blind means one is not able to see. the deprivation of seeing manifests itself as the lack of eyesight, mind-sight or soul-sight. The Greek seer that sees the future is almost always blind (in the traditional way of being blind). Can one say that everyone is blind- only each person is blind in its own way?
But first let me set the scene:
An Arab house gets bigger with time. The parents build another upper floor for the eldest son, and thus our houses grow larger vertically- towards the sky. Too bad- because one cannot smell the jasmine from the last floor in my uncle’s house- the jasmine that my grandmother planted years ago. But on the other hand, the mountains are really clear from above. I prefer jasmine on clear mountains.
So our house grew in size a year ago, and now we have a new, empty upper floor. The walls are many- they are made up of arranged cinder blocks- it’s very grey. Nothing is worthy of description in this space- it’s only an extended, dusty gray area. Yet, last week a new life presented itself in the gulf of this grey area- a small cat gave birth to many other smaller cats. and now the grey upper floor is less grey.
Yet, ironically, the only grey cat among the five newly born kittens is blind. She cannot see, and she meows all the time. She follows me whenever I go up to hang the clothes to dry. And she meows. Day and night. Her mom is a cruel bitch if you ask me- she’s left her there blind, small and helpless.
Few days later, i found her (i named her Tahseen – Taha + Hsen) dead next to our garden. She has descended the long, spiral staircase, and she died. she has never seen the stairs that she has descended, nor the green garden near here. The fact that her siblings were still alive, coiled in the left corner of the grey space, surprised me. How come they never thought of leaving the corner? the warm cardboard box?
who was the blind one, really? and could seeing kill you?
it was a small, frivolous incident: a cat died and i buried her properly. Her sisters and brothers are still alive and the mother cares for them. But the death of Tahseen was more than that, because it made me contemplate life and death:
if we grow up in a corner- a circle, a cardboard box made out of concrete and protected by a mother and a father, do we leave that corner? when is the right time to leave? do we come back? and if we’re different from the rest of the family- what do we do? maybe this constructed habitat is not adequate for us- what do we do? can we build something by ourselves for ourselves? how do we find the way?
One of my favorite philosophers once said “anxiety is the dizziness of freedom”. and yes Tahseen probably didn’t worry about freedom, nor contemplate its thralls but let’s suppose she did- freedom is so desired but it’s so scary. When there’s no frame, when there’s no box how do you find the way? She didn’t know the way but she left anyway because she was different and being in that corner will not guarantee her a “prosperous” life, for she has already had a different type of life, so she left.
Sometimes we’re not sure about the right path, and we’re shackled by fear. the sense of liberation is exhilarating. But it’s temporary. Unless you break free and build another box, there’s no use of leaving or destroying your own. Freedom is one of the highest values- but it is scary, too. Are we aware of the chasm without peeking into its deep hiatus down? But fear from freedom can be crippling, too. Maybe choosing your own boundaries or your own handcuffs and being aware of them is the best way? and if there was an unpleasant boundary what do you do? do you get rid of it too or do you hold on to it as a expression of recalcitrance?
Tahseen died on an early, autumn day, and she was buried shortly after. She has not seen anything really, and before i lament such an incident, I should also think whether there’s what is worth seeing, and i absolutely say that yes. Life is worth seeing, and rich and full of flavors. Too bad Tahseen that you’ve not seen all of this- or maybe you have?
ADDITION:
it’s funny- i just finished writing this commentary or piece when i browsed into the Internet. I flipped through many windows reading different articles and poems, and I came across this poem by Coleridge, it’s called “Writing During a Temporary Period of Blindness in the year 1799”
O what a life is the eye! what a strange and inscrutable essence!
Him, that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that warms him;
Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother;
Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles in its slumber;
Even for him it exists! It moves and stirs in its prison!
Lives with a separate life: and—“Is it a spirit!” he murmurs:
“Sure, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only a language!”
I leave you with that.
AICHA BINT YUSIF 