I am happy to be alive. I am blind, thirty years old, working in Paris, married, with two children.
I was born in the Pyrenees, between Lourdes and Gavarnie. Handicapped, I felt somewhat alone among others. We lived in the mountains, so I had to learn to move like a mountain dweller—how to fall without hurting myself, and to endure countless falls to gain a little more independence with each passing day. My parents are shepherds. They welcomed me the way one welcomes rain or sunshine, without resignation, with great confidence in life and nature. Later I understood how beautiful my parents' work is. It is truly human work, at human scale and human pace.
I could not escape the painful "Why me?" but surrounded by others, I could move forward.
For many people, mountains mean luxury, vacation, skiing. For us, they also mean solitude, work without ever stopping—because sheep don't take vacations.
I could not escape the painful "Why me?" but surrounded by others, I could move forward
I grew up with respect for nature. But one day I had to leave the mountains and go to Bordeaux to attend a specialized school. It was a wrenching separation from my family; I could return only at Christmas, Easter, and summer break. My family became less a reality than a dream.
As a teenager, I couldn't follow the others to rugby or motorcycles. I could not escape the painful "Why me?" but surrounded by others, I could move forward.
In secondary school I attended regular classes. It wasn't easy; I was the only handicapped student in class. Without texts, I always needed help. But I got my diploma and started studying music at the conservatory. During a period when I didn't know what I would become, I had the good fortune to meet friendship—to meet people who thanked me for existing. I thank François and many others for believing in me. I couldn't choose my own work. I could be neither a shepherd nor an orchestra conductor. Professional integration is still difficult. I am still not permitted to audition for the Radio France choir; people are afraid to try the experiment.
But I work nonetheless, and today any work is a blessing. Certainly, I have my difficulties. For instance, people's prejudices. "Blind people have a sixth sense!" If I hear birds singing, if I'm particularly sensitive to music, I also hear the noise of the city, the crowds, the cars, the metro—and it is exhausting. Walking past poles, parking meters, trash cans, construction sites, badly parked cars—none of it is simple. I'll pass over the difficulties of handling paperwork. Yet I try "to do as many things as possible for love, to forget how many I must do out of necessity" (Marie Noël).
I am fortunate to have a good voice. I cannot use it professionally, but I am happy to bring a little joy to others, to sing the beauty of God's works. Sometimes someone thanks me for this. Sometimes I manage to lift the spirits of a stranger I meet on the metro with good humor and song. I like to sing on my way to work.
It is a great joy to know that through singing I can bring a little happiness to others. I believe that truly everyone, whoever they may be, has something to offer.
It is a deep sorrow not to communicate with my eyes with Marie-Catherine, my wife. We will never look at each other.
This "never" hurts us and upsets us. I cannot understand how she is feeling from a glance; I always need explanations. It is hard to always ask for help, not to be able to help with keeping house. I don't always understand my wife's work and effort.
Even without eyes I want to live, because even without eyes I can love, sing, laugh, forgive, and I believe my life is worth living.
Even without eyes I want to live, because even without eyes I can love, sing, laugh, forgive, and I believe my life is worth living.But despite these difficulties, we can live together in trust, in tenderness, in love. Samuel, our firstborn, three years old, does not experience my blindness as a handicap. He plays blind the way children play house. He learns to hold my hand to "show me the flowers." When he was small, he seemed very patient when I changed him, so much so that I thought he understood my clumsiness.
I love when he bursts out laughing with David, his seven-month-old brother. I love to "see" Samuel pretend to read with both his eyes and his hands. I love to "see" David waking up to the world around him.
I will never see my children. It will be hard to help them with school. I will have to answer their questions. They will have to learn to live with my limits. Even though it is sometimes difficult, I love this awakening to life in my children. If only for Samuel's "Good morning, Dad" when he wakes up, I want to live.
Why am I blind? Why is Valérie mongoloid? Why does Marie-Cécile find herself in a wheelchair?
These questions will always remain unanswered.
I have Faith. I believe that every human being is important and has a place among us. I believe that God walks with us in our suffering, that Christ lives in each of us. To listen to the most diminished is to draw near, in a very secret way, to the presence of Christ among us. "Whatever you do to the least of these, you do to me." I would wish to see—to see Marie-Catherine's smile, to see our children who are beautiful, it seems. But even without eyes I want to live, because even without eyes I can love, sing, laugh, forgive, and I believe my life is worth living.
by André Haurine (from Ombres et Lumière no. 75)