THE TRAGEDY OF THE BLIND COMMUNITY

In a valley surrounded by tall mountains, there lay a village known for its eccentric inhabitants: two distinct groups who lived alongside each other yet were worlds apart. One group consisted of the Blind, men and women with strong limbs and healthy bodies, yet they lived without the gift of sight. Their heightened sense of hearing and smell helped them navigate the village with impressive skill, and they prided themselves on their independence. The other group was made up of the Lame, people who had eyes sharp as an eagle’s but whose legs were twisted or weak, confining them to the ground or to walking aids.

For years, the Blind and the Lame had coexisted in uneasy peace, each side quietly resentful of the other’s existence. The Blind thought the Lame weak and pitiful, chained to the ground and lacking the freedom to move with the wind. Meanwhile, the Lame considered the Blind hopeless and clueless, forever in the dark, unaware of the vibrant colors of sunsets or the beauty of starlit nights.

These grudges festered for generations, and as is often the case, resentment bloomed into rivalry, which soon escalated to open hostility. Petty squabbles turned into full-fledged arguments, and soon the two sides began planning to settle the matter in the ultimate show of strength: a battle. Both groups agreed to a duel, believing it the only way to prove which was superior.

The battlefield was set beneath a towering coconut tree at the edge of the village, a landmark that had witnessed countless seasons. The tree stood tall and proud, with leaves like great fans that shaded the ground, and coconuts hung like plump, green drums, waiting to drop. It was said that this tree was older than the village itself, a silent witness to the struggles and stories of generations.

Both sides prepared for the battle in their own way. The Blind trained by honing their hearing, learning to identify the rustle of leaves, the crunch of gravel, and the quietest of footsteps. They practiced combat moves by touch, learning to sense vibrations in the ground and mastering the art of balance. The Lame, meanwhile, prepared their tactics. Though they couldn’t run, they strategized from afar, planning to take down their opponents by anticipating their every move, calculating weaknesses and studying patterns.

On the day of the battle, the air was thick with anticipation. The village grew silent, the usual sounds of children playing and merchants bargaining falling to an eerie hush as everyone retreated into their homes, waiting for news of the clash.

The Blind, eager and confident, arrived at the battlefield first. With sturdy strides, they crossed the open field, finding their positions beneath the sprawling coconut tree. Their leader, Jarek, a tall and muscular man with a hawkish nose and a confident gait, held his staff in one hand and patted the ground with the other to guide his steps. He addressed his comrades, his voice deep and resonant, like a bell echoing through the quiet air.

“Today,” he began, “we prove our strength. The Lame think they are better than us because they see things we cannot. But they are tethered to the earth while we walk freely upon it. This battle will show them that strength lies in movement, in resilience. Stand firm, my brothers and sisters, for we will not yield.”

The Blind cheered in response, their voices a chorus of pride and unity. But they could not see a curious spectator perched above them, high in the branches of the coconut tree. A monkey, small and nimble, had been watching the Blind as they assembled. His beady eyes glinted with mischief as he took in the scene below, curious about the humans and their strange gathering.

Meanwhile, the Lame had begun their slow, arduous journey to the battlefield. For them, each step was a trial, a struggle against the earth itself. They crawled, some using crutches, others dragging themselves inch by inch, their faces set in determined expressions. Their leader, a wiry man named Elias, led the way. He had bright, piercing eyes and a thin, sharp face that often carried a look of quiet calculation.

“We may not be fast,” Elias told his group, his voice steady and calm, “but we have eyes that see, minds that think, and hearts that endure. The Blind may reach the tree first, but that only shows their haste. We know that strength lies not in speed but in wisdom. And today, we shall prove it.”

As the Lame continued their journey across the field, the monkey grew restless in the branches above. He had grown bored of simply watching and, like all monkeys, had a penchant for tricks. He glanced at the coconuts above him and, with a cheeky grin, selected the largest one he could find. It was heavy, ripe, and perfect for a prank.

Without a second thought, the monkey plucked the coconut and hurled it down with surprising force. The fruit hurtled through the air and landed squarely on the head of one of the Blind, a man named Theo, who had been standing near the tree’s base.

Theo stumbled back, his hands flying to his head as pain throbbed through his skull. Disoriented, he cried out, “They’re here! The Lame have attacked us!”

At once, chaos erupted. The Blind, already tense and on edge, were startled by Theo’s outcry. They swung their staffs and fists blindly, convinced the Lame had arrived and launched a sneak attack. The air filled with the sounds of grunts, shouts, and the thudding of fists against flesh.

In their confusion, each Blind believed he was striking a Lame, not realizing he was fighting his own. Friend turned against friend, comrade against comrade, as they lashed out, unable to see the truth of the matter. The blows were fierce, their strength undiluted by any hesitation, as each fought to defend himself against an imagined enemy.

Above, the monkey watched in amazement, chattering gleefully at the spectacle he had unwittingly caused. Below, the Blind tore into each other with relentless force, their shouts growing weaker as exhaustion and pain began to take their toll. One by one, they fell, their bodies littering the ground beneath the coconut tree like autumn leaves.

By the time the Lame finally arrived at the battlefield, they found a scene of devastation. The Blind lay scattered across the field, defeated—not by the hands of the Lame, but by their own mistrust and blindness.

Elias and his followers surveyed the scene in silence, their sharp eyes taking in every detail. The realization settled over them slowly, like a dark cloud passing over the sun.

One of the Lame, a young woman named Zara, whispered, “They… they fought each other.”

Elias nodded, his face expressionless as he looked at the fallen Blind. “Yes,” he said quietly. “They were so eager to fight that they could not even wait to see their true enemy.”

The Lame moved forward, standing over the bodies of their rivals with a mixture of pity and sadness. It was a victory, but one that felt hollow and bitter. They had come prepared for a battle of skill and wit, to prove their strength and determination, but instead, they had witnessed the Blind destroy themselves in a tragic frenzy of their own making.

Jarek, the leader of the Blind, lay nearby, wounded but alive. He raised his head weakly, listening to the sounds of the Lame standing around him. He understood what had happened and felt a profound sorrow settle over his heart.

Elias stepped forward, standing over Jarek. He spoke softly, his voice gentle, free of malice. “Do you see now?” he asked. “True blindness is not of the eyes but of the heart and mind. You feared us so deeply that you became your own worst enemy.”

Jarek, too weak to respond, simply nodded, his face etched with regret. He had led his people into a battle fueled by pride and hatred, only to realize too late that these were the real enemies, not the Lame who stood before him now.

The Lame left the battlefield in silence, their victory tinged with sorrow. They knew they had won, but it was a triumph that left no cause for celebration. The monkey watched them leave, his moment of amusement now overshadowed by the strange solemnity below. He bounded away from the tree, leaving the quiet battlefield behind, where the tall coconut tree stood as the only witness to the foolishness of pride and the tragic cost of blindness.

In the days that followed, the village returned to its normal rhythm, but neither the Blind nor the Lame spoke of the battle again. For the Blind, the wounds were a reminder of the dangers of mistrust, while the Lame carried the memory of a bitter victory.

And under the coconut tree, where the final clash had taken place, villagers left small offerings—a silent tribute to the lesson that had been learned that day. The tree remained as it always had, a silent witness to the human folly that came with blindness of the heart, a reminder that true vision lay not in the eyes but in the wisdom to see past one’s own pride.