I was scrolling through hundreds of emails in my inbox one morning, when one in particular shocked me into full attention. I leaned toward my computer screen, and my jaw dropped as I read the message.
“The child was found wandering alone in a train station, dirty and hungry. She is only four. We were told she was intentionally blinded by acid and then abandoned.”
It was the fall of 2006. That unexpected email marked the beginning of my journey with Kajal, a little Indian girl whose struggle to come out of darkness into which she was mercilessly thrown would have a big impact on the entire Nashville community.
Kajal’s origins are shrouded in mystery. What we do know is that her stepmother had fought with her mother over custody. After her mother died, Kajal’s stepmother intentionally blinded her by pouring a corrosive acid into her eyes while she slept one night. This horrific act was part of a plan to turn Kajal into a blind child singer who would inspire pity, and possibly donations, when she sang and begged in the streets. However, when her stepmother then discovered that Kajal lacked any talent in singing, she left the little girl to die in a train station near Calcutta. Kajal was rescued by a Christian mission group called the Society for Underprivileged People, who then transferred her to a shelter home in Allahabad, a city in northern India. Qamar Joy Zaidi and his wife, Grace, ran the shelter where Kajal lived with many other children who had been maimed, abused, and trafficked before being taken in by the organization.
In May of 2006, a Vanderbilt University student named Ashley Rogers had traveled from Nashville to India to volunteer at the shelter. Soon after she met Kajal, Ashley emailed her Grace Community Church family back in Nashville asking for help. A member of the church’s prayer group, Jenna Ray, suggested that the shelter home contact the Wang Foundation for Sight Restoration.
Soon after I received that initial devastating email, the foundation launched what we called the “Kajal Project” to galvanize community support to bring her to the U.S., so we could determine if we would be able to restore her sight. As always, foundation doctors waived our medical and surgical fees, and donors from Nashville and beyond offered money and airline miles to fund Kajal and Grace’s journey to the States. Several families offered to host the pair in their homes, including David and Jenna Ray, Blair and Karthi Masters, and Todd and Camilla Quillin.
One of the foundation’s board members, a ninety-four-year-old gentleman named Wallace Rasmussen, contributed significantly to the Kajal Project. He also showed great compassion in the way he helped us welcome Kajal to Nashville. The evening I was due to pick up Kajal and Grace from the airport, Wallace came to Wang Vision Institute in his wheelchair, carrying a handmade music maker. Wallace was very sick—bedridden, on a respirator, and paralyzed from the waist down due to a stroke—but he was also an avid woodcraftsman and wanted to make a special gift for Kajal. So he hauled himself out of his sickbed and wheeled himself into his woodshop, where he crafted a mechanical music maker from dark red mahogany. On the flat surface was a brass cylinder that played the melody “Jesus Loves Me.”
“You’re picking up Kajal from the airport tonight,” Wallace said, “and I can only imagine how stressed and afraid this poor child will be when she arrives in a foreign country. She can’t see and she can’t speak much English. Everything will be strange and frightening to her.”
He handed me the music maker. “Give this to Kajal when she arrives. Wind it up and put it against her face when she arrives. The vibrations of the music will comfort her,” he explained.
I was deeply moved. I knew how hard it must have been for Wallace to get out of bed and make this gift. “Thank you, Wallace. This is really special. I know she will love it.”
With special permission from Nashville airport authorities, I was allowed to go inside the airport and wait for our city’s special guests at their arrival gate. Through the glass, I saw Kajal and Grace descend an open air staircase from the plane, and then I scanned the passengers emerging from the jet bridge until I saw the faces I had been anticipating. Grace held the hand of little Kajal, whose face was tense and her eyes were closed. She stayed very quiet and clung tightly to her caretaker. Grace looked down and placed a reassuring hand on Kajal’s cropped hair.
I greeted Grace and bent down to whisper hello to Kajal. She smiled timidly, so I wound up the wooden music maker Wallace had made for her and placed it against her cheek as he had suggested. As Kajal felt the music, she lit up and the cutest smile appeared on her face.
As we walked toward baggage claim, I handed Kajal a lollipop. “Thank you, Dr. Wang,” she said, a phrase she had learned especially for this moment. After our first meeting, we had a standing date each week for lunch at an Indian restaurant, and every time I saw her, I gave her a piece of peppermint candy. I wanted to do all I could to bond with her before her surgery, by building consistency and a sense of familiarity using her other senses, since she couldn’t see.
The next day, Grace and Kajal came in for the initial evaluation. The office was crowded with foundation board members, supporters and friends, who were all on hand to meet Kajal and present her with welcome gifts. Underneath all the excitement, however, I felt tremendous stress. For months, television and newspaper reports had chronicled Kajal’s journey from India to America. It felt like the entire city of Nashville had come together to help and was now watching to see what would happen to this little girl. Normally, I try to remain emotionally detached from my patients because as an eye surgeon, when you’re holding a blade and about to cut into someone’s eyeball, a measure of objectivity is absolutely necessary. But my care for Kajal was totally different. I was deeply affected by the tragedy and darkness this four-year-old orphan had endured, which reminded me of my own darkness and struggle to survive when I was young , and I had put so much time and effort into the entire process leading up to this moment, so I was already emotionally invested. I had not even performed any surgery on Kajal yet, but I had already exceeded the usual demands of a doctor-patient relationship significantly.
Dr. Lisa Martén, a physician on a yearlong corneal fellowship with Wang Vision Institute, was the first to examine Kajal.
“Can you see the light?” Dr. Martén asked.
Grace translated for Kajal, who responded, “Yes.”
“Can you see my hand?”
Kajal shook her head no. After taking digital photos of Kajal’s eyes, Dr. Martén came to me looking very concerned.
“Her left eye is gone,” Lisa whispered. She understood the level of stress I was feeling, and exactly how hard this news would be for me to hear. “There’s no chance of saving that eye.”
Kajal’s left eye had lost inner matter and had shrunk from malnutrition, so its structure was destroyed. I felt like I had been punched in the gut because I had hoped I would have the chance to repair both eyes. I knew the damage was going to be severe given the nature of her injuries, so I reasoned that if surgery on one eye failed, we would have a second chance when we operated on the other eye. But with her left eye gone, our only hope now was in her right eye.
“As for her right eye,” Lisa continued, “the injury is also very severe. She barely has light perception out of that eye, so maybe only one percent of that eye’s vision remains.”
My heart fell into my stomach. Kajal’s vision was much worse than expected but more importantly, her injury had occurred at least a year earlier. Being blinded at such a young age posed problems beyond just the physical damage. The brain’s ability to receive and process visual stimulation is constantly developing between birth and the age of eight. Kajal had already been in darkness for at least a year, so at four-years-old, the longer she went without visual stimulation, the less likely it was that she would ever recover any sight in her remaining eye.
But I held onto that slim bit of hope and refused to give up. We planned a series of surgeries for her right eye that would span a two-year period. A ruthless and abusive family member had stolen Kajal’s sight but God willing, I would do whatever I could to give it back to her.
On Monday morning, May 14, 2007, I performed Kajal’s first surgery. The goal of this procedure was to replace her scarred cornea with a clear one and prepare her eye for a more definitive, complex surgery involving stem cells.
However, I was completely unprepared for what I discovered.
During the surgery, I first carved out and removed the thick layer of cloudy white cornea and opened her eye cavity. Then I discovered that the inside of her eye looked like a bomb had exploded. Her eye was filled with a bloody gel and scar tissue that intertwined with a strange, shimmering substance.
“I’ve never seen that before,” I said to the surgical team, in shock.
I had also never before encountered an eyeball quite that damaged, not even with Brad Barnes.
I was stunned when I realized that the atrocity against Kajal had been committed while she slept, with the full intention of damaging her eyes and blinding her. When Brad Barnes was blinded by a molten aluminum accident, at least he had some protective gear and the reflexes to shut his eyes and jump away from the source of injury. Despite how badly he’d been burned, the damage was still comparably superficial, so we were able to successfully treat him. But Kajal was utterly defenseless against her attacker, who chose to harm her while she was asleep, holding her down and prying her eyelids open long enough for the corrosive acid to destroy the deepest layers of both of her eyes. The acid had torn apart the colored iris and disintegrated the lens. The vitreous humor, the clear gel that fills the area between the lens and the retina, was bloodied.
I was encountering the worst-case scenario as a physician; I saw many things no surgeon should ever see, and found nothing I was hoping to find.
My shock gave way to a rising anger. I seethed at the thought of her stepmother’s heinous act. How could anyone do such a thing to a young child? For the first time in my Christian journey, I was mad at God. I didn’t understand how a loving God, one who cared for children—especially orphans—could have allowed such horror to be inflicted on one who was so innocent and helpless.
I cleaned up Kajal’s eye and sutured on a clear, healthy cornea from donor tissue, which I covered with an amniotic membrane. She was then taken to recovery. After the long hours of surgery, I sat down and put my head in my hands. I was sweating from the difficulty of the surgery, but most exhausted was my spirit. I was not happy that God hadn’t prevented this atrocity and that he had brought Kajal across the globe when He knew there wouldn’t actually be much we could do to help her.
“God, if you love Kajal, why would you allow the absolute worst thing to happen to such a precious child?” I asked bitterly. “Why couldn’t you have spared her even the least bit of vision, just a little bit, instead of letting her injuries go all the way to the last layer of the eye?”
I waited until Kajal had come out of general anesthesia to talk to Grace and the host families.
Kajal’s right eye was patched with a thick, white bandage, but tears flowed beneath it as she awoke to the post-operative pain and discomfort. Grace cradled Kajal in her arms, gently swaying back and forth in the rocking chair.
“That was really tough,” I admitted to Grace and Kajal’s supporters, though I held back how deeply angry and upset I really was. “We did all we could. She may or may not regain any sight. We just have to see what God’s plan is.”
In July of 2007, I performed the second stage of surgery on Kajal to remove the amniotic membrane, transplant another new cornea, and graft stem cells that would help her new cornea heal. After the surgery, Kajal could make out shapes, shadows, and some color, which was about ten percent more sight than she had when she arrived. But I had hoped for more … so much more.
I didn’t have peace with my faith or with God for a long time after that, but I didn’t talk to anyone about how I was feeling. I kept it buried deep inside me. No one asked me how I felt anyway; I was the doctor—the one everyone was coming to with their own concerns and fears—so I couldn’t be the one asking questions. I had not anticipated the stress and emotional burden of supporting everyone else’s hopes while my own were crumbling. People turned to me with questions, but when I turned around, there was no one behind me to answer mine. “How could God allow this to happen to a vulnerable child?” I couldn’t find an answer to this question, and I was haunted by it.
In the fall of 2007, the foundation hosted its third annual EyeBall fundraising gala at the Hilton Hotel in downtown Nashville. The theme that year was “Making Headlines in Black and White.” Wallace Rasmussen was the chairman of the event, but he was too sick to attend. He would have been so tickled to see Kajal, our guest of honor, who was dressed in a billowy black dress with white polka dots and a white sash around her waist. Kajal had certainly been making headlines in Nashville, with her unspeakable tragedy, her courage, and the community’s gallant efforts to help her.
At every EyeBall, patients who have been helped by the Wang Foundation for Sight Restoration share testimonials. Grace led Kajal onto the stage and thanked everyone for all they had done for Kajal. After that, many of the people who had supported or hosted Kajal went on stage and gathered around her and Grace. One by one, they told the audience how they had cared for Kajal and how she had impacted their lives in return. The parents and children in these host families talked about how much Kajal had meant to them, how she had burst into their comfortable lives here in America, and how she had given them a glimpse of another world where so many children suffer. Kajal had shown them how to be joyous and content even in the midst of blindness and uncertainty, and even after enduring such horrific abuse. One person after another shared that they originally thought they were helping Kajal, but in the end, she helped them so much more. They realized how much they had taken for granted, and all the things they should be grateful for living here in America.
Until that moment, I had been unable to let go of my anger at God for allowing so many bad things happen to Kajal, and for not allowing her vision to improve much, despite everything we had done. I felt Kajal deserved so much more. I profoundly wished that she had been able to recover much more of her eyesight like other foundation patients such as Francisco, Joel Case and Brad Barnes had. But as I listened to Kajal’s supporters describe their appreciation for the opportunity they had to help her, the emotional connection they had formed with her, the joy she had brought to their lives, and the changes that they had seen in their own children who had now become so much more appreciative of what they have in America today. I looked down at Kajal, who was standing next to me waiting for her turn to speak. It occurred to me that Kajal was no longer the fearful, timid, quiet child that she once was when she arrived in the U.S. many months ago. She once was now an entirely different little girl, full of life and joy, with a bubbly, enthusiastic personality.
Kajal was happy, and she was happy because she was loved.
For the first time in the months since Kajal’s first surgery, I felt my anger towards God begin to abate, and gradually I felt my heart reconcile with Him. I had allowed myself to believe that Kajal’s tragic circumstances were unredeemable, but as I considered her dramatic change and how deeply she had impacted the community, I realized the bigger plan in what God had done. Kajal had taught us that when we experience darkness, and it feels as though there is no light to be found anywhere we search for it, the light can come from within us. She radiated a luminescent joy that inspired everyone who encountered her, including Wallace Rasmussen, the host families, our entire surgical care team and office staff, and everyone in the world who had followed her story.
To be honest, I still didn’t fully understand why God allowed such dreadful suffering, but I had at least accepted that there was a purpose in what Kajal had endured, just as I eventually accepted the suffering I had experienced during my younger years in China.
Once everyone had finished sharing their stories, I handed the microphone to Kajal and whispered softly into her ear, “Kajal, would you like to say something to everyone here tonight? We all love you so much!”
She had learned quite a bit of English since her arrival many months ago, so I assumed she would have something to say. But she was quiet for a moment, holding the microphone apprehensively in her hands. Then she broke into a big smile, with a tinge of mischief mixed in. Apparently Kajal had been preparing for this moment … and she had a special surprise up her sleeve. Kajal had a secret.
I found out later that since Kajal had arrived in America, she had secretly wanted to learn to sing. From her four-year-old perspective, she believed the reason she had been abandoned at the train station in India after she was intentionally blinded was because she couldn’t sing. She wanted to prove that she could indeed sing, and that she was therefore worth keeping. Kajal made friends with several of the host family children here in America … and she learned to sing.
Kajal brought the microphone up to her lips and began to sing. “Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so.”
I recognized the song Kajal was singing. It was the song on the music box that Wallace had made for Kajal to welcome her to America.
As Kajal finished her song, the room erupted into a standing ovation fit for a symphony. As most of the faces around us streamed with tears, Kajal’s face beamed with fulfillment. The band then kicked up a Tennessee waltz, and I led Kajal onto the dance floor for the first dance. She smiled as she danced and twirled in her adorable dress. She couldn’t see them very clearly, but more than five hundred sets of eyes were aglow with tears and happiness at the sight of her.