Diversity in the Peace Corps

By Pamela Houston
Mobility International USA


"Surprisingly, many of my new Peace Corps companions hadn’t interacted with a person with a disability in any significant way before. Some didn’t know what to make of me, how to interact with me, what to talk to me about. Some of my fellow trainees and our team of American and I-Kiribati trainers thought that they were going to have to help and take care of me. As we went along, we all realized that at times I would need an extra leg up into a flatbed or a hand for balance in stepping from one boat into another – but so did some of the older Volunteers. People came to realize that they didn’t need to talk with me differently or be careful with me – that my dreams, goals, hopes and fears resonated with theirs."

When people use the word “diversity,” usually the picture that comes to mind is a group or community consisting of women and men from diverse racial and ethnic backgrounds. Many widen the definition to include people from various income levels, differing religions, nationalities and sexual orientation.

This is good. Our world is made up of a seemingly infinite variety of people – most of our communities in the United States reflect at least a slice of this diversity. International exchange program administrators have been striving to have their programs reflect community and national diversity for many years. I want to challenge program coordinators, recruiters and potential participants alike to widen the scope of diversity even further. People with disabilities are part of every segment of the population. We belong in all kinds of international programs -- whether our disabilities be sensory, physical, mental health-related, cognitive or health-related.

I am a recently Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. I served for two years in the Republic of Kiribati, a central Pacific island nation. I have Cerebral Palsy. I was the only Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) with a disability out of the total of 50 Volunteers in Kiribati at any one time – and in any recent memory of I-Kiribati Peace Corps staff. My being a PCV with a disability had a multi-level impact.

My disability affects my balance and my steadiness in writing and carrying cups, buckets and other containers filled with liquid. I walk with a unique gait that my arms get quite involved with. I am staunchly independent and am able to take care of my own needs, get where I need to go, walk, ride bicycles, climb on to crowded buses, boats, flatbed trucks and whatnot. I do just about everything a little slower than everyone else because it takes some extra effort for me to coordinate my movements. For me, this is just me, just my body – it is not particularly interesting. But for other PCVs, Peace Corps staff and I-Kiribati people – I was different. From the moment I walked into our staging meeting where my training group first met, to the time I boarded the plane to return to the States 26 months later, my unassigned role was to educate people about disability issues -- to widen the circle of diversity.

Surprisingly, many of my new Peace Corps companions hadn’t interacted with a person with a disability in any significant way before. Some didn’t know what to make of me, how to interact with me, what to talk to me about. Some of my fellow trainees and our team of American and I-Kiribati trainers thought that they were going to have to help and take care of me. As we went along, we all realized that at times I would need an extra leg up into a flatbed or a hand for balance in stepping from one boat into another – but so did some of the older Volunteers. People came to realize that they didn’t need to talk with me differently or be careful with me – that my dreams, goals, hopes and fears resonated with theirs. My experience and perspective in life as someone living with a disability added to their perspective and understanding of the breadth of human experience

At the beginning of our second week in Kiribati, our group of 25 trainees and 10 trainers loaded a boat for a rough and wet 33 hour boat trip to Abemama, our training island. Our trainers swore that the trip usually only took 12 hours. Our only consolation as most of us heaved and retched over the side of the boat was that we were on the Baan te Tangira – the Rock of LOVE! Upon arriving on Abemama, tired and grimy, we were met by the residents of Tabiang, the village where we would live and learn for the next ten weeks. We gathered together in the maneaba, a meeting shelter that is central to village life. There we were warmly welcomed with sweet smelling wreathes of flowers for our heads and moimotos – young husked coconuts with a small hole carved into the top so one can drink the coconut water. After awhile, each of us were introduced to our new family.

My host family was supremely kind to me. They tried to do everything for me. Remember my staunch independence? This desire on their part to take care of me became a point of cultural and personal conflict and adaptation until the day I finally left Kiribati at close of service (COS). During our ten weeks together, I was able to demonstrate to my family, and by extension the whole village (we were all a major topic of conversation!) that my disability did not mean that I was incapable of taking care of myself, and more importantly, of participating fully in community and family life.

As time went on, I learned more about the experience of people with disabilities in Kiribati and about cultural attitudes toward disability. I learned some of the key words that are used to talk about people with any type of disability – one of those words meant “sick” and the other implied that disabled people are to be pitied, that they and their lives are sad. Non-disabled and disabled people alike used these words. I had a very difficult time with this image for myself and for my new I-Kiribati friends who had disabilities. I bristled every time someone described me as being sick or said to me “Ko kawa.” (roughly translated “how pitiful”) as they would watch me walk, climb on a bus, haul water, wash my clothes or whatever. I would usually counter that image by saying that I wasn’t sick, that I was strong, happy and quite capable of living a full life.

I-Kiribati people with disabilities live with and believe these attitudes and images about themselves. Additionally, there is stigma and shame attached to being disabled that comes from a belief that ones disability is caused by black magic, by that person or his/her immediate family having done something wrong or by some ancestral sin. The weight of cultural attitudes and the deeper underlying stigma serves to keep people with disabilities disempowered. People with disabilities generally see themselves and are seen as helpless and as burdens to their families. Many are kept hidden and are not given opportunities to participate in community life. It is rare to see people with disabilities out and about.

My being in Kiribati was a complete surprise to I-Kiribati people. My participating and functioning in their world challenged some very deeply rooted ideas. Even if I hadn’t ended up working with a group of adults with disabilities, even if I hadn’t had the opportunity to speak about disability to government leaders, religious leaders and public health nurses, I allowed people to see a different approach to disability.

During my second year of Peace Corps service, I worked with Te Toa Matoa, the Kiribati Association of Youth and Adults with Disabilities. A visionary I-Kiribati woman with a disability and an Australian physiotherapist who was volunteering at the national hospital founded the group. The name Te Toa Matoa symbolizes a strong giant that has overcome both internal and external barriers. It is a powerful name that speaks to what group members would some day become. During the year I spent with them, I watched them as they tentatively began growing into their new name. It will take time, but they have laid a good foundation for change.

I worked with Te Toa Matoa on a variety of projects. Together we planned and hosted two annual National Disability Awareness Botakis (gathering or event). Top government, business and religious leaders attended the events. We were able to obtain media coverage from the national weekly newspaper, the national radio station and a video production company. Being the outspoken American, I was given the job of delivering speeches about the situation of disabled I-Kiribati people and what various sectors could do to effect change.

My friends were more comfortable simply demonstrating through song and traditional dance that disabled people belonged in Kiribati community. The emcee and the I-Kiribati group members that did give speeches played the pity card pretty heavily. This made me sad, but I also realized that it was a huge step for each of these people just to put themselves out in this very public arena – to say “we are part of you.”

My counterpart and I wrote a grant to the Australian High Commission for funds to receive training from the community theater group. Te Toa Matoa members learned basic skills in developing educational dramas and in writing songs that go with the storyline. Group members threw themselves into the project with a passion. I-Kiribati people love drama and song and it is an important means of communication. They created two plays. Initially both plays presented disability as a very sad thing. My counterpart and I worked with the group to push the attitudinal boundaries a bit, to introduce a slightly different more powerful, more positive twist to the story. They did so and began performing these plays all over Tarawa, the capital island. Audiences responded well. Again, just the fact of people with disabilities being public, performing, making people laugh, cry and take another look was a major accomplishment. I had to let go of needing the message to meet with my western disability rights-bearing philosophy.

http://www.miusa.org/ncde/stories/houston

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