They See With Their Hands

New Zealand Listener, Volume 9, Issue 222, 24 September 1943, Page 16

They See With Their Hands

HE sightless men and women of the Blind Institute in Auckland support themselves by working in the institute factories, and also, by their work, contribute to the upkeep of the institute, which otherwise relies on subscriptions and Government aid. The goods they make-from the smallest sewing baskets to enormous wicker crates, from dolls’ prams to elaborate chairs we

for wat-wounded, and the smartest, latest things in streamlined lounge furniture, from cottage door-mats to cargo nets and fenders for ships, and from cocktail trays to an order of several thousand hammocks for the Navy-are sold or ordered in huge quantities and numbers throughout New Zealand. Before the war, baskets and chairs were the main manufactures; but since the fall of Singapore and the loss of huge supplies of cane, many of the rooms have been turned over to rope work-

and now men are working in pairs or teams on the great nets to be used for slinging cargo aboard ships (and later, perhaps, as escape ladders from those ships in battle), on the small and big fenders for the ships, and on furniture for naval and military hospitals. The women make the ends for the hammocks and do all kinds of basket work. Others knit socks and other garments and make articles suitable for sale as Christmas novelties. Of the 200 or so men, women and children at the institute, more than 100 have their permanent home there; some of the married men live in the houses (23 in number), built and owned by the institute; others live near by and come to the workrooms daily. There is very little machinery anywhere in the workrooms and what there is is worked by members of the sighted staff of instructors. (There are, of course, blind teachers and instructors both in the school and the workrooms). Politics for Conversation It was smoke-o in one of the workrooms when I arrived last week to see over the institute and take some photographs for The Listener. In a sunny paved yard pairs of men had been working on the small ships’ fenders, roping the small stuffed bundles as if they were trussing up strangely silent pigs. For smoke-o they sat on their pigs and smoked and talked-mainly politics. Inside, they were sitting in a circle in a dim corner, smoking and talking politics. Enormous door-mats hung on weaving frames, a huge bow-fender loomed like a giant V, and step-ladders, trays, and sailors’ hammocks gave an idea of the variety of the work done in this room. On a big table near the door, someone was working at a cottage doormat. "This is Peter, well-known to the wrestling fans," the supervisor said, introducing me. "Yes," said Peter, "I go te the wrestling with Gordon Hutter." He wore glasses over his clear brown eyes, and his face was creased with smilewrinkles — he seemed most happy to share in the announcer’s jokes at the wrestling matches. After I had talked to him’ for a time I said I couldn’t see anything abnormal about his eyes (he had been quite blind for nearly 40 years). "I know," he said. "They look all right from the front, but they’re worn out at the back." I could not have been (Continued on next page) wk

* The photographs: (opposite, left to right) Peter finishes a cottagemat; 20,000 strawberry-boxes a day; weaving tough cane into a chair; (below), two of the huge bow-fenders almost ready for sea *

(Continued from previous page) as deft with a rug needle and copra fibre with my two good eyes and my untrained hands as he was with his strong hands, which seemed to have an eye in each finger, And-a doormat a day, five days of the week, four weeks of the month, 12 months of the year. ... He looks happy. He says he is happy. They all look happy; they all talk cheerfully, from the children to the men and women who have been there up to 30 years. There was no feeling of an institution about the place, I said to J. E. Broadfooty the secretary. "But it isn’t an institution to them, it’s their home," he said. "They live here and work here and find their contentment here. We find we don’t need disci-pline-in three years F’ve had only one chap on the mat! We tell them we want them to tell the truth, because then we know where we are. This is their home’ and the right place for them." * x % The blind can’t see, but they can hear. So in every room but one (a fascinating one, too, where strawberryboxes are noisily stamped out of thia kahikatea and deftly shaped by a team of men at the tune of one million a year) a radio is installed. This is their source of news (certainly not all of them have all of the newspaper read to them), and largely their source of views. The radio is news, views, music, and story all in one for them, and therefore they are its eager champions. And as they love music they also have their pianos and their organ, and many of them have their own smaller instruments as well. % * * Along the sunny stone veranda walked an elderly man, tap-tapping with his cane against the wall. Footsteps approached. He stopped and stood leaning against the wall. "Hullo?" he said to the footsteps, which belonged to a young man. "Hullo — Jim," said the young man, and kept on walking with a swinging walk, lighting his cigarette as he went, his white cane tucked under his arm. "I suppose you’re wondering how much he can see," my guide said.

"A good deal, I suppose," said I. "No. Not a thing. He’s totally blind, but very confident." Totally blind. But young, and in excellent spirits. I can count the young men who walk in Queen Street these days with such a springing step, cane under arm... . No Looking Glasses: No Pictures Dormitories with 10 to 15 beds, long, large rooms without pictures on the walls, with plain white covers on the beds and dressing tables, and a solitary electric light for the use of the matron when she needs it. Tidy dormitofies, nothing out. of place, every brush and comb square with the table edge. Large plain bathrooms with the baths distributed evenly and openly across the floor, rows of. wash-basins. side by side, no mirrors. Smaller dormitories for the older children, single rooms for the adults, all in perfect neatness, always that shoulder-to-shoulder, right-dress look about the brush and comb, the handkerchief sachet, the Braille book. Everywhere in the hostels one is struck by the regimented, exact neatness, and by the absence of colour and decoration. Reading, by day or night, with delicate fingers flying over the pin-dots of the Braille, and with their heads lifted, their eyes seeming to gaze into space, the blind use the thousands of books and magazines in their library. The stock of 8000 books is continually added to from the United States or England; and there is, besides, qa library of 12,000 talking book records for gramophone reproduction. If you happen to walk into the library in the evening you will perhaps catch yourself criticising the lighting facilities — but only visitors and members of the sighted staff ever turn on the switch. They Go to Talkies and Races "What do they do in the evenings mainly?" I asked. j ; "Some read or listen to the gramophene or do their handWwork-particu-larly beadwork or knitting-others have music (many of them are first-rate performers on more than one instrament); others play cards; and others go to the pictures." Yes, it seemed that they were avid movie-fans. Each one has a companion to explain what is happening in those breathless pauses between conversation on the screen; otherwise, they follow everything and say they have "a good picture" of what it is all about. (Six of them were going to the pictures the night of my visit; but I found

more astonishing still the’ news that some of them were going to the Town Hall to hear Mr. X give his election address. Political discussions became warm at all hours of the day; I overheard one in which the victor stumped away, tapping with his cane, saying with conviction "Rot! I bet you he'll forfeit his deposit. You'll see!’’). The racing clubs send complimentary tickets and the fans go to the races with companions. "And how do they manage about the betting?" I wanted to know. The supervisor laughed. "You can quite safely leave that to them," he said. "They get along very well."

(To be continued)

J.