In the spring of 2013, I began attending a local elementary school, eager to start a new chapter in my life. However, my school experience turned out to be far from what I had imagined. Like all first graders, I underwent a vision screening at school, which led to a reexamination by a local ophthalmologist. I was diagnosed with glaucoma in the right eye and complete blindness in the left eye from birth. But I wasn’t particularly surprised as I had always seen the world in this way. But I now had a label: I was visually impaired; I was disabled.
I wore glasses, which I wasn’t accustomed to using, and tried hard to keep up with the class, but it was a struggle. No matter how hard I tried to explain my visual impairment to those around me, neither my classmates nor even my homeroom teacher made any effort to understand my situation.
Every day, people would ask me, “Why can’t you see it? Why can’t you understand it?” Their words stabbed me like a sharp knife. As time passed, I began to withdraw, distancing myself from others and shutting myself off from the world.
Then I experienced a turning point: I discovered Hanawa Hokiichi Academy, a school for the blind. I was filled with surprise and curiosity at the idea of such a school existing. During a long-distance running event at the elementary school, I was a lonely runner and thinking how wonderful it would be if there were a school where many children like me—children who were blind or visually impaired— could be together.
I felt a strong conviction that if I joined the school for the blind, I would rediscover my former cheerful self and meet kind friends with whom I could share my concerns. In the fifth grade, I made the decision to transfer, and that spring I began my sixth grade in a new place.
Classmates and teachers at my new school welcomed me warmly, showing me great kindness. Shortly after I transferred to the new school, I experienced a devastating setback: I became almost completely blind in my right eye owing to the progression of the disease. I would cry alone in a secluded place each day, overwhelmed by despair at the calamity. But then my classmates and teachers stepped in to teach me Braille. Initially, I was so shocked by my sudden loss of sight that I had no motivation to learn Braille; I struggled to even navigate a Braille maze. When my confidence wavered because I couldn’t read Braille very well, my classmates and teachers encouraged me, saying, “Fatima, you can do it. Cheer up!” Their support motivated me to learn to read and write Braille. They taught me an important lesson: “It’s not that you can’t do anything because you can’t see. Even if you can’t see or have difficulty seeing, you can accomplish a lot through ingenuity and effort.” Their encouragement saved me.
When I talked about my experience with my classmates, they shared my thoughts and their empathy made me feel deeply happy. A long-distance running event, for which I used guide ropes, was exciting and great fun, and I gave it my best shot. Whenever I experienced hardship, my trusted teachers would listen to me. Thanks to their kindness and understanding, for the first time I was able to experience the goodhearted kindness and support of teachers. Students at the school for the blind genuinely help one another, without mocking or blaming fellow students for their disabilities. My school life was a source of immense pleasure to me.
Gradually I regained my former cheerful self and was blessed with many friends. Before transferring to the school for the blind, I had spent my life avoiding the public eye, trying to hide my disability from others. But, with the friends and teachers I met at this school, I could speak openly about my visual impairment without embarrassment. Because we understood one another, we empathized.
I am sure each of you has at times struggled with your own challenges. But rest assured there will always be people somewhere who understand you and will be there for you. Don’t conceal yourself behind a false you, just be yourself. Don’t stay hidden in your shell. Go out to explore the wide world. If you do, I am sure you will find a place that is truly precious to you.”
“I have a dream.” Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. uttered these words in an magnificent inspirational speech. He dreamed of a world where people “will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.” Everyone has a dream of the future. But, having been visually impaired from an early age, for as long as I can remember I found it difficult to envision a positive future for myself.
“I want to make you cry.” “Someone said you should disappear.” Such words were directed toward me by my friends in middle school. But at that time I was not hurt by what people said about me. People saw me as a child without feelings.
At some point, though, I found myself unable to look people in the eye. If I did and noticed signs of depression or frustration, I became anxious, feeling that their negative energy was directed toward me. Perhaps I had only been pretending not to care, avoiding looking into people’s minds.
Now, I live with both a visual impairment and a motor disability. Thanks to the support of those around me, I have been able to live my life without significant inconvenience, and I know I shouldn’t have any complaints. Yet, in some way, I couldn’t help feeling at a bit of a disadvantage compared to the able-bodied people around me.
Last summer I was hospitalized for nine days in Tokyo to investigate the cause of my muscle weakness. During rehab, an occupational therapist asked me, “Do you go to local festivals?” I replied spontaneously, “I don’t want to see my classmates.” She then asked, “Don’t you hang out with your friends?” I answered, “I’m in a wheelchair, so I might cause inconvenience......” The words slipped out unintentionally. “I don’t have the clothes or shoes to go out,” I added casually. The next day he gave me a list of stores and apps popular among wheelchair users, a guide on accessible transportation, and information about a company that adapts clothing for wheelchair users.
I never imagined I would be able to share my feelings with someone I would likely never see again—things I couldn’t discuss with my mother, who felt guilty about my physical condition, or with my able-bodied friends—and receive such a response.
I said, “Thank you,” and he replied, “I’d like to see you wearing your favorite clothes.” I felt something I had never experienced before. I found myself thinking, “I guess I’ll remember this the next time I go shopping.”
After that encounter, I began to reflect on my feelings for the first time. I realized I envied my siblings, who played freely with their friends, as well as my younger peers who ran around energetically. I found that I was jealous of my younger sister, a junior high school student who had recently developed a keen interest in makeup. I couldn’t help but think that she could enjoy it because she didn’t have any issues with her eyesight or color vision.
I didn’t have the courage to ask my friends in person, so instead, I decided to send a message on social media to my friends from junior high school, “I’m in a wheelchair but if I ask you to go out with me, will you do so?” Each of my friends, in their own words, said yes to my request. One friend, who aspires to become a nurse, replied, “Count on me! I have a perfect score in practical wheelchair skills!” Reading that reply made me chuckle, and I felt reassured about going out with my friends.
Being attentive to the heart, listening to its rhythms, and hearing its sounds—these are the values that resonate with me. My name, “Kokone,” is written with the same Chinese characters as “heartbeat.” Just as my parents chose this name for me, I want to listen to the sound my own heart and always be attentive to it. I also want to be sincere and compassionate toward the hearts of those around me. This is how I feel now.
“Do you have a dream?”
“I have one!”
I have a dream. Once someone who struggled to understand others and find the courage to face them directly, I now aspire to study child psychology at university. I want to gain experience and become an expert on children’s minds. In the future, I would like to be “a stranger” to children—a person they can feel comfortable talking to about their complains and concerns, just like the occupational therapist who helped me. I want to be that “stranger” who isn’t a family member or a friend, but someone who can offer a little encouragement.”
Last summer I experienced a moment when a small but significant dream took root in my heart.
I have decided to begin by putting on make-up, wearing clothes I love, and stepping out into the world.
“Good morning, Shunki.” In Japanese, the name Shunki is written with two characters: Shun represents a soaring mountain, and ki means to shine. His parents named him Shunki in the hope that he would shine upon this noble mountain. And indeed, he has lived up to his name. He continues to shine.
For me, school is a place where I can learn different ways of thinking, and my classmates—though a bit different from friends—are people who help me grow. I used to think “living” was like being on a conveyor belt, something that didn’t involve any real emotion.
Last summer, I lost a classmate.
In retrospect, I had never spoken to Shunki one-on-one. but I remember the feeling of mutual understanding we shared. We were not informed about his battle with illness, but we noticed that he often missed school and attended classes online. From this, we could guess what was happening. I was anxious when he did not attend online, and felt relieved when I saw him on screen. Even though we were not in the same physical classroom, I could feel his presence with us, and I knew that the four of us were together as classmates.
All four of us attended the high school entrance ceremony, but only three of us started the second year together. Shunki rarely come to school or attended online classes, much less than he had during our freshman year. Every day I told myself that he would come. The end of the first semester coincided with my 17th birthday. I thought it was just another year on the conveyor belt. I had no idea that the next day would be one I would never forget.
On July 22, I received a text message from another classmate that said, “Let me know when I can call you.” I sensed that something was unusual. When I saw the following text that continued, “Shunki passed away in hospital,” it felt as if time had stopped around me. “This can’t be true,” I thought. The mother of one of our classmates drove us to the wake. I wanted to go, but at the same time, I didn’t want to. Even in the car, I remained in disbelief. Am I laughing now? I didn’t know how to process my feelings at that moment. I don’t remember much after that; tears kept flowing, and I found myself overcome with sorrow.
I realized, “I shouldn’t keep running away from this sadness forever.” It was during the overnight school trip in late September that I came to this understanding. I would like to explore more places with my classmates and create many joyful memories together. I will try to be happy and smile so that Shunki would know. I believe he taught me, “You live to find happiness, and you cannot see the light unless you look up.”
My current life is filled with some light and a lot of regret, and I will likely continue to experience such regrets in the future. However, having encountered Shunki and experienced the sorrow of his passing, I now believe I would like to live my life embracing everything—my past and my regrets. From now on, I want to move toward the strong light that beckons me, so that one day I can embrace myself. And I hope that one day I can embrace you, the listener to these words, as well.
EN