After two years of living in Jerusalem our family was leaving Israel. My husband, two daughters, and I were moving back to our home in Montclair. We would not be coming back empty-handed. Aside from all we gained emotionally and spiritually, we were bringing home an infant Ethiopian boy.

Our decision to adopt a child from Ethiopia was reinforced by our daily contact with many of the Ethiopians who had immigrated to Israel. It was a culture that, although suffering economically, stood out as intensely warm and loving. On Yom Hazikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day, Adoption Advocates International, our American adoption agency, sent us an e-mail saying they had a baby boy for our consideration. After mounds of paperwork and almost nine months of anticipation, we saw a picture of our son. We decided to name him Itai, after a non-Jewish soldier in King David’s army. On July 11, one day before the outbreak of Israel’s war with Lebanon, we began our journey, stopping first in Africa and then home.

After a four-hour flight from Tel Aviv, all four of us arrived in Addis Ababa. Once in a taxi and out on the street, it was clear that there was here a level of poverty and chaotic desperation none of us had ever encountered. Beggars, many of them the age of our children, swarmed our car, crying out for food and money. We quickly began opening our bags, emptying our pockets, handing out all we had — shekels, dollars, gum, anything. But there was no way to keep up, no way to help all of them. By the time the first taxi ride ended, we had learned to turn our heads and harden our eyes, just like the locals.

We went to sleep exhausted and overwhelmed and awoke to the news that the war in Lebanon had begun. As the first photos of missile strikes were shown on CNN, we got ready to meet our child. Driving past shacks, down unpaved roads, we reached the orphanage. The primitive nature of the complex was shocking. Lines of laundry hung drying in the sun. Tall, smiling women sat behind buckets of water, washing. I looked around quickly, not sure what our baby actually looked like. One of the caretakers lifted a bewildered-looking boy to us. The pictures we had stared at for so many weeks were misleading. This little one, with the large eyes typical of Ethiopians, was small and frail. As soon as he was placed in my arms, he started crying and flapping his arms like an injured bird.

Back at the hotel we watched as another adoptive parent proudly smiled as her happy, vibrant baby girl lifted herself up onto her arms and showed us her first teeth. Meanwhile, our baby cried constantly for the comfort of a bottle. Within seconds we were drenched with the food or liquids he couldn’t keep down.

By the third day, with mounds of dirty laundry as evidence, we knew there was something seriously wrong with Itai, and we would have to bring him to a hospital. After we waited for hours with hundreds of sick and dying patients, the doctor quickly assessed our baby, telling us he had the flu. He gave us some antibiotics and advised us to keep him warm. On the way out, he suggested we find Jesus.

The antibiotics proved useless, Itai’s health became worse, and we were now in a full-blown panic. As the war in Lebanon raged on TV, we made countless calls to the airlines, asking if we could depart to America sooner than planned. No one seemed willing or able to help. Meanwhile, we got word that several of our close Israeli friends were called up for reserve duty. “Do you think they will die?”, our daughters asked us.

Finally, the day of our departure arrived. Itai was completely listless. He slept most of the time in a semiconscious state and awoke only to cry for the bottle that offered him no nourishment. I aimlessly wandered the hotel lobby.

It was then that I heard someone call my name. I turned to see a smiling Ethiopian man who could have been any number of people I had met in our time there.

“It’s Ben,” he said.

I reviewed all the Ben’s I had met — Benjamin, Binyamin — but no Ben.

“Ben. Ben! From Solomon Schechter in West Orange.”

After two years, the Solomon Schechter Day School in West Orange was a distant memory. It was the school my older daughter, Maia, had attended before we left for Israel and where both girls would return in the fall. Beniam Bekele was the janitor at the school whom we had befriended years before. He had learned about our adoption and happened to be in Addis Ababa visiting his family.

I was quickly introduced to Ben’s brother and cousin, and we went off in search of the rest of my family. After only a few minutes, Ben and his relatives confirmed that the child needed immediate medical care. Though we had less than five hours before our flight, the three men began calling their friends and family to find out where the best clinic in Addis was located.

Moments later, Itai and I were whisked into a cab along with our Ethiopian companions, heading for another hospital. It took almost an hour to battle our way through the city congestion. The clinic, from the outside, looked like a slapped-together shack with an iron gate around it. Clearly, from the stares that greeted me as I entered, these people were not used to treating white patients.

Ben took control, speaking in Amharic to the receptionist. He pulled out his wallet and paid for the visit. Ben’s cousin cradled Itai in his arms as we waited our turn. Finally we were led into a windowless room where a distinguished-looking doctor greeted us. I asked him if he spoke English and he replied with annoyance, “I’m a doctor, aren’t I?”

The doctor examined Itai and within moments determined he was severely dehydrated, malnourished, with a variety of other health issues. The main concern was the dehydration, and he informed us that Itai would have to be hooked up to an IV and stay overnight. With panic rising in my voice, I explained that our flight was leaving that day. The doctor didn’t budge. The baby had to be hydrated or else he would die. This was nothing new to him. People died here every day.

As I began to cry, the doctor offered a slight concession. “I suppose if you hydrate him for four hours, then again once you arrive at your destination, this will be sufficient.” With great relief, I imagined handing the baby over to a staff of capable nurses who would care for him while I went back to the hotel to collect my family. The doctor immediately let me know that if I left the baby here alone, it would be considered abandonment. This too happened here every day. No exception was made for a white woman.

Our plane was leaving in four-and-a-half hours, we had mounds of laundry at a small laundromat waiting to be picked up, and there were 12 bags of luggage to pack. My husband, Amos, and two girls were on the other side of the city. Ben took hold of my shoulder. “We will stay here with the baby. You go back to the hotel. Take your time. Don’t worry.”

I left Ben, his brother, and cousin holding my dying little bird hooked up to an IV in a room the size of a broom closet.

It was nearly four hours later by the time the airport van pulled up to the clinic gates. Amos, the girls, and I rushed inside, where it was immediately clear our baby had been transformed. After only four hours of hydration he was completely revitalized. His eyes were open and for the first time in a week he wasn’t whimpering. Ben and his relatives were laughing, munching on chips, and drinking soda. Beside them were freshly bought diapers and formula. Watching the loving way they held our little boy, it seemed as though they were the “real” family and we were only onlookers. They proudly handed Itai to us. “Look at him now. This is what a good-looking Ethiopian should look like.”

As our van left the hospital parking lot heading in the direction of the airport, I glanced back at my Ethiopian rescuers. They were standing with their arms around each other, smiling widely. They were happy to be with each other, satisfied by what they had just accomplished, seemingly unaware of the sprawling shanty town of corrugated iron shacks that rose behind them.

At the next light, a girl with one blind eye begged us for food as a BBC radio reporter announced there had been another bombing in Haifa. Itai, who was looking around at us, alert and curious, began to babble. We laughed at hearing his voice for the first time.