"In Their Silence: A Glimpse into the World of Deafblindness"

 

In 2017, I walked into a conference hall expecting to learn something new. What I didn’t expect was to be shaken, transformed, and left with an experience that would live within me forever.

As a part of the session, I volunteered for an activity. They gently blindfolded me, plugged my ears, and even restricted my ability to speak. In a matter of seconds, I lost all connection with the world as I knew it. Darkness. Silence. Voicelessness. I was wrapped in a vacuum. Volunteers held my hand and led me out of the hall. Outside, they left me to explore—with only my sense of touch and smell to guide me.

Before the exercise began, they told me something that stayed with me deeply:

“Reset your mind like that of a newborn child who is just beginning to explore the world.”

Those words echoed in my heart as I stumbled forward, completely unaware of what was coming next.

I reached out to feel objects, textures, surfaces—anything to tell me where I was. My mind was racing. How does a child who is both deaf and blind experience the world?

I couldn’t understand the tactile signals volunteers tried to communicate. I didn’t know who they were, where I was going, or what I was supposed to feel. Suddenly, they left me. I was alone. Alone in silence. I stretched out my hands, trying to find someone, trying to walk—but fear held me tight. My breath quickened. Is someone near me? Is something going to hurt me? Am I safe?

That moment broke something in me—but it also opened something. I felt the helplessness, the complete absence of connection, the aching search for trust and safety. I wasn’t just blind or deaf. I was invisible to the world—and the world was invisible to me.

Then, slowly, someone removed the blindfold, the earplugs, and the tape. Light poured in. Sounds returned. The moment I saw the faces around me—gentle, tearful, silent—I knew something had changed inside me forever.

This exercise gave me a glimpse into the lives of children who live every day in that silence. And in that moment, I thought of Helen Keller—a name I had read so often in childhood. But now, I truly felt what her world may have been like. Her story, her strength, and the tireless love of her teacher Anne Sullivan came alive in my heart. It reminded me that behind every child with deafblindness, there needs to be someone who believes, who reaches out, who refuses to give up.

To the rehab teams—those who work day and night with these extraordinary children—you are the light in their dark, the rhythm in their silence. Your touch is their language. Your patience is their bridge. You are their hope.

This experience didn’t just teach me. It humbled me.

And today, I write this to remind all of us:

Communication is a gift. Connection is a blessing.

And every child—no matter how silent—has a voice that deserves to be heard.

-Cerebrations by Divya