Charles Inness (left) who shot Richard (right) Photo: courtesy of the Department for International Development
Blind faith: Michael Crossland on a story of freedom through forgiveness
‘I remember vividly the first time I saw someone of my own age who was severely visually impaired in war.’
A problem with listening to Radio 4 as you go to sleep is that you can hear something that jars you awake. This happened when I heard a story that combined my interest in peace with my work in visual impairment.
Richard Moore grew up in Derry, where his uncle was killed on Bloody Sunday. A few weeks later, aged ten, Richard was hit by a rubber bullet and blinded. His memoir Can I Give Him My Eyes? describes growing up in Northern Ireland. After plenty of entertaining anecdotes (my favourite being when he was caught swearing in front of a bishop, assuming his mate was lying about who was standing near them at a football match), Moore tells the remarkable story I heard on the radio: how he met and forgave the soldier who shot him. The setting for this memorable meeting was an inauspicious airport hotel, and Moore is aware of how mundane it would appear to a bystander: ‘What she saw was a man guiding a blind man into the restaurant where she worked and helping him into his seat. What she didn’t realise was that the man guiding the blind man was the person who had actually blinded him.’
Later that day he told an airport worker about the meeting, but was nonplussed by her reaction: “‘Remember that gentleman who brought me to you? Well, he was the guy who shot me.” I think at that point she must have thought she was guiding a complete lunatic, for she went silent and never asked me another question.’
Despite the inelegant post-exams headline in the Derry Journal (‘Rubber bullet victim does well’), Moore doesn’t portray himself as a victim, focusing on experiences like setting up a charity, support from church and family, and meeting the dalai lama and the pope.
When I started working in an eye hospital in the 1990s, it was common for people to come to their appointments wearing regimental ties or medal ribbons, but I remember vividly the first time I saw someone of my own age who was severely visually impaired in war.
‘Denat’ (not his real name) almost died in an explosion in Kosovo. His face was pockmarked with tattoos marking spots where shrapnel embedded itself in his skin. The blast destroyed one of his eyes, and the other was heavily scarred. He had travelled across Europe, functionally blind, to seek asylum. I could help him a little: a special contact lens smoothed out the irregularities on his cornea, improving his sight so that he could read halfway down a sight chart. He was very grateful, but I remember being upset by his thanks. What had I done to try to stop the war? I was safe at university, ignoring the news from only 1,000 miles away.
Denat told me he loved London, particularly the Thames. Like Richard Moore, he didn’t express anger to those who had blinded him and I was struck by his stoicism. As the dalai lama says in the foreword to Moore’s book: ‘Despite his own loss, he has found freedom through forgiveness. This is not only a blessing for Richard personally, but because of the example he sets for international relations, for the entire world. This is non-violence in action.’
