Despite advances in modern medicine, millions of people around the world, and over a million in the Philippines, continue to live with vision impairment caused largely by preventable or treatable conditions.

Countless publications and media content have told stories about visually impaired individuals, and many of these portray them as pitiful—as though their lives are defined by misery.

The stairs at Saint Louis University are famous for a reason. For any Louisian, the climb is a workout; for Kidd Suleta, it is a daily negotiation. In a campus built into the slopes of Baguio, where the infrastructure often forgets that not everyone moves at the same pace, Kidd’s day is defined by a simple, honest word: struggle.

On a normal Sunday along the bustling and colorful roads of Session, there’s a specific scenery that goes against and beyond the typical Baguio breeze. After six days of honks and smoke filling the city, a rhythmic sensation for the ears comes, clearing the polluted air with music.

To most people at Saint Louis University, Kasheem Adrei Siborboro is just another student going through the semester.

A literary portrait of Zaika, a life meant to be heard

“A literary portrait of Kidd, a life defined not by ease, but by return”

Picture a young boy, around 10 or 11 years old, walking toward the school gates. He is eagerly carrying bags and books for other children.