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A few years ago, when I mentioned to a woman I met at a party that I was
teaching in a school for the blind, she seemed confused. “Can I just ask you one
question?” she said. “How do you talk to your students?”
I explained that the students were blind, not deaf. Raising the palms of her
hands at me, as if to stem further misunderstanding, she said: “Yes, I know
they’re not deaf. But what I really mean is, how do you actually talk to them?”
I knew, because I had been asked this question before by reasonably intelligent
people, that the woman didn’t know exactly what she meant. All she knew was that
in her mind there existed a substantial intellectual barrier between the blind
and the sighted. The blind could hear, yes. But could they properly understand?
Throughout history and across cultures the blind have been traduced by a host of
mythologies such as this. They have variously been perceived as pitiable idiots
incapable of learning, as artful masters of deception or as mystics possessed of
supernatural powers. One of the most persistent misconceptions about blindness
is that it is a curse from God for misdeeds perpetrated in a past life, which
cloaks the blind person in spiritual darkness and makes him not just dangerous
but evil.
A majority of my blind students at the International Institute for Social
Entrepreneurs in Trivandrum, India, a branch of Braille Without Borders, came
from the developing world: Madagascar, Colombia, Tibet, Liberia, Ghana, Kenya,
Nepal and India. One of my students, the 27-year-old Sahr, lost most of his
eyesight to measles when he was a child. (Like many children in rural West
Africa, Sahr had not been vaccinated.) The residents of Sahr’s village were
certain that his blindness — surely the result of witchcraft or immoral actions
on his family’s part — would adversely affect the entire village. They
surrounded his house and shouted threats and abuse. They confiscated a
considerable portion of his parents’ land. Eventually, the elders decreed that
Sahr’s father must take the child out to the bush, “where the demons live,” and
abandon him there. The parents refused and fled the village with their son.
Many of my students had similar experiences. Marco’s parents, devout Colombian
Catholics, begged a priest to say a Mass so that their blind infant son would
die before his existence brought shame and hardship on their household. The
villagers in Kyile’s remote Tibetan village insisted that she, her two blind
brothers and their blind father should all just commit suicide because they were
nothing but a burden to the sighted members of the family. When, as a child in
Sierra Leone, James began to see objects upside down because of an ocular
disease, the villagers were certain that he was possessed by demons.
In these places, schools for blind children were deemed a preposterous waste of
resources and effort. Teachers in regular schools refused to educate them.
Sighted children ridiculed them, tricked them, spat at them and threw stones at
them. And when they reached working age, no one would hire them. During a visit
to the Braille Without Borders training center in Tibet, I met blind children
who had been beaten, told they were idiots, locked in rooms for years on end and
abandoned by their parents. These stories, which would have been commonplace in
the Dark Ages, took place in the 1980s, 1990s and 2000s. They are taking place
now. Nine out of 10 blind children in the developing world still have no access
to education, many for no other reason than that they are blind.
The United States has one of the lowest rates of visual impairment in the world,
and yet blindness is still among the most feared physical afflictions. Even in
this country, the blind are perceived as a people apart.
Aversion toward the blind exists for the same reason that most prejudices exist:
lack of knowledge. Ignorance is a powerful generator of fear. And fear slides
easily into aggression and contempt. Anyone who has not spent more than five
minutes with a blind person might be forgiven for believing — like the woman I
met at the party — that there is an unbridgeable gap between us and them.
For most of us, sight is the primary way we interpret the world. How can we even
begin to conceive of a meaningful connection with a person who cannot see?
Before I began living and working among blind people, I, too, wondered this.
Whenever I saw a blind person on the street I would stare, transfixed, hoping,
out of a vague and visceral discomfort, that I wouldn’t have to engage with him.
In his 1930 book “The World of the Blind,” Pierre Villey, a blind French
professor of literature, summarized the lurid carnival of prejudices and
superstitions about the blind that were passed down the centuries. “The sighted
person judges the blind not for what they are but by the fear blindness
inspires. ... The revolt of his sensibility in the face of ‘the most atrocious
of maladies’ fills a sighted person with prejudice and gives rise to a thousand
legends.” The blind author Georgina Kleege, a lecturer at the University of
California at Berkeley, more tersely wrote, “The blind are either supernatural
or subhuman, alien or animal.”
WE take our eyesight so much for granted, cling to it so slavishly and are so
overwhelmed by its superficial data, that even the most brilliant sighted person
can take a stupidly long time to recognize the obvious: There is usually a
perfectly healthy, active and normal human mind behind that pair of unseeing
eyes.
Christopher Hitchens called blindness “one of the oldest and most tragic
disorders known to man.” How horribly excluded and bereft we would feel to lose
the world and the way of life that sight brings us. Blindness can happen to any
one of us. Myself, I used to be certain I’d rather die than be blind; I could
not imagine how I would have the strength to go on in the face of such a loss.
And yet people do. In 1749, the French philosopher Denis Diderot published an
essay, “Letter on the Blind for the Benefit of Those Who See,” in which he
described a visit he and a friend made to the house of a blind man, the son of a
professor of philosophy at the University of Paris. The blind man was married,
had a son, had many acquaintances, was versed in chemistry and botany, could
read and write with an alphabet of raised type and made his living distilling
liqueurs. Diderot wrote with wonder of the man’s “good solid sense,” of his
tidiness, of his “surprising memory for sounds” and voices, of his ability to
tell the weight of any object and the capacity of any vessel just by holding
them in his hands, of his ability to dismantle and reassemble small machines, of
his musical acuity and of his extreme sensitivity to atmospheric change.
The blind man, perhaps weary of being interrogated by Diderot and his friend as
if he were a circus animal, eventually asked them a question of his own. “I
perceive, gentlemen, that you are not blind. You are astonished at what I do,
and why not as much at my speaking?” More than any of his sensory skills, it was
the blind man’s self-esteem that surprised Diderot most. “This blind man,” he
wrote, “values himself as much as, and perhaps more than, we who see.”
I’ve learned from my blind friends and colleagues that blindness doesn’t have to
remain tragic. For those who can adapt to it, blindness becomes a path to an
alternative and equally rich way of living.
One of the many misconceptions about the blind is that they have greater
hearing, sense of smell and sense of touch than sighted people. This is not
strictly true. Their blindness simply forces them to recognize gifts they always
had but had heretofore largely ignored.
A few years ago, I allowed myself to be blindfolded and led through the streets
of Lhasa by two blind Tibetan teenage girls, students at 'Braille Without
Borders'. The girls had not grown up in the city, and yet they traversed it with
ease, without stumbling or getting lost. They had a specific destination in
mind, and each time they announced, “Now we turn left” or “Now we turn right,” I
was compelled to ask them how they knew this. Their answers startled me, chiefly
because the clues they were following — the sound of many televisions in an
electronics shop, the smell of leather in a shoe shop, the feel of cobblestones
suddenly underfoot — though out in the open for anyone to perceive, were
virtually hidden from me.
For the first time in my life, I realized how little notice I paid to sounds, to
smells, indeed to the entire world that lay beyond my ability to see.
The French writer
Jacques Lusseyran, who lost his sight at the age of 8,
understood that those of us who have sight are, in some ways, deprived by it.
“In return for all the benefits that sight brings we are forced to give up
others whose existence we don’t even suspect.”
I do not intend to suggest there is something wonderful about blindness. There
is only something wonderful about human resilience, adaptability and daring. The
blind are no more or less otherworldly, stupid, evil, gloomy, pitiable or
deceitful than the rest of us. It is only our ignorance that has cloaked them in
these ridiculous garments. When Helen Keller wrote, “It is more difficult to
teach ignorance to think than to teach an intelligent blind man to see the
grandeur of Niagara,” she was speaking, obviously, of the uplifting and
equalizing value of knowledge.
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Why Do We Fear the Blind?
By Rosemary Mahoney
The New York Times
Jan. 5, 2014,
in
https://www.nytimes.com/
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