A Journey into the Matter of Blindness
A Deeper
Darkness
from Mr.
DiDonna
This past
summer I had the privilege of attending a permanent exhibit at the Israeli Children’s
Museum in Holon, Israel. I was delivered to the venue by an Israeli host
without forewarning of what was about to ensue. I could tell something was up
by the look of mischief on her face, and this made me a bit suspicious. I mean,
it was a “museum,” not a house of horrors. Upon checking in, I was led over to
a small waiting area and handed a walking stick usually reserved for people who
are blind. I was surrounded by a gathering of about a dozen fellow participants
(with identical walking sticks) whom I had never met, and with whom I believed
I had nothing in common. As I continued to focus on the sign overhead which
read “Dialogue in the Dark,” I searched for clues as to what I was about to
experience. My hosts remained silent. Soon, a concierge introduced herself and explained
that we would be escorted through the “installation” for the next hour and a
half by a person who was blind. We were told his name would be, Seadya.
We were led out
of the foyer and into another room, where a door closed behind us. In that
instant, I was cast into pitch darkness.
Now, there is the kind of darkness where one’s eyes eventually adjust
over time, and where figures and shadows, along with other sources of light
(door cracks, for example) come into focus. This room was sealed of any such
leakage. There weren’t any contours, not one silhouette, or outline. The only color that existed was black,
without even an inkling of gray.
In that room
our tour guide, Seadya, would introduce himself and informed us that he, the
blind person the concierge had eluded to, would be leading us through several
rooms over the course of the afternoon, each its own separate environment, each
its own separate experience. He told us we would find objects in our path that
we would have to navigate with the help of our walking sticks and by following
the sound of his voice. We were ushered along through environments like a
simulated street corner with an actual “parked” car in the room, then into a
movie theater, then a grocery store, and later, a discotheque. This was all in
the same pitch darkness. Whenever Seadya sensed we were feeling lost and
insecure, he would make his way to us individually and helped us advance with
the knowing reassurance of his hand and his voice.
Despite his
all too familiar sensitivity to our journey, I began to feel a deep sense of
loneliness, and not the kind of loneliness one feels because they haven’t any
friends on a Friday night. This loneliness was existential. We had lost our
eyes. We were subject to a condition that created a rupture in everything we
had considered normal up to that moment. As participants we began to talk to
one another, not out of a need to be polite, but because we needed one another to
find our way forward through the tour. It became all too evident how truly
interdependent we each were and have probably always been. It became all too
evident what life had been like for Seadya his entire life.
For many of
us who have the luxury of going through our daily lives with relatively healthy
eyesight, the vicarious possibility of closing one’s eyes to simulate the
experience of blindness, seems plausible. One can, for example, place
themselves in a darkened room at home, with closed eyes to ensure a full
effect, and think, “oh, this is what it feels like.” However, the knowledge
that the experiment could be aborted at any time, prevents any real anxiety
from entering one’s experience. Further, in any dark room of a standard house, some
source of light would always be present. However, in the passageways of this
“installation,” there wasn’t any relief to be found. We were all cast in
darkness together. And, in this darkness, we were also alone in our thoughts.
Questions and doubts around trust emerged. Along with that, the consideration
that I could one day find myself in this condition, began to hound me. The
vulnerability was exceptional. I was dizzy, often off balance, and deeply
confused. As I reached out my hand feeling for the security of the strangers
accompanying me, I also found myself feeling deep gratitude for the presence of
those very strangers. What would I do on a Boston street corner in this condition?
At the end
of the exhibit, we all sat at a table in a cafeteria with Seadya and were given
the opportunity, while still in the dark,
to ask him questions as he informed us of his own experiences and some
general statistics around blindness. For example, he stated that approximately
only 10 % of people who are blind see absolute darkness. He stated that the
other 90% see some variation of shadow. He urged us to not think of people with
disability as weak, but as possessing a special brand of strength. While
listening to him, I began to develop a sober and respectful insight into the
categories of human courage and faith. My inner world directed by my own
internal radar, became the guidepost.
We live in a
world that isn’t designed for people possessing only four of the five known
senses. The world makes accommodations for those people, but rarely does the
creator of the design factor such individuals into its overall vision. In a
sense, they come after; they are an afterthought. On this afternoon, I was
exposed to what it feels like to be rendered incidental in a world of people
defined by their own derived sense of purpose, where something as mundane as
pouring a glass of water, the buttering of one’s bread, or the counting of
money, becomes a challenge that must be navigated...in the dark.
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