[nfb-talk] Fw: In Iraq, Seeing by Feeling [NY Times]

[Ed Meskys]

Subject: In Iraq, Seeing by Feeling [NY Times]


In Iraq, Seeing by Feeling


ZAINAB RADHA “When I have a photo taken of myself, I always want to
be near a green tree” and feel the shade, she said. “When I came to
school I just wanted to spend all my time in the garden. Somehow my
mood is different when I am in a garden.”

HAMID QATAN Though going deaf, he still plays Kurdish music — folk
tunes and dancing music in a melancholy minor key. He says he follows
his violin’s vibrations and the music he can still hear in his head.

MORTADA MAJID A Shiite, he learned about sectarian cleansing when,
one day, he did not hear the voices of his Sunni neighbors. He asked
his mother where they were. They had left at dawn, she said.

AHMED ABDUL RASOOL After running from a gunman, he thought, “Thank
God that I cannot see because my friends had such a bad time after
that,” he said. “I tried to comfort them, but they could not forget
because they had seen the man with the gun.”

By ALISSA J. RUBIN; Published: November 15, 2008

Imagine being near a bomb blast but being unable to see it. Or
hearing gunfire but not knowing whether the gunman is shooting at you.

That is the world of the blind in Baghdad. An explosion’s size and
nearness are judged by sound — a boom, a pop, a thud. Or by smell —
acrid means burning rubber; metallic, burning cars.

At the Al Noor Institute for the Blind, in a troubled neighborhood,
children come to know their world “feelingly,” as Shakespeare put it.

They go into the small courtyard and know where there are trees
because it is cooler in their shade. Sometimes, they have been closer
to gunmen than they like to remember, in part because they could not
see them approaching.

Yet, some still learn to write and draw, play musical instruments and
sing.

At 13, Mortada Majid is frail and serious. He has a gift, one all but
lost in the West. He is a reciter of poetry; a kind of oracle of the
times. When he recites, his soft voice becomes strong and resonant as
if he is calling from the rooftops. He recites two poems one morning.
One is an ode to Baghdad: ancient Baghdad, historic Baghdad, learned
Baghdad, beautiful Baghdad. The second is a poem of love and
appreciation for his mother.

A blind teacher, Hamid Qatan, 43, comes in. His students call him
Beethoven because he is also going deaf, yet still plays Kurdish folk
tunes on his violin, from which he can barely hear the notes.

Ahmed Abdul Rasool, an 18-year-old student, carries his drum under
his arm as if it were a pet cat. He calls his brothers “my eyes” and
walks with them all over Baghdad. Over a year ago, a gunman began to
shoot as he and his brother and friends played outside. “It was very
near,” he said. “My brother took my hand and we ran. And I had a
feeling then that life was precious.”

Later, he thought, “Thank God that I cannot see because my friends
had such a bad time after that,” he said. “I tried to comfort them,
but they could not forget because they had seen the man with the gun.”

Zainab Radha, 13, is captivated by painting done by touch —
puncturing thin plastic sheets with a sharp pen, drawing designs that
she can feel. “I like trees best,” she said. “I like trees with many
leaves that cast a shadow. I can feel it.”

“Trees represent another atmosphere,” she said. “It’s as if I’m
escaping from reality.” A dark reality, but one that she can imagine
is filled with light.