Contributed by AAPD's Coalition Partner, the Islamic Society of North America (7/26/09):
The Disability We Don’t See
By Khansa Padri
Confession isn’t Part of Islam, but I reason to make one. I used to harbor anxious feelings about people with physical and mental disabilities. That’s why when the prospect of volunteering for the Special Olympics recently came my way I hesitated.
The inner debate was on. Did I really want to get up on my Saturday morning and bake in the sun for innumerable hours to help with a program for people that made me uncomfortable? But the social benefits for children in need! Shouldn’t I help the feeble?
Ugh, but how well I remembered my own uneasiness in being around disabled children. I could be cozy in bed, sleeping in late after a hectic week. Then the little voice within spoke up, though I tried repeatedly to shut it out. It kept asking: “What would Khadijah, the Mother of the Believers do, may God be pleased with her – the woman who gave everything to the budding Muslim community in Makkah, for the sake of Allah?”
At last, with a deep sigh and a quick bismillah, I signed my name on the dotted line.
Saturday morning I found myself decked in a white hijab and tons of sun-block lotion. I can do this, I kept telling myself. I tried to psyche up. I envisioned myself happily and successfully getting through the day. But most importantly, I renewed my intention to participate in this event solely for the pleasure of my Creator.
When I got to the Special Olympics site, abruptly I beheld a flurry of people-in wheelchairs, on crutches, cast in varied apparatus and motions all mingling with one another. For a moment, I was taken aback. My eyes swallowed the un-synched scene, and my heart gave a quick flutter.
I swiftly pulled myself together and registered, got my volunteer badge, and headed off to my event. My task was mercifully simple: Keep the relay race lines moving and physically assist anyone in need of a hand here or arm there.
One by one, the unique athletes, some trudging, others hopping, slowly struggled down the 50 yard track, never taking their eyes off the finish line and always surpassing it. Each time a member made it across the trodden path, the entire team broke out in pride-screams of victory. With each passing race words of encouragement instinctively spilled out of my mouth and gentle touches of aide was a simple matter of reflexes. I soon became a member of not just one team but all three.
The day moved faster than I expected. Even the blazing sun didn’t seem so bothersome anymore. I was actually enjoying myself. I ate some scrumptious food and even conversed with a number of participants, listening to their wholesome dreams of growing up and leaving their mark on the world. Yes I had a bit of difficulty understanding the speech of a few, but I never failed to see the eagerness and determination to succeed that illuminated their faces.
The day wound down, only a couple of contests left. I felt immensely satisfied with how the even unfolded for me. Little did I know, that my day was just about to begin?
It was a 10-yard baton relay race between two teams. Things were flowing smoothly as before with the athletes engaged in friendly competition. A small boy of about 7 in a wheel chair, with one full leg and one amputated to the knee, unexpectedly began struggling to stand up.
Naturally, I asked him what he was doing. He would use his crutches in this final race, he said. As I looked at him, it was clear that there was going to be on convincing this boy to stay in his wheelchair. I had to think fast. So instead of disallowing him, I simply gave him the keys to his independence.
Intently I watched him. He began to wobble down the lane. He moved with laborious determination, stopping every so often to take a breath. Whether there was a rock along the way or Allah had just determined to teach me a hard-learned lesson, I don’t’ know. But before I could react, the young boy flipped onto the ground, his crutches lying close by. Within seconds, I was beside the boy, feeling as if my heart was going to come out of my mouth. I helped him turn over and checked for any injuries or signs of bleeding. Except for a few minor scratches on his knees and palm, the boy appeared unhurt, alhamdulilah!
The race was over for him. He’d turn around and call it a day.
But to my shock, he tightly grabbed hold of his crutches and fiercely stared in to the finish line. His intent was clear. So I helped him to his feet and then stood by in disbelief as the boy continued his arduous journey to complete the race.
Every eye was fixed upon him, step after grueling step. By the time he reached that deeply coveted line, the entire audience was on its feet applauding raucously. I myself literally jumped for joy and ran to meet him at the other end.
The satisfied look of accomplishment he wore, beads of perspiration on his forehead, is forever etched in my mind. I congratulated him, exclaiming wildly: “You did it! You did it!” He just looked at me. And calmly he said: “No We did it.”
My heart dissolved. My eyes misted. This 7-year old child, with a physical disability, yet the will and poise of a hero, helped me more than anything I did that day. He became my teacher.
For Allah had reminded me through him that the real disabilities in human beings lie not in their forms or intellects, but dwell in their hearts. And all of them veil a single thing: A spirit imbued with arrogance that proud feeling which hinders us from acceptance of one another because of superficial differences; that prevents us from our native state of happiness for each other and mutual joy in togetherness; that keeps us from hymning our inborn will to express collective thanksgiving to the sole Creator and all His many splendid creatures.
I was humbled. I was grateful. By a miracle, I had been cured.
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