Eyes unseen, a spirit shatters chains

By Tariq Bashir*

Anantnag: From Anantnag’s shadows, a life deemed challenged bloomed into a beacon for disability’s justice. In the Jhelum’s tender cradle, where tales of endurance ripple, I was born under the shadow of Retinitis Pigmentosa, a condition that dimmed my eyes like a fading lantern. Born as the youngest child of Mr. Bashir Ahmed Khan and Tahira Begum, I was a twin, my brother my closest guide through the tender years. In many communities, my birth was branded a curse, a mark of sins past, yet I defied that stigma to become an Assistant Professor and advocate, toppling barriers that once caged the disabled in Jammu and Kashmir. How did I turn darkness into a call for justice, a life shunned into a legacy of light? My journey unveils a society’s soul, where disability tests human hearts, and my family’s love, paired with my unyielding spirit, carved a path from despair to triumph, inspiring others to dream beyond the shadows.

As the youngest in a close-knit family, I leaned on the unwavering support of my parents and siblings, with my twin brother’s bond a lifeline through my early years. The first hint of my condition came in Class 4, when I stumbled over a fence, fracturing my right arm and shattering assumptions. What seemed a childish quirk—holding books close to my eyes—was revealed as Retinitis Pigmentosa after a visit to an ophthalmologist in District Anantnag. The diagnosis struck hard: no cure, only worsening vision.

Vision Lost, Yet Dreams Light The Way

My family reeled in shock and denial, grappling with a future I could not yet fathom. As a boy who dreamt of playing cricket with friends, of love’s soft promises, of dressing smartly and living a vibrant student life, it stole my hope. My eyes failed, yet my heart chased a fading star. Too young to grasp its weight, I felt the impact physically, emotionally, and psychologically, my world blurring with each passing day. Yet, in 1993, I passed my Class 10th exams with 40% marks, stumbling in History, a subject I would later come to love and teach, an irony etched into my tale. But the early ’90s offered no awareness, no assistive technology, no inclusive infrastructure. The disabled were pitied or shunned, seen as misfortune’s mark, and schools were no sanctuary.

I tried joining Government Higher Secondary School Uttersoo in the Medical stream, but inaccessible materials, indifferent staff, and a crushing remark during the 1995 exams from a teacher broke my spirit. “Study hard,” they mocked, as if walls could read my books. From 1993 to 2002, I completed only Class 11, trapped in a decade of darkness, withdrawing from social life and engaging in minimal interaction beyond my family’s walls. My deepening connection with religion kept depression and harmful paths at bay, and radio became my solace, its news, music, and educational programs a lifeline to knowledge and entertainment. A broadcast about a blind man who earned a Master’s in Political Science from Delhi University pierced the gloom, kindling a spark. At 25, scoffed at as “too old” or “foolish” by a cruel society, I vowed to reclaim my education, laughing at taunts with a scholar’s stubborn heart.

From Darkness, A Voice for Dignity

Choosing Arts—English, Urdu, History, and Education—I appeared as a private candidate for Class 12th in 2002, undaunted by the lack of technology or disability rights. My father, an educationist, read aloud each morning, his daily commitment a pillar of my resolve, his voice captured on a tape recorder. I repeatedly listened to those recordings to craft my answers, a lifeline in a world without access. The Jammu and Kashmir Board of School Education (JKBOSE) allowed an amanuensis, but the lengthy approval process tested my patience, and I wrote exams on a cold floor with no proper seating, outside the hall in winter’s bite, under strict supervision that bore down like a judge. Yet, I triumphed, scoring 65% overall and over 80% in History, a quiet victory against the odds. College at Government Degree College for Boys, Anantnag, brought fresh battles. Admission was nearly denied due to my academic gap, granted only after the principal’s intervention. Awareness of disability was nil; I hid my impairment to dodge discrimination, but it surfaced in class, while commuting, or navigating unfamiliar spaces, barring me from student activities like debates or outings. Often mistaken for a teacher due to my poised appearance, a betrayal that stung like winter’s chill came when a scribe refused to help during exams. College life was bittersweet, offering companionship yet barring me from classroom activities or free travel.

In 2006, I graduated and set my sights on a postgraduate degree in History at the University of Kashmir, having initially planned to study through IGNOU before clearing entrance exams. The university granted an amanuensis only after much persuasion, and scribes lacked subject knowledge, but my determination held firm. There, I met Javed Ahmed Tak, a social activist whose advocacy birthed an association for disability rights. Audio books, ramps, scholarships, and access to administrative blocks emerged, but gaps lingered—no clear amanuensis guidelines, no dedicated association room, no fee waivers for exams or hostels, and scarce accessible materials. I recorded lectures at my own cost, leaning on classmates Abid Salaam, Mohammad Ayub, and Rayees Ahmad Dar, who spent hours taping books for me, my resolve a beacon in a system slow to change. Hostel life was no kinder—accessing the mess, socialising with fellow boarders, or adjusting with roommates drained me emotionally. Fearing ridicule, I confined myself to my room, avoiding social exposure, battling feelings of inferiority and isolation from peers, while others enjoyed leisure activities, my audiobooks kept me tethered to my dreams. The Department of History offered little beyond lip service, yet, with my classmates’ loyalty, I secured first division in 2008, at 33, a testament to grit and kinship.

Breaking Walls with a Teacher’s Will

My professional path was a crucible. In 2007, Anantnag’s education department dropped me from a teacher selection list, claiming the post wasn’t for the visually impaired, a rejection that ignited a fire for justice within me. By 2008, with Tak’s support sparking a breakthrough in official awareness through regular meetings with university officials and workshops, the government recognised teaching posts for the blind. I topped the M.Phil. entrance and enrolled in a B.Ed. course through distance mode, but bureaucratic apathy denied my dream of research for a decade.

Appointed a teacher in 2009, I faced colleagues’ doubts about my teaching ability due to my 100% blindness, with no accessible materials or formal post recognition. My family—father, foster brother, and other kin—recorded teaching aids, and a 2009 accessible cellphone revolutionised my independence, granting me freedom to read and write after learning its intricate features with history books in new formats. Preparing for the Lecturer post and Kashmir Administrative Services (KAS) exams, I faced resistance from the Jammu and Kashmir Public Service Commission (JKPSC), which initially denied amanuensis services. Intervention from media outlets forced a reversal, but incompetent scribes cost me marks, robbing points despite my knowing the right answers due to their incompatibility and my struggles navigating exam halls. I cleared the screening test for the Lecturer post and KAS preliminary but was barred from KAS mains, as no posts were identified for the blind—a violation of my rights. Bureaucrats played gatekeepers, blind to my brilliance.

From Darkness, Justice Finds Its Voice

With Tak’s organisation, I campaigned against this, leading petitions and protests to overturn the regressive Social Welfare Department Order SW62 of 2001. Teaching and administrative posts opened for the blind, and my Lecturer appointment in the School Education Department marked a milestone. Yet, at Government Higher Secondary School, Shangus, faculty members, uncomfortable with a blind teacher, influenced the principal to block my joining. I approached the Director of School Education, who reassigned me to the District Institute of Education & Trainings (DIET), Anantnag, 30 kilometres from home on the busy Jammu-Srinagar highway, where I braved near-fatal accidents for five years, relying on strangers during daily bus travel. Each commute danced with danger, yet I taught on. In April 2015, I joined Government Higher Secondary School Nowgam, a relief after DIET’s perils, and since February 9, 2017, I have served as an Assistant Professor at Government Degree College Uttersoo, Anantnag. Technological advancements and evolving societal attitudes have eased some burdens, but new challenges—online fraud and inaccessible websites as emerging threats—persist for people with disabilities broadly. My advocacy grew through writing articles, speaking at seminars, my visits to the Civil Secretariat, and engagement with disability rights literature, shaping me into a voice for change.

From a boy who fell over a fence to a professor who toppled barriers, my journey mirrors the cracks and hopes of a society wrestling with its conscience. Disability, congenital or acquired, tests the world’s compassion, but my story—of my twin’s bond, my father’s readings, a radio’s inspiration, and a community’s slow awakening—sings of resilience. My eyes unseeing, I taught a nation to see justice, yet society’s progress remains slow, and the battle for dignity endures. It stands as a call to dismantle systemic failures, to honour the dignity of every soul who dares to dream beyond the shadows.