By Joshua Josa
“How are you 25, finished your BA, and already a teacher? I’m older than you and in Class 8 for the fourth year.”
When I first applied to the Peace Corps after finishing my BA at Cal State University, Northridge, I imagined two years of teaching, service, and adventure. I didn’t anticipate how profoundly the experience would change me—how the communities I served could show me so much value in sign languages and deaf ways of being.
From 2009 to 2011, I served as a Deaf Education and Behavior Communication and Change Volunteer in Kenya. My time was split between Kaaga School for the Deaf and Komotobo School for the Deaf, where I taught subjects like English, Science, and Social Studies using Kenyan Sign Language (KSL) as the language of instruction. I worked with teachers to emphasize the importance of KSL fluency for student success and supported students both in and out of the classroom. While many students did not have the language access that they needed to thrive, they created a sense of deaf community, tradition, and identity that allowed them to easily connect with a Deaf foreigner like me. With my students, I shared bursts of laughter, explored curiosity, and learned more about joy and inclusion than I could have imagined. Even though I come from three generations of deaf families and came equipped with language access, I never attended a deaf school. I experienced the subaltern resiliency that these deaf students had. For once, my going against the grain found a home away from home.
Life in Rural Kenya: Lessons Beyond the Classroom
Daily life in rural Kenya had its quirks and challenges. In hearing spaces, greetings followed a strict ritual:
“Hello.”
“Hello, how are you?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Fine. How is your day?”
“Fine, and yours?”
“Fine.”
After dozens of these exchanges each day, I sometimes broke protocol—walking quickly past hearing Kenyans, as an American might, avoiding the superficiality. The next day, people would ask why I had wronged them by skipping greetings. It was a small but constant reminder: cultural norms are the glue that holds a community together, but it became evident that these courtesies mattered more to hearing people than deaf people, revealing a difference between the “hearing world” and the “deaf world.”
Among my deaf students, the rhythm was entirely different. Passing them in the compound, I’d be met with a grin, a question, or a continuation of a conversation from yesterday. No pretense—just connection shared through the power of KSL and the quick exchange of visual cues that hearing people often overlook. It reminded me most of home, of my family and close friends.
Some of my best memories were in the classroom where the “deaf” rapport was strong. On Fridays, I’d bring in things like Aesop’s Fables, The Fox and the Crow, to build vocabulary and teach how to look for hidden messages inside stories. The students loved the stories. Later that same day, I witnessed the lesson come to life: hearing teachers showering a visiting foreigner with praise, hoping to receive supplies intended for the students for their own children. I couldn’t help but smile at the irony—living proof of the fable’s timeless wisdom.
And then there were the games. I’ll never forget coaching my students at the Provincial Deaf Games—the volleyball matches, the deaf students from across the province waving their hands in applause, the pride on every face. We lost the final set, but to me, they were all champions. I teared up. They teased me for not being “manly,” according to local custom, but I didn’t care. I loved them, and I was proud.
Why Deaf Awareness Matters
Looking back, these memories feel especially poignant during Deaf Awareness Month. Serving in schools for the deaf taught me that Deaf culture is defined by creativity, resilience, and community. Forged through a shared experience among people who are deaf, deaf culture has over 300 signed languages around the world, its own stories, and its own traditions.
But instead of embracing this as a part of our world, systemic and cultural institutions often seek to make deaf people conform to be more like hearing people. These fail, often devastatingly. One day, while teaching a Class 8 Math lesson, I asked students to calculate our ages using subtraction: 2012 minus 1987—my birth year. One by one, they raised their hands with answers. Afterward, one student asked, a little sadly,
“How are you 25, finished your BA, and already a teacher? I’m older than you and in Class 8 for the fourth year.”
That student’s family had never learned Kenyan Sign Language and feared sending their child to school, worried about community embarrassment. The student had first entered formal education at 14, well past the critical period of language acquisition, because a distant family member had a deaf child and encouraged them to send theirs to school. I often wonder what that student’s life would be like if not for that distant family member.
The student’s question haunted me. It is a constant reminder of the barriers deaf people face when denied equitable education or the chance to learn in sign languages. It also shaped my career path: advocating for disability rights and education, carrying forward the humility, cultural fluency, and advocacy my students instilled in me.
My Peace Corps Legacy
After Kenya, I built a career in international development at USAID, working with governments, NGOs, and global institutions to expand access to inclusive education. At the height of my time there, my work reached 50 countries and impacted over 300,000 people with disabilities. I loved sharing with the heads of Education I met with just how much community cohesion they could create simply by adding the national sign language to every school. Everyone can learn a sign language! Every project, every policy conversation carries ripples from the classrooms in Komotobo and Meru.
I remain connected to the Peace Corps community— sharing stories with anyone interested in joining, bonding with fellow RPCVs, and leaning on the network for inspiration and solidarity. Looking back, I realize the Peace Corps has become a lifelong lens for how I see the world. My student’s question was a wake-up call for me, coming from a deaf family, to the value of education and how I can be doing more for my deaf community. It forced me to see the world differently and to commit my career to creating more equitable opportunities. This Deaf Awareness Month, what doors will you open for a deaf person in your community?