Deafness in Ghana

This past weekend I met with a deaf woman named Lydia and her husband Samuel at a small cafe in East Legon. As a hard-of-hearing (HOH) woman learning American Sign Language, I wanted to know what life was like for a deaf person in Ghana. Through some mutual acquaintances, I eventually found my way to Lydia.

Both Lydia and Samuel are quick to smile and generally easygoing people. Lydia is very pregnant – she’s due to give birth in August, supposedly to a baby boy. I told her that my parents were expecting a boy for their firstborn, and then (surprise!) they had me. She laughed and signed, “Yeah, I know. I’m just happy if I get a baby of my own to hold and love.”

And Lydia and I did sign our entire conversation. Ghanaian Sign Language is very similar to ASL – there’s a few dialectical differences, but we can understand each other perfectly. It’s the same level of difference that you would find between English in the United States and English in the United Kingdom – that is, a few words are different, but the structure and meat of the shared language is nearly identical. Lydia signs in GSL because she’s part of an older generation of signers, but she told me that most of the younger deaf people in school have reverted entirely to ASL.

Both Lydia and Samuel are teachers. Samuel teaches students ages 8 to 14 years old, up at a school in the mountains, and he’s been teaching for about a year. Lydia teaches at a school for the deaf in the city, and her students are usually older, from ages 14 to 21 years old.

I was asking Lydia a lot of questions about how she handled communication with her husband, because Samuel is hearing and doesn’t sign that well (poor Samuel was in the corner and reading a book I brought while Lydia and I were talking – I don’t think he understood most of our conversation). The gist is that Samuel and Lydia met in church, wrote notes to each other, and eventually found a shorthand that works for them. Because Lydia was mainstreamed for nearly her entire education, she lipreads reasonably well, and between that and a little bit of sign, she and Samuel can talk at length. Samuel also helps to interpret for her in many circumstances (like my roommates do for me on occasion).

Lydia and I also went on to talk about the general state of affairs for deaf people in Ghana. There are very few interpreters available here, and they are never provided in hospitals – which means Lydia will rely on Samuel to tell her what’s going on when she gives birth. However, she and Samuel go to a church with both deaf and hearing constituents, and an interpreter is provided there.

Audiologists are available in Ghana, but the chief issue is that most people can’t afford to visit them and buy hearing aids, let alone the surgery that a cochlear implant would require. I asked Lydia about her hearing loss, and she said she had a severe hearing loss (I have a severe-to-profound hearing loss). She mentioned that hearing aids might work for her, but she and Samuel can’t afford to buy them, so she continues to depend on sign and lipreading.

Deafness is seen as a disability first by the general populace. There are a lot of closed minds about what deaf people can do, and many deaf people struggle to find jobs where the boss trusts them to do well (there’s a reason I’ve heard “deaf and dumb” before in Ghana). Deaf adults tend to gravitate toward the Ghanaian National Association of the Deaf, where they can connect to other deaf people and try to advocate for changes.

When parents find out their child is deaf, there are very few resources for them. Some parents know about the deaf schools, and if they can afford to send their child there, they will. Parents who cannot pay or who don’t know about the deaf schools usually keep their deaf children at home, where the children likely won’t learn any skills to help them be independent. Only the very wealthy can afford to send their deaf child to residential schools, sometimes out of the country.

The one thing that truly surprised me more than anything was the realization that money was a huge factor in determining how much help a deaf Ghanaian receives, which may seem obvious at first blush. But remember that in the United States, deaf and HOH children are often on Individualized Education Plans (IEPs) and can receive funding assistance from the government to help pay for audiological services and hearing aids. And even now that I’m older and my family foots pretty much the entire bill, I’ve never doubted for an instant that my hearing aids and services and general ability to hear were worth the money that my family has to pay.

But Ghanaians in general don’t have that choice, that chance to buy the ability to hear. If it comes down to rent for a year or one hearing aid, you know which one they will pay first. They will be deaf first – even if they are technically HOH – because they need food, a house, and clothing first. Near deafness is not something that most hard-of-hearing Ghanaians get to choose, unlike (to a degree) in the States, where we have hearing aids and cochlear implants. If I had been born here, I likely would have only relied on sign and not my hearing at all. I might have never learned to speak or even to read. I would have had no other options.

Right before Lydia and I had to depart, I asked her two more questions.

“Lydia, would you have preferred a deaf man for a husband?”

Lydia looked over at Samuel for a minute.

“No,” she signed. “Who my husband is, I love him, hearing or deaf. It depends on the person. You?”

“I agree. I want to like the person first. Hearing or deaf is the second question. He and I would make it work either way.” We nodded in mutual agreement.

I looked at her one more time, and hesitated. Then I asked, “Do you think your son will be born deaf or hearing?”

“I don’t know. I hope the child is not deaf – it’s a very hard life here. But I will love him no matter what.”