But Noel made a promise: Just three years. Then I’ll be home.
That was seven years ago.
Israel was nothing like home. The language, the food, even the silence felt heavier. His first few months were filled with adjustments. He didn’t speak Hebrew, and Dov’s occasional confusion made communication even harder. But Noel was patient. He used gestures, drawings, and sometimes just sat quietly by Dov’s side, offering presence when words failed.
Back home, Nuel became a shadow parent attending birthdays and graduations through video calls, sending recorded lullabies, and wiring money every month. He missed first steps, school plays, and quiet dinners. But every time he saw Gab smile on the screen, or Lorie say, “We’re okay because of you,” his heart ached with pride and longing.
His job wasn’t easy. Caring for the elderly meant sleepless nights, heavy lifting, and emotional exhaustion. He witnessed the slow decline of a man who once told stories of resistance, loss, and love in pre-war Europe. Some days, Dov would forget Nuel’s name. Other days, he’d ask about the Philippines and hum along when Nuel played old kundiman songs.
Nuel sent his earnings wisely. He paid off debts, enrolled Gab in a private school, and helped his younger sister finish nursing. He also saved little by little to build a home in their small barangay, a place he could one day retire to with Lorie.
Then one evening, Dov passes away in his sleep.
Nuel stood by his side, holding his hand, Though heartbroken, he was honored to have cared for him until the end. The Levi family thanked Nuel with tears and open arms, calling him a “blessing from the Philippines.”
With his contract ending, Nuel decided it was time.
When arrived at NAIA, holding a modest suitcase and years of memories, he saw Lorie and Gab waiting with a welcome banner. Gab, now 13, ran toward him and hugged him tightly. Nuel knelt down, tears blurring his vision.
“I kept my promise,” he whispered.
Now, Nuel works in a local rehab center and runs a small therapy clinic from home. His hands, once worn from lifting and wiping away tears, now bring healing to others this time, in his own land.
Because sometimes, the greatest journeys are not just measured by miles, but by the love we leave and the life we build when we return.
