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Deaf in Kakuma Refugee Camp

Amandine le Maire

Forced migration is the involuntary movement of people away from their home country or region for reasons related to violent conflict, famine, persecution, or natural disasters. The number of refugees has increased rapidly over the past decade, and most of these displaced people remain in their home country or neighboring countries. According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) Global Trends reports, 82.4 million people had forcibly migrated worldwide by the end of 2020 (UNHCR, 2022). Among them were nearly 26.4 million refugees (UNHCR, 2022). In Syria, where a brutal civil war has raged since 2011, millions of Syrian refugees have fled their homes. More recently, the escalation of conflict in Ukraine has caused civilian casualties and destruction of civilian infrastructure, forcing people to flee to neighboring countries. Refugee crises are thus a current and salient issue, debated in science, politics, and journalism. However, there are few existing data or statistical research carried out on deaf refugees worldwide (Sivunen, 2019).

Refugee camps are established to respond to the needs of people seeking asylum following their escape from their home countries. In refugee camps across the world, deaf refugees live alongside other refugees. To investigate the lived experiences of deaf refugees in one such camp, I went to Kenya for a total of 4 months (1 month in Nairobi and 3 months in Kakuma Refugee Camp), from January until May 2018. I undertook participant observation, including daily conversations with deaf refugees, in several places within Kakuma Refugee Camp, as well as semistructured interviews with selected key participants. My methodology and my positionality as a white, deaf, female, Christian ethnographer are detailed in Chapter 2.

In this chapter, I embed my study of Kakuma Refugee Camp within the nascent but growing field of Deaf Refugee Studies. I examine and offer a critical review of the current (limited) body of research about deaf refugees. I first give an overview of what little scholarship there is on deaf refugees’ lived experience of education, the challenges they face with interpreting services, and deaf refugees’ introduction to deaf networks in the host society. I then turn to Kakuma Refugee Camp, providing a brief overview of the historical and geographical background of the camp and then outlining the findings of my research. I consider both the journeys made by deaf refugees into the camp and the structure of their lives within it. The chapter concludes with a discussion regarding the contribution made by my research to Deaf Refugee Studies.

Throughout, I make use of Bourdieu’s conceptual tools of habitus, field, and capital to construct my data analysis and to explore the dynamics of mobility among deaf refugees. As seen in Chapter 1, these concepts help to explain how social structures and power relations are maintained and reproduced. Within a particular field, each actor’s habitus shapes their perceptions and actions, and their assemblage of skills, knowledge, resources, and advantages—their capital—determines their power, influence, social positioning, and opportunities when navigating social structures. In Kakuma Refugee Camp, although few refugees possess substantial economic capital, they often rely on their social capital, comprising networks, relationships, and obligations (Bourdieu & Wacquant, 1992). Additionally, the value of cultural capital, such as educational credentials and work experience (Bourdieu, cited in Joy et al., 2020), is essential. Bourdieu stated that social capital differs from cultural capital in the sense that the possession of resources is attached to one person, individually, whereas the resources of social capital are acquired via a form of relationship of “mutual acquaintance and recognition” that comes from “membership in a group” (Bourdieu, 1986, p. 249). Linguistic capital—the form of cultural capital covering language proficiency, eloquence, and mastery of linguistic codes that enable individuals to assert themselves in specific social contexts—is built up in the camp by deaf refugees, who may acquire a national sign language there for the first time. Physical capital—the embodiment of resources, such as physical appearance, health, and physical abilities (including strength and endurance), that can also influence social positioning (Bourdieu, 1978)—is particularly salient given the physical implications of forced migration and life in a camp. Bourdieu’s framework is thus a helpful lens through which to understand the deaf refugees’ everyday experiences of moving to and living in a refugee camp.

Deaf Refugee Studies

Previous work in Deaf Refugee Studies, which lies at the intersection of Refugee Studies and Deaf Studies, has mostly focused on deaf refugees’ education. These studies have focused on deaf refugees from Lebanon, China, Turkey, Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, Egypt, Sudan, Somalia, Ethiopia, Kenya, Eritrea, Cambodia, Vietnam, Sri Lanka, India, the Philippines, Myanmar, and Nepal who have arrived in host countries in the Global North—for example, in Canada (Akamatsu & Cole, 2000), the Netherlands (Prawiro-Atmodjo et al., 2020), Sweden (Duggan & Holmström, 2022), Finland (Sivunen, 2019), the United States (Fishbeck, 2018; Moers, 2017; Reimers, 2011), and Australia (Willoughby, 2015). An exception is Youngs’ (2010) work, which is a small study based on deaf refugees’ lived experiences of education in Dadaab Refugee Complex in Kenya.

Several authors have noted that many deaf refugee children from the Middle East and Africa have “a lack of language” upon their arrival in the host country, which has caused them to be isolated from the surrounding hearing world of the host country (Akamatsu & Cole, 2000; Prawiro-Atmodjo et al., 2020; Reimers, 2011). Many of these children have not had access to (deaf) education in their home countries and are from hearing, nonsigning families. For example, Akamatsu and Cole (2000) note that “Many newly arrived deaf students lack not only English, but any form of language (spoken or signed), as well as appropriate study skills for North American Schools” (p. 1). The terms used in these studies—such as “lack of access to spoken or signed language” (Akamatsu & Cole, 2000, p. 1), “no language,” and “lack of any form of spoken or signed language”—indicate a negative view of refugees’ language (Duggan & Holmström, 2022). A crucial problem with this negative discourse on deaf refugees’ language is that these terms could imply a problem arising from the child, rather than looking at problems arising from the environment (Fishbeck, 2018). In contrast, others have highlighted that this discourse underplays the fact that many deaf refugees do have some oral or literacy skills in the languages of their country of origin and use home signs or have fluency in a sign language (Duggan & Holmström, 2022; Sivunen, 2019; Sivunen & Tapio, 2020; Youngs, 2010).

Several studies have thus investigated the context of educational systems, and authors suggest using a holistic approach involving a team of teachers, interpreters, and other personnel, alongside families, to provide support to deaf refugee students, as well as using assessments to determine which instructional techniques and materials are appropriate (Akamatsu & Cole, 2000; Prawiro-Atmodjo et al., 2020; Reimers, 2011). Willoughby (2015) uncovered several issues faced by deaf refugees from the Middle East and Africa, and by their families in Australia, in terms of learning a new language, navigating the educational system, and integrating into the new country. She recommends the provision of more Australian Sign Language (Auslan) and English classes for deaf refugees outside of the educational system. Several authors also reported that engagement and cooperation with deaf refugee children’s parents is difficult due to cultural or language barriers (Akamatsu & Cole, 2000; Prawiro-Atmodjo et al., 2020). The studies mentioned previously have been limited to the perspectives of the professionals working in educational settings, such as teachers, interpreters (Olsen, 2019), and personnel with a variety of specialities, and the focus has been on children, not on adults. Although this approach is interesting for educational purposes, it fails to take into account the perspectives of deaf refugees themselves. There are a few, but not many, exceptions to this approach; some of these are outlined below.

Holmström et al. (2021) are part of the Multilingual Situation of Deaf Refugees in Sweden (Mulder) project, which aims to investigate through an ethnographic approach the linguistic situation of deaf adults who are new arrivals in Sweden. Holmström (2019) points out that deaf migrants, who are mostly from West Asia (46%) and Europe (26%), often arrive in Sweden with limited educational background, which complicates the Swedish Migration Agency’s interview process. Deaf migrants (including refugees) are offered the opportunity to learn Swedish Sign Language (SSL), the Swedish language, and aspects of Swedish society in adult nonformal education classes so as to be able to undergo the interview process with the Migration Agency. Teachers at some adult folk high schools believe that they must start by teaching deaf migrants SSL before they are able to teach Swedish, because migrants need to first learn the more accessible language. Other schools in Sweden prefer to teach both languages, SSL and Swedish, to deaf adults in parallel (Holmström, 2019). In addition, adult folk high schools meet difficulties in teaching deaf migrants because of the variable linguistic and educational background of each student within the same group (Holmström, 2019).

The presence of interpreters—and, specifically, deaf interpreters—is significant in overcoming some of the communication barriers faced by deaf refugees when encountering the hearing professionals who work with them, for example in education, health care systems, and reception centers. Sivunen (2019) undertook an ethnographic study of 10 adult Middle Eastern asylum seekers with an Arabic background in different reception centers in Finland. She draws our attention to the communication challenges faced by individuals during the asylum process. Deaf refugees reported that “there had been misunderstandings and that their way of explaining and communicating was often not understood correctly” (Sivunen, 2019, p. 10). During the asylum process in Finland, the hearing interpreters who had been hired were not aware of the deaf refugees’ sign language of origin, nor were they familiar with any sign language from Arab countries (Sivunen, 2019). According to Sivunen (2019), communication improved between the authorities and deaf refugees during the second interview of the asylum process due to the improvement in deaf refugees’ Finnish Sign Language (FSL) skills. Some deaf refugees believed that their disability, deafness, and limited language proficiency were reasons for not being granted asylum in the host country (Sivunen, 2019).

A review of this area of interpreting in Norway (Olsen, 2019) notes that it is difficult to find an interpreter skilled in a refugee’s native sign language, and that interpreters do not feel qualified to interpret for deaf refugees due to their inability to understand the sign languages used by them or to produce signing that can be understood by them. Regarding this challenge, Ataman and Karar (2017), based in Germany, propose a variety of interpreting strategies to maximize understanding across sign languages, including allowing time for consecutive rather than simultaneous interpreting, using more visually transparent vocabulary, and reducing the amount of mouthing and fingerspelling used.

Several studies have found that deaf interpreters can connect with deaf refugees more effectively than can hearing interpreters, using several modalities of communication (Ataman & Karar, 2017; Balachandra et al., 2009; Olsen, 2018, 2019). Most deaf interpreters have more skill than hearing interpreters in understanding (some of) the language used by deaf refugees and are better understood by the refugees because of their own native use of sign language and high levels of visual-spatial ability. These skills have been called “Deaf Extra Linguistic Knowledge” (DELK) (Adam et al., 2014). Ataman and Karar (2017) argue that one of the challenges of multicultural community interpreting settings is the absence of deaf interpreters. Other challenges involve administrative difficulties in organizing interpreters and their payment, confidentiality issues within double-minority communities, and competing preference for simultaneous interpreting rather than consecutive interpreting (Ataman & Karar, 2017).

Balachandra et al. (2009) are similarly convinced of the importance of deaf interpreters’ presence in health care contexts to mitigate complex cultural and linguistic barriers. In a case study of a Vietnamese deaf couple, Balachandra et al. (2009) explained the process of interpretation, in which a deaf interpreter with the skills to communicate with the couple would translate into ASL for a hearing interpreter, who would then interpret into English. For some members of the couple’s family, a Vietnamese/English interpreter had been provided as well (Balachandra et al., 2009). Due to the need for deaf interpreters in such settings, and for deaf/hearing interpreting teams, Ataman and Karar (2017) argue that it is imperative to develop specific training for both deaf and hearing interpreters working with deaf migrants and refugees.

Many studies have reported on the significant role played by networks of deaf locals from the host country, which provide opportunities for deaf refugees’ social participation (Elder, 2015; Emery & Iyer, 2022; Olsen, 2018; Sivunen, 2019). In Finland, deaf refugees have been found to be isolated and lonely in reception centers due to communication barriers; deaf volunteers supporting their introduction to society have had a positive impact on their well-being. Deaf volunteers can be role models to deaf refugees, whether as deaf teachers or as guides to navigating Finnish society (Sivunen, 2019). Olsen (2018) argues that in the nearby country of Norway, the Norwegian deaf community is vital in the process of deaf refugees’ learning of new languages, both through socialization and during training programs teaching Norwegian language and society. Reimers’s (2011) study reports the case of a deaf refugee student from Somalia, traumatized from his time at a refugee camp and suffering vicious assaults from other hearing children, being resettled in the United States, learning ASL, and integrating into the deaf community through schooling. The role of various welcoming deaf networks is thus crucial for deaf refugees building a life in a new country. Some authors, however, have stated that inclusion in the local deaf community is not systemically positive, because deaf refugees may face exclusion and discrimination (Olsen, 2018); this is not well documented.

None of the above studies has focused on refugee camps or on the reception of deaf refugees in Global South settings. As I will show in my study of one such setting, there are comparable issues in relation to education and community support as those detailed previously, but there are also large differences in how deaf refugees go about their lives and how they are supported.

To date, I have identified only one study of deaf refugees that was undertaken in a refugee camp in the Global South: that of Megan Youngs (2010), a deaf researcher who undertook 6 weeks of fieldwork in the Dadaab Refugee Complex in Kenya. Her aim was to understand the role of deaf units (i.e., where deaf students are enrolled together in a class) in the refugee camp’s schools, in terms of opportunities and obstacles for deaf refugees. According to Youngs, the deaf units play an important role in empowering deaf refugees through a flexible approach to communication (including Kenyan Sign Language [KSL], fingerspelling, lip-reading, Signed English, and Signed Exact English) and in strengthening their identities and self-determination (Youngs, 2010). Youngs notes that deaf people of different national and ethnic backgrounds meet at intracamp deaf football tournaments between the three parts of the Dadaab Refugee Complex. These events provide a space for deaf youths to encounter other deaf people from other sections of the camp, both to socialize and to strengthen their signing skills in KSL, which has “gained uniformity and popularity” compared to deaf refugees’ home signs, such as Somali signs (Youngs, 2010, p. 62). My study is based on a longer period of fieldwork in a different refugee camp in the same country, and it confirms some of Youngs’ findings; it also uncovers differences between the two camps and covers wider and more diverse aspects of deaf lives in the camp.

Journeys Into Kakuma Refugee Camp

Kakuma Refugee Camp is located in the semi-arid Turkana district of the northwestern part of Kenya, about 1,000 kilometers from the capital of Nairobi. Kakuma, meaning “nowhere” in Swahili, is a remote area with temperatures reaching 104 degrees Fahrenheit in most months of the year. It is located very close to the neighboring country of South Sudan, at about 60 miles distance. At the beginning of 1992, armed conflicts emerged in Kenya’s neighboring countries, particularly in South Sudan and Somalia, as well as in East and Central Africa. People fleeing from these regions arrived en masse, and Kakuma Refugee Camp was established as an urgent response to those seeking refuge, including those who had been expelled from Ethiopian refugee camps (Ohta, 2005).

The origins of forced migration from Sudan can be traced to its colonization by Britain between 1899 and 1956, when the country was administered separately in the south and the north (Hyndman, 1999). The British government had made several attempts to reunite the northern Sudanese and the southern communities of rural Nuer and Dinka, but it was not successful (Sarwar, 2012). Following decolonization, the rapid acquisition of power by the people of the (majority Muslim) north caused discontent among the (majority Christian) southern population, resulting in civil wars (Sarwar, 2012). The first lasted from 1955 to 1972, and the second lasted from 1983 to 2005; following the establishment of the Autonomous Government of South Sudan, the Republic of South Sudan was recognized as independent from the Republic of the Sudan in 2011. During the 22 years of the second civil war, a total of 4 million southerners were displaced both internally and across international borders (Newhouse, 2015); Ethiopia by the early 1990s was the key destination because large numbers of displaced southern Sudanese had heard of the existence of camps with education, food, and safety (Jansen, 2011). In 1991, Ethiopia’s Mengistu regime made the decision to expel Sudanese refugees, fearful that the camps were becoming sites of recruitment for the rebel army (Jansen, 2011; Ohta, 2005). Expelled from Ethiopia, southern Sudanese people started to arrive at Lokichoggio, a town in northern Kenya not far from Kakuma (Hecht, 2005). To control the massive influx of refugees, the Kenyan government made the decision to craft tougher laws stating that refugees were no longer allowed to settle wherever they wished (Newhouse, 2015). Instead, the government decided to set up a more permanent camp in the small settlement of Kakuma and to move refugees into that place.

The second country from which many refugees in Kakuma Refugee Camp originate is Somalia. Unlike Sudan—which contains nearly 200 ethnic groups with many languages and religious traditions, including Christianity, Islam, and religions originating in Africa (Sarwar, 2012)—most of the Somali population is part of a single Muslim ethnic group and shares the same language. However, the country has experienced one of the most terrible civil wars in Africa (Elmi & Barise, 2006); the war has multiple and complex political, economic, and cultural causes. To give a brief summary, Somalia and Ethiopia signed a peace accord in 1964 after years of conflict; however, this led to an intensification of civil unrest in the northwest of Somalia. Siyad Barre, president of the Somali Democratic Republic between 1969 and 1991, instituted policies that armed the Somali Armed Forces with equipment supplied by certain countries in the Global North in an aggressive bid to suppress his enemies: the various armed rebel groups in the northwest, northeast, and south of Somalia. Resistance to Siyad Barre’s military junta led to general militarization and the disintegration of the Somali state (Lewis, 2008). Siyad Barre’s rule became increasingly dictatorial, using indiscriminate killings, burning villages, and torture as instruments of control (Elmi & Barise, 2006); 50,000 people of the Isaaq clan fled to Ethiopia to escape government repression (Lindley & Hammond, 2014). After months of civil war, Siyad Barre was overthrown by guerrillas in 1991.

Following the fall of the Siyad Barre regime, the various armed rebel groups began competing to influence the central government, particularly in the south of Somalia. The civil conflict had a direct consequence for the general population of Somalia, in the form of a severe famine (Hyndman, 1999). The images of malnourished Somalians were relayed worldwide by the media, and this prompted a large number of donations from foreign governments, and the public, to fund humanitarian actions (Hyndman, 1999). As the violence and instability continued, the presence of humanitarian agencies in the country increased, attempting to relieve the spreading famine in the southern Somali war zone. Some clans, such as the Daarood clan, were being persecuted by the Hawiye clan, which was prominent under Barre’s regime. This “clan cleansing” campaign of 1991–1992 caused the displacement of the Daarood people to Kenya (Horst, 2006). The Somali Civil War remains ongoing.

Kakuma Refugee Camp, which has received many refugees from South Sudan and Somalia, is administered by the UNHCR, working in cooperation with a variety of services established within the camp. These include schools, hospitals, and humanitarian services with different responsibilities: the World Food Program (WFP); the International Organization for Migration (IOM); the International Rescue Committee (IRC); the Jesuit Refugee Services (JRS); the National Council of Churches of Kenya (NCCK); the Windle Trust Kenya (WTK); FilmAid International; the Norwegian Refugee Council Organization (NRC), which is responsible for the provision of food and subsistence to refugees; and the Lutheran World Federation (LWF), which runs the schools in the camp.

Since its creation in 1992, the Kakuma Refugee Camp has grown significantly; by 2017, the number of refugees had increased to 168,224 (UNHCR, 2017a). Based on these numbers, Kakuma Refugee Camp is one of the two largest camps in Kenya; the other, and bigger, is Dadaab, where Youngs (2010) did her study. The camp is divided into four main zones—Kakuma 1, 2, 3, and 4—and a newly developed area called Kalobeyei. During my fieldwork at Kakuma Refugee Camp, I had six key participants; details from their stories are included in this chapter. Figure 3.1 shows each participant’s duration of their stay in Kakuma Refugee Camp and other refugee complexes.

The six deaf refugees all shared one common factor in being forced to move to Kakuma Refugee Camp: the political conflict, war, and violence arising in their home and neighboring countries. They sought recognized refugee status from UNHCR because of their forced displacement. Many had had to walk for several months to reach the refugee camp. Their ability to endure the physical demands of such a journey, often at very young ages, is a resource that allowed them to survive and potentially thrive in a new environment:

Ken was born in 1981 in what is now South Sudan and, at just 3 years old, was forced to flee to Ethiopia. He believes his mother died while they were fleeing Sudan; being so young at the time, he cannot remember what his mother looked like. Due to unsolved interethnic clashes and political instability in Ethiopia, Ken had to flee once again in 1992, this time to Kenya. He journeyed on foot with friends and relatives for 3 months, relying on others for food and water, and even to carry him.

Figure 3.1. Duration (in years) that key participants have stayed in various refugee camps.

In this context, Ken’s social capital is reflected in his ability to rely on friends and relatives for support during his journey. The relationships and network that he built over time provided him with access to essential resources such as food and water, which were critical for his survival during the journey. This example also highlights the importance of embodied resources, such as physical capital, as discussed previously. The pain in Ken’s knees was a physical limitation that affected his ability to complete the journey on his own; however, through his social capital, he was able to access the support he needed to complete the journey. He attributed the kindness of those who helped him to their sympathy for his being deaf. At the border between Ethiopia and Sudan, he was collected by car and brought to a village in Kenya called Loki; from there, a UNHCR driver brought him to Kakuma Refugee Camp. He was 11 years old at this stage. Bourdieu’s theory of capital is helpful to understand how social networks and relationships can provide individuals with access to essential resources, including physical support and care, that enable them to navigate difficult situations and to overcome barriers and physical limitations.

Ken’s story is similar to that of the famous “lost boys and girls of Sudan”: a group of more than 20,000 children from the Nuer and Dinka ethnic groups who embarked on a journey by foot to refugee camps in Ethiopia and Kenya and were forced to rely on the charity of inhabitants in villages as they traveled (Eggers, 2006). After arriving in Kakuma Refugee Camp, most of the children had to live on their own; they had difficulties finding adequate food, education, and medical care. In addition, they struggled with the uncertainty of finding their missing parents and siblings (Hecht, 2005; Luster et al., 2008). Children still frequently arrive at Kakuma Refugee Camp with no parents or adult relatives.

Others do arrive with an adult relative. Margaret, for example, was brought to Kakuma in 1992 by her uncle. She was born in 1990 in southern Sudan into the Didinga tribe, and her journey to the camp took 4 days by car. She explained her disorientation at being left at the camp and that she did not understand why her parents remained living in their home village without her. She told me she had not seen her parents since she moved to Kakuma.

Halimo was born in 1980 in Somalia, and she grew up there until she was 11 years old. Due to the start of the Somali Civil War in 1991 and the subsequent violence and insecurity in her home country, she had to flee. She traveled by foot, but her family was able to support her as they journeyed, reiterating the significance of family networks as sources of social capital. By providing social, economic, and emotional support to their members, families can help individuals achieve their goals and navigate difficult situations. In this case, Halimo could turn to her family for assistance to access resources that she might not otherwise have had, including financial support. Bourdieu emphasizes that social capital is not equally distributed in society and that individuals with stronger social networks and relationships are more likely to have access to resources and opportunities that can enhance their social mobility. In this sense, social capital can play a significant role in shaping an individual’s social status.

Halimo and her family initially went to the Dadaab Refugee Complex, a UNHCR site based in Kenya. Halimo has many painful memories of the Somali Civil War, and she told me how she saw her brother, sister, and father being killed by soldiers. She had to walk for 15 days with water in her bag, and the distance she walked every day made her feet ache. Similar to Ken’s story, she too relied on others to give her food and water. After 15 days of walking, Halimo arrived at a hospital to be treated and there realized she had been deafened by the loud gunshots; they were so loud, they caused her ears to bleed. Because she had been born hearing and became deaf when she was older, she was still able to speak well in Somali and Arabic, the languages used by her ethnic group, Dhulbahante, and her clan, Daarood.

Halimo arrived at the Dadaab Refugee Complex in 1992. The complex contains three refugee camps: Dagahaley, Hagadera, and Ifo; Halimo met her husband in a hospital in Ifo, the oldest of the three camps in Dadaab. They married and had 10 children. In Ifo, Halimo owned and ran a tiny general store with her husband, but they had problems with Somali terrorists who attacked and robbed her:

[There are] a lot of problems in Ifo. I had a business there. Somali terrorists asked for money from us. We were afraid. We gave a lot of money to them. Tomorrow, again! I didn’t feel good. The business didn’t go well. My mum was mad, a Somali kicked her head. Her husband as well, kicked on his heart. My sister, 6 years old, was raped. We were mad, we waited for 5 months in 2001, […] 2002 actually, again raped. My mum wanted to go to Kakuma. We asked [the] UN to help us.

Having asked UNHCR to help them move away from their terrorizers in Ifo, in 2004 they took everything from their home and moved via a UNHCR car to Kakuma Refugee Camp, traveling for 2 days. Similarly, Abdi traveled from Dadaab Refugee Complex to Kakuma Refugee Camp in a car provided by UNHCR. The overcrowding in Dadaab Refugee Complex is a significant push factor that induces many refugees to seek refuge elsewhere; many felt that they were forced to move from Dadaab Refugee Complex to Kakuma Refugee Camp (Betts et al., 2020). In 2008, around 13,000 Somali refugees were relocated from Dadaab Refugee Complex to Kakuma Refugee Camp due to overcrowding.

Refugees may also mobilize for other reasons than war and political conflict: that is, to access education and health care. Margaret narrated:

I was sleeping, [and] my mother woke me up and told me to go with my father to go to Kakuma. I don’t understand it, my father took my hand and I don’t know, I don’t understand what they said, I asked where [do] we go? I don’t know where I go. They said I was to go to Kakuma to go to school. I went there in Kakuma, I don’t know all the people in Kakuma.

Atem was born into the Dinka tribe in southern Sudan; he arrived at Kakuma Refugee Camp in 2002 when he was 10 years old, in a bid to escape the civil war and to receive an education. After saving money for some time, his mother was able to go to Kakuma Refugee Camp:

I arrived in Kakuma in 2002. I came here because I want to learn in school, I want to have a good education because if I learn a lot I can become clever later, and live better than to be lazy and to be not clever. That’s why I wanted to go to Kakuma to learn more. So I can help, support deaf people in the world. To help them to grow up for the future and to have a better life.

Atem’s journey to the Kakuma Refugee Camp can be seen as an effort to build his cultural and linguistic capital. By escaping the civil war and seeking refuge in the camp, he gained access to educational opportunities that he might not have had otherwise. Through education, he was able to acquire knowledge and skills, a form of cultural capital that could then be used to enhance his social capital. Furthermore, being in a refugee camp like Kakuma can also provide opportunities to develop linguistic capital through learning new languages. Atem had the opportunity to develop his sign language skills through education in the deaf units. Atem’s educational journey enabled him to become a teacher, sharing his expertise and knowledge with deaf refugees in deaf units. His investment in education and acquisition of cultural knowledge augmented his social status while simultaneously increasing his economic capital.

The provision of education in the camp was also given as one of the reasons for Nyathak’s family’s decision to move there. Nyathak is the youngest of the six deaf refugees whom I interviewed; she was just 18 years old when I first met her at Nassibunda Primary School in Kakuma 3. She arrived in the Kakuma Refugee Camp in 2004 with her family members, who were motivated by the desire to provide her with educational opportunities—that is, to acquire cultural and linguistic capital. By receiving an education, Nyathak would be able to acquire knowledge, skills, and credentials that could enhance her opportunities; her acquisition of sign language would also enhance her linguistic capital. Her family stayed until 2007, returned to southern Sudan until 2013, and then came back to Kakuma Refugee Camp.

Another factor for going to Kakuma Refugee Camp, shared by all of the deaf refugees and their families, is access to health care. There are various health care institutions within the camp. Abdi’s family decided to move to access the health services provided by UNHCR so that his sister, who had cancer, and his brother, who had sustained leg injuries, could both receive the appropriate treatment. His family’s decision to move to Kakuma Refugee Camp was motivated by the need to access health care services in the camp. By accessing health care services, Abdi’s family was able to access resources that could improve their health outcomes and potentially enhance their social and economic opportunities.

Deaf Lives in Kakuma Refugee Camp: A Bourdieusian Lens

Having described some of the ways that deaf people have arrived in Kakuma Refugee Camp, I move to a description of some aspects of their lives within the camp. Following a brief description of the camp to provide context, I examine the networks that deaf refugees have developed when navigating this field. I then look at how embodied knowledge (habitus) shapes processes of socialization in the camp and consider the various forms of capital that deaf refugees may accrue, develop, and transfer over the course of their daily lives.

Kakuma Refugee Camp is a massive camp of 5.62 square miles (UN-Habitat, 2021), constructed in largely arid terrain and characterized by dirt roads with huge potholes and many rocks; it contains numerous houses built with mud-brick walls and roofs of corrugated iron or plastic sheeting (see Figure 3.2). Houses are grouped in ethnic neighborhoods, such as a Somali area, an Ethiopian area, and a South Sudanese area. The camp is full of life, with people walking through the streets carrying firewood sticks on their heads, and with the UNHCR cars and bodaboda (motorbike taxis) trying to pass through the crowds while avoiding the streets’ potholes. Camp inhabitants are busily buying and carrying goods from the sites of their numerous economic activities, such as food markets, shops, restaurants, and bars. These economic activities are complemented by services provided by the inhabitants themselves, such as internet and telephone services, hairdressing salons, and tailoring. Overall, the camp gives the impression of an urban-like form of living in a dense and informal settlement.

Figure 3.2. A dirt path and buildings in Kakuma Refugee Camp.

Network Nodes for Deaf Refugees

The field of Kakuma Refugee Camp also contains deaf spaces produced by deaf refugees, and the network formed among them. The nodes of this network (see Chapter 7) are the different spaces where deaf refugees gather to perform their everyday activities and to socialize with other deaf people. Some spaces are where deaf people often meet, such as in deaf units and adult learning courses; these are regular deaf spaces. Other deaf spaces include the shop and house of Halimo, a deaf Somali woman, where deaf people informally gather (discussed below). The concept of “deaf spaces,” and the networks formed among them, illustrates the role of social capital in the lives of deaf refugees. These networks can be drawn upon to access resources and support, such as information about job opportunities, advice on navigating the refugee system, and emotional support during difficult times.

To explore these networks, I engaged in participatory mapping with participants. In her fieldwork on deaf people in Tanzania, Lee (2012) stated that “participatory mapping utilizes participants’ knowledge of legal boundaries, important spaces, and their own representations of their geographic and social maps” (p. 60). In order to find out where deaf refugees could be found in the camp, I asked Atem to show me where people lived on a map that I had drawn based on the official map provided by UNHCR (2017b) and to tell me their names and ages. From the drawings we made, I created a map of Kakuma Refugee Camp showing Kakuma 1–4 (see Figure 3.3) with the details of meaningful places for deaf refugees and, by extension, the research project: the houses of the refugees that I went on to interview; the deaf schools; the food distribution center; places where deaf people work; institutions with courses attended by deaf people; and the UNHCR Protection Delivery Unit, which deaf refugees had cause to visit on several occasions during my fieldwork. Because most deaf refugees’ houses are concentrated in Kakuma 1, more activity and meaningful places for deaf people are focused in that area. There are fewer deaf refugees’ houses in other parts of the camp, and these are scattered far from each other. One important place for deaf people in Kakuma 2–4 is the Nassibunda Primary School’s deaf unit, which is situated in Kakuma 3.

The most obvious place for frequent gatherings of deaf people in the camp are the three deaf units in the primary schools, similar to the ones that exist in Dadaab Refugee Complex (see Youngs, 2010). In Kakuma Refugee Camp, a deaf unit was created in 1997 in MPC1 Primary School, funded by the IRC. In 2005, the LWF took over responsibility for supporting the education of deaf people within their Special Needs Education program and displaced the deaf unit in MPC1 Primary School to Fashoda Primary School, also in Kakuma 1. In 2014, two deaf units were created in addition to the one in Fashoda Primary School, in Tarach Primary School (Kakuma 1) and in Nassibunda Primary School (Kakuma 3). The units have a broader remit than providing education for primary-age children; many deaf refugees attend primary school as adults because they arrive in Kakuma Refugee Camp later in life and may not have had the chance to be schooled or to complete primary school in their home countries.

Figure 3.3. Map of Kakuma Refugee Camp, showing locations where deaf people gather.

Most of my key participants had studied in one of these deaf units when they were growing up. Here, they were able to develop cultural capital, including linguistic capital, because these units offer a space where deaf people can meet their peers and communicate in sign languages. Margaret, who moved to Kakuma Refugee Camp when she was 2 years old, went to MPC1 Primary School, where she learned sign language alongside Ken and Atem. Their teacher was a hearing Chinese man who taught them ASL, and a deaf Burundian teacher, Chris, also stayed in the refugee camp to teach deaf children in the school.

Abdi, a deaf Somali man, had been to primary school in Ifo, Dadaab, in the 2010s, but he had to repeat this schooling in Kakuma due to administrative problems regarding his diploma. In contrast, Halimo, who also had been in Dadaab first, explained that when she was young, she had not had the opportunity to go to school or learn to read and write because in 1992 there was not yet a school for deaf refugees in Dadaab. Halimo learned how to sign by watching other deaf people, which she did every day to help her learning. Halimo’s experience highlights the way in which social capital can facilitate the accumulation of linguistic capital. In this case, the social network of deaf individuals provided a resource for Halimo to learn a new language, and this resource was made available through the relationships she formed with others. Nyathak initially lived with her family in Kakuma 3 and studied in the deaf unit in Tarach Primary School (Kakuma 1). The family home sustained terrible damage in a storm, and the family was forced to move to Kakuma 4. This move meant that Nyathak was obliged to change schools and joined the deaf unit in the Nassibunda Primary School (Kakuma 3).

A Kenyan deaf teacher, John, works with the LWF as a special needs education teacher in deaf units. He supports deaf refugees through teaching new deaf students, and he is involved in social encounters with other deaf refugees. Some deaf refugees also work as deaf teachers; one of these was Atem, who was South Sudanese. After attending primary school in the camp, they each graduated from a Kenyan high school outside the camp and were employed by LWF as teachers. Their accumulation of linguistic and social capital by gaining education credentials provided them with a source of income, converting to economic capital. In addition, being employed as teachers by LWF not only provided them with a wage but also allowed them to use their linguistic skills to support and empower other refugees. Being personally aware of the details of life in the camp, the deaf teachers tended to use a lot of everyday examples specific to deaf refugees in their teaching.

These schools also function as meeting places. On numerous occasions during my fieldwork, I noticed deaf refugees gathering near one of the deaf units, where they would meet to socialize. Deaf people living near the deaf units also tended to congregate nearby. Some deaf refugees have even intentionally moved their homes (having asked permission from UNHCR) to enable them to meet other deaf refugees; often, their new habitation will be near deaf units and/or other deaf households. By coming together in these meeting places and forming relationships with one another, deaf refugees are able to build social capital through connections and support systems that can help them navigate the challenges in their situation, providing resources and support that they would not be able to access on their own. The decision to move closer to deaf units echoes the findings of my previous study in Belgium (le Maire, 2015), where several families had made the decision to move to Namur, a city in the south, due to educational opportunities provided by the city as well as sociocultural factors. However, despite deaf refugees moving closer to one another, they nonetheless continue to reside in the area associated with others of the same ethnicity because habitations inside the camp are typically grouped according to ethnic identity.

Aside from deaf units in schools, other educational spaces were identified as places of gathering for deaf refugees. Refugees often attend adult learning courses on a weekly basis, such as cookery courses at the Saint Clare of Assisi Training Institute. Margaret and Ken were apprentices who improved their sewing skills in a tailoring class running in the afternoon at the same institute. The institute is situated in Kakuma town, about 2 hours’ walk from the refugee camp. Thus, the deaf refugees who attend the courses have to journey considerable distances by foot to get to the institute in time for their morning class. Journeying long hours by foot to attend classes is a labor-intensive process and requires physical capital. It thus requires significant physical effort to have access to social and cultural resources, including education.

There are also religious spaces where deaf people gather in groups. Depending on their beliefs and religion, deaf refugees attend Christian churches or mosques in Kakuma town or inside the refugee camp. The Full Gospel Church of Kenya (FGCK) is located in Kakuma Town, near the Saint Clare Institute, and is attended by some deaf refugees along with a KSL interpreter. One participant, Ken, had previously attended a church in Kakuma, but he left because they did not provide a sign language interpreter, leaving him to sit passively, unaware of what was being said. Instead of accepting this situation, he decided to move to the same church that Atem attended. Only one to three deaf refugees typically attended the FGCK every Sunday. Atem was one:

Yes, I always go to the same church. Before, there were no churches there [in Kakuma town], then first there was a church known as WORLDWIDE. There were deaf people at the church but, with time, the deaf people felt bad because there should have been money for them, but the church would only give a pot of maize and rice. It is not enough food, so deaf people stopped going to church and waited, and then another church appeared [FGCK] and asked deaf people to come, and deaf people asked other deaf people to come. And now, still, deaf people go to that church.

This excerpt tells us two things: that, in addition to the presence of a KSL interpreter, the presence of other deaf people affects attendance, as does the receipt of food and other resources. In the case of Ken, the lack of a sign language interpreter at his previous church meant that he was unable to fully participate and engage with the community there. This likely limited his ability to build social and cultural capital within that community and may have contributed to his decision to seek out a church that was more accessible to his needs. Similarly, Kusters (2015) observed that deaf inhabitants of Adamorobe, Ghana, were more eager to attend deaf-led church services in the village if they were offered resources and donations, such as rice. Several Deaf Studies scholars have pointed to the importance of deaf churches, or of churches where sign language interpretation is provided, as meeting places for deaf people and/or as places of learning (Friedner, 2015; Heap, 2003). As deaf inhabitants already practiced deaf sociality in various deaf spaces in Adamorobe village, they perceived that there was little or no need to go to a deaf church that brought them few benefits (Kusters, 2015). Similarly, deaf refugees in Kakuma did not go to church once they found out that it did not provide enough food for them; instead, they waited for another church to provide what they needed.

Some of the deaf spaces mentioned previously consist of a reasonably large number of deaf people (10–15), typically from a mix of countries, ethnicities, and religions; other spaces consisted of only two deaf people. Indeed, it is likely that I had some influence on the size of some deaf spaces, because the number of attendees appeared to grow when I visited them, probably due to curiosity about me as a white deaf newcomer (see Chapter 2). On only one occasion did I witness a larger deaf space, with 50 to 60 deaf people in attendance; this was when the Starkey Hearing Foundation, a charity distributing free hearing aids (le Maire, 2020), visited Kakuma Refugee Camp (see Chapter 10).

Deaf refugees’ mobility is not restricted to the camp; as outlined previously, they are able to go out of the camp to visit, for example, Kakuma town on foot (see also Chapter 10). Some venture farther into the country in order to access high school education in one of several different deaf boarding schools in western Kenya, located in the cities of Webuye, Kericho, Mumias, and Kisii. Attending a boarding school for deaf students in a different region of the country serves as a strategic approach for accumulating both cultural and language capital while also highlighting the importance of the physical capital that facilitates travel. This educational journey enables students to expand their social networks beyond the confines of their immediate surroundings, transcending local scales (see Chapter 7). By connecting with peers who share similar experiences and perspectives and by interacting with individuals from different regions and backgrounds, students have the opportunity to develop a deeper understanding of sign language and to build stronger social and cultural connections. Through these expanded networks, they enhance their overall cultural and linguistic capital, transcending the limitations of their initial social contexts.

Having moved into Kakuma Refugee Camp, both Atem and Nyathak later returned to their home countries and stayed for extended periods before returning. Atem, who died as we were completing this book, continued to have a strong desire to return to South Sudan when it became safe to do so and once he had adequate resources to make the journey. Because some deaf refugees grew up in the camp from a very young age, they do not have contact with deaf people in their home countries and cannot compare their interactions with deaf refugees in the camp with those elsewhere. Conversely, Atem had stayed for extended periods in his home country, and he explained to me that he had found a contrast between his deaf friends in South Sudan and the deaf refugees in Kakuma Refugee Camp. He saw himself as the only one to know a “proper” sign language, whereas others in his home country used what he called “village signs” (see Chapter 8 for more on this).

Although there are several regular meeting places for deaf people, some of which are specifically designed for deaf people or have been made accessible to deaf people, there is no deaf-led institution in the camp, such as a deaf association or deaf-led nongovernmental organization (NGO). The Kenyan deaf organizations that I visited in Nairobi while I was waiting for a research permit are not involved in the camp, perhaps partially due to the camp’s distance from the city. Some deaf Kenyans (e.g., deaf teachers) have visited the camp but have never stayed long term. Anthony, the Kenyan deaf teacher who lives next to the camp, was planning to create an association of Kakuma’s deaf refugees, with the aim of giving opportunities for them to socialize, to work together, to find jobs within the camp, to find solutions to problems at work, and to improve their living conditions inside the camp. At the moment of writing, Anthony is trying to create this association, but he is finding it very challenging due to financial constraints.

Embodied Knowledge and the Socialization Process

When people move, be it from the countryside to the city or across national boundaries, it involves a shift in their habitus, which may result in what Bourdieu called a “split habitus” (Habitus clivé) (Reed-Danahay, 2019). In the case of the refugee camp, the refugees have all experienced a shift in habitus from leaving their home country, arriving in and living in a different country, and acquiring a new identity or primary label—that is, as a refugee (Mijić, 2022; Zetter, 1991). In doing so, they have internalized a very different way of looking at and understanding the world. Additionally, deaf refugees are confronted with a second “split habitus” due to their being a minority with a different physical and sensory experience of their environment compared to that of their hearing peers. When deaf refugees enter the Kakuma Refugee Camp—many of them as children or young people—they have to learn a new language, a new rhythm of life, and a new sense of time, and they must internalize a new worldview. In addition, they are now refugees in a field governed by UNHCR and are thus subjected to a very different set of rules from their home countries and communities.

Bourdieu’s research provides a framework of theories that relates to his perspective on the social space of Algerian resettlement. In a collaborative study with Sayad, Bourdieu discusses how Kabyle peasants were forced to leave their villages and move to resettlement camps. These camps were created during the Algerian war, and the “quasi urban camps brought people together who had previously been distant in both social and physical space” (Reed-Danahay, 2019, p. 51). Bourdieu also stated that ethnic or national divisions may manifest more clearly when people move closer geographically (Reed-Danahay, 2019).

In the field of Kakuma Refugee Camp, deaf people who come from different countries, follow different religions, and have had different educational journeys all gather in common spaces. This means that deaf people who had previously been distant in social space and geographical space (in terms of coming from different countries) are now in physical proximity. There is a marked disparity between Kakuma Refugee Camp and the places where they grew up—usually villages in Somalia or Sudan—in terms of access to deaf education, the sign languages used, and the people with whom they socialize. Many of their new relationships allow deaf refugees to form a very different networking group than they had before arriving at the camp.

The deaf camp inhabitants are from different ethnic tribes, a term that is difficult to define. In anthropology, “tribe” has historically been used to define in a negative way the small ethnic groups that live in an “underdeveloped” (“primitive” or “savage”) manner (Glatzer, 2002). However, in some parts of the world, the term is used with pride, and people are honored to be part of one (Glatzer, 2002). Although some tribes are small, the term can also be applied to highly developed human social groups containing groups of “clans,” which are hierarchically smaller and less populous groups. The deaf refugees I interviewed explained to me that they came from various tribes, including Dinka (which is a similar ethnic group to Bor), Didinga, and Aweil; from different religions, such as Islam and Christianity; and from different countries, such as Somalia, South Sudan, and even Kenya. In deaf social gatherings, the space was mixed gender, but deaf refugees tended to remain close to those of the same gender when they were in private spaces. This tendency can be seen as a manifestation of their habitus, which is shaped by their experiences as deaf refugees and their internalized cultural norms around gender. Examples included Atem with Ken, and Halimo and her two female Muslim friends from the same home country who live near her.

I did not observe gatherings between deaf LGBTQIA+ people in Kakuma Refugee Camp,¹ likely because deaf refugees would not usually disclose these identities due to safety concerns; it is highly likely that they would assume straight identities when in the camp. Nor did I observe gatherings of deaf people with disabilities such as deafblindness, which could also be attributed to individuals preferring not to disclose hidden disabilities. Physical capital plays a crucial role in facilitating connections and networks within refugee camps, and it is important to consider that some deaf refugees with additional disabilities may not be effectively networked with other deaf refugees in the camp. One exception is Ken. Ken often explained to me that he had issues with his sight, but he did not use the term “deafblind” to identify himself; it is possible that he was unaware of this term or concept. To overcome barriers relating to his disability, such as there being no light available in Kakuma Refugee Camp at night, he employed the social capital strategy of asking his friend Atem to sleep in his house.

Deaf refugees often explained to me that they do not consider ethnicity as something that is important in their relationships with other deaf refugees. Rather, they place value on their mutual deafness, language modalities (e.g., signing, writing), and life experiences as deaf people, which would typically trump the value placed on religion, ethnicity, or country of origin:

Deaf refugees may have developed a habitus that emphasizes the importance of their shared life experience and language modalities, which can create a strong sense of solidarity that transcends ethnicity or religion.

Narratives collected from deaf refugees contain a lot of apparent contradictions and ambivalences in the distinctions made between “good” and “bad” people. For example, a Somali may say that the Sudanese are “friends” or “bad,” depending on where they are from. In my observations, I found that if a deaf refugee is from a Somali tribe, he would tend to label a group of Sudanese people as “bad” people. Despite the fact that deaf refugees from a mix of different ethnicities and/or countries of origin gather together and are friendly with each other, they would often talk to me about their differences and disagreements with people from other ethnicities and countries and would negatively portray them as being violent or oppressive, mapping the incidences of violence in the camp onto particular ethnicities (see Chapter 9). Negative portrayals of individuals from different ethnicities and countries of origin can be seen as a reflection of deaf refugees’ habitus, which is shaped by their experiences and socialization in different social fields. For example, deaf refugees may have experienced discrimination or marginalization based on their ethnicity or country of origin, which could lead to negative perceptions and attitudes toward individuals from other ethnicities or countries. Yet, although ethnic, national, and religious differences among deaf people are identified, a greater distinction is made between deaf versus hearing people. Hearing people are often designated as the “bad” people irrespective of their ethnicity; for example, a deaf Sudanese person would tell me that a hearing Sudanese person is “bad,” whereas deaf Somali people are their friends. At the same time, many deaf people socialize with hearing people within their households, so it is not the case that hearing people are avoided.

Another aspect of habitus in the refugee camp is linguistic habitus. Due to the diversity of its inhabitants in terms of country of origin, language practices in the camp are also very diverse. Hearing inhabitants use multiple spoken languages depending on the ethnic and linguistic groups they are in and the context of the communication. Swahili and English are the languages mostly used in the camp because those are the main languages used in Kenya. These languages are used for intergroup discussions, such as at markets, water collection points, and schools. The Sudanese people use a lot of Juba-Arabic, a pidgin lingua franca spoken mainly in Equatoria province of South Sudan for communicating among the different linguistic groups. When there are only Somalis in the group, they may use the Somali language except for discussions of religious topics, wherein the Arabic language is used.

Deaf people’s habitus is profoundly infused by their being deaf. Using Bourdieu’s concept, O’Brien (2021a) explains that deaf people using a visual-spatial sign language have a different physical and sensory experience of their environment compared to their hearing peers. Regarding the language situation for deaf people living in Kakuma Refugee Camp, KSL is predominantly used. Most deaf refugees learned KSL in the previously mentioned deaf units in the primary schools around Kakuma Refugee Camp, and they continue to use it if they go on to study in Kenyan high schools outside of the camp. As mentioned previously, ASL has been used within the deaf units as well, by foreign deaf and hearing teachers from different countries, including the United States and China. Education services provided by Kakuma Refugee Camp and the Kenyan government are not the only way to learn sign language, however; deaf refugees also learn and develop their sign language in informal settings and everyday encounters with other deaf refugees, such as in churches, houses, and adult learning vocational courses within the Kakuma Refugee Camp. Deaf refugees can accumulate linguistic capital through their social networks with other deaf refugees, which is also a form of physical labor relying on the physical capital to walk to meet people, to network, and to converse with others. Physical capital can thus contribute to the accumulation of linguistic capital through social capital.

KSL and ASL are not the only sign languages used by deaf refugees because there is some use of the signing of their home countries, such as signs from Sudan and Somalia. Deaf refugees conceptualize some of the signing from their home countries as “village signs,” which are, for them, different from the sign language they use in the camp. The sign VILLAGE is signed with one finger on the head (see Figure 3.4), and it is the sign that is used by deaf refugees to refer to the deaf inhabitants of their home village and also to refer to the deaf refugees living in the camp who do not have knowledge of the official sign languages of KSL or ASL. Some deaf refugees would claim that there was “no sign language” in their home countries. There are two possible interpretations of this: They had not seen other signs than “village signs” in their countries of origin (having, e.g., never been to a deaf school) or that the sign language in their home country was not as established as other sign languages. They often perceived their home countries’ sign languages as being of lesser value, along with other sign languages that do not hold any official status in schools, associations, or statutory bodies (see Chapter 8 for a longer discussion of this). As mentioned in Chapter 1, the concept of comparison applies in the case of deaf refugees: They make comparisons between different languages and between countries, and they give more value to some sign languages compared to others.

Figure 3.4. Atem signs VILLAGE.

The deaf inhabitants of the camp communicate with hearing refugees and hearing employees working in the camp in a variety of ways. As mentioned previously, in the evenings they return to their (mostly hearing) families to eat and sleep. Deaf people communicate with hearing people from their own tribe or ethnic group by using gestures, lipreading, speaking, or writing. Deaf refugees who are part of a particular tribe or ethnic group may have been exposed to that group’s language from an early age through interactions with their family or community members, which can contribute to their overall linguistic capital and provide them with additional resources for communicating with hearing people who share their background. The communication that I observed being used within the family and with neighbors was often informal and repetitive, usually focused on daily life practices (e.g., what to eat, when to sleep).

Signing marks deaf people as different from the surrounding hearing majority. Similar to their childhood experiences of being the only deaf person (or part of a small number of deaf people) in their home village, in the camp the refugees again encounter a mostly auditive environment, where deaf refugees are met with barriers causing problems and difficulties with communication. Deaf refugees face issues of communication during their initial interview with officials following their arrival at the camp, as well as in discussions with healthcare workers in hospitals, because mostly English or Swahili is used. Deaf refugees face these communication barriers in their everyday lives and are therefore often marginalized. They remain ignorant of the discourse and information that exists within the camp that could be obtained from other refugees and NGO volunteers. Facing these situations, deaf refugees draw on a large resource of strategies for communication, using their linguistic and social capital to obtain what they need to achieve their aspirations (see Chapter 10).

One of these strategies is working with sign language interpreters. I met four sign language interpreters during my fieldwork, all of whom are Kenyans using KSL. Interpreters are used during the Refugee Status Determination (RSD) interviews, when deaf refugees have first arrived at the camp. I did not have the opportunity to observe any of these processes and, therefore, did not witness these interactions firsthand. However, during the fieldwork, I had many opportunities to observe how KSL interpreters work with deaf refugees, specifically during meetings between NGOs and Anthony, a Kenyan deaf teacher, and during classes held in the adult learning center.

My impression was that some interpreters did not faithfully interpret the information. Their interpretation tended to be very concise, not matching the length of the utterance. They were thus making decisions about what information to deliver to deaf refugees, and how, leaving deaf refugees without access to much of what was being said. I also witnessed deaf refugees attempting to ask a question but being completely ignored by the interpreters, who refused to voice their questions. There are notable power differences between Kenyan interpreters and foreign deaf refugees. Being both hearing and from Kenya, interpreters are in a position from which they can easily oppress deaf refugees in this context. Some interpreters are unreliable and arrive late or not at all; they are difficult to coordinate and schedule, and, according to Anthony, they are afraid to interpret in any public domain. These issues frequently come up in daily interactions.

The interpreters in Kakuma Refugee Camp work as volunteers. Most of the interpreters are teachers working for the LWF, and this NGO sometimes asks hearing teachers with knowledge of KSL to interpret for deaf refugees. In other cases, for example, in adult cooking classes, an interpreter may be interested in working for deaf refugees because it is expected that they will offer the interpreter the food they cooked during the class; put in Bourdieusian terms, the interpreter anticipates receiving a form of economic capital (food) in payment for the service.

Due to these problems and the general lack of interpreters, in some situations deaf refugees decide not to use interpreters at all—for example, when going to hospitals or meeting with UNHCR officials. Instead, they use other strategies to communicate with hearing people. Some draw on family members for interpreting, but this is not always possible for deaf refugees because their families may not be present, perhaps because they were deceased or still living in their home countries.

Exploring the Various Forms of Capital

We have seen that deaf refugees develop social capital through networking; thus, social capital is based on the relationships and proximity to each other in physical and social space, where they can get and share advice and support. Cultural capital in the camp comes in many forms and is developed through many channels, such as studying in deaf units and graduating from primary and secondary school. As mentioned in the section on deaf refugees’ journeys to Kakuma, the educational opportunities for deaf people that exist in the Kakuma Refugee Camp are a strong motivating factor for families of deaf refugees to move into the camp. These schools allow the refugees to develop cultural capital, not only through formal education but also through informal encounters with their peers with whom they learn and practice their new sign language skills.

Some deaf refugees have opportunities to develop their economic capital through their work with NGOs, including deaf teachers in deaf units (such as Atem and John), shop owners, or workers for the Norwegian Refugee Council (NRC), which provides food and subsistence to refugees via food distribution centers. One deaf refugee, Ken, worked in a food distribution center, but this job was not as consistent as other forms of employment because the system at the NRC operates such that refugees who work there are only provided with food and subsistence for 1 week per month and thus only work there for that period. Usually, refugees can collect their resources in the first week of the month.

Deaf refugees who lack economic and other forms of capital usually come to rely more on their social capital as their main source of agency. For example, they may draw on support from their families to be able to communicate with UNHCR officers and collect information from their social contacts. Sharing information (e.g., about the process of resettlement) helps them to be competitive in the refugee camp. In my fieldwork, I identified Halimo’s house as a key site where deaf refugees gathered to share information with other deaf refugees. Halimo owns and runs a business with her hearing husband, a tiny general store providing basic goods such as powdered juice, sweets, shortcake biscuits, and single cigarettes. Previously, Halimo’s hearing sister ran the business, and she owned a house provided by UNHCR. She decided to move to Nairobi and allowed Halimo and her husband to take over the business and to use her home. Halimo, therefore, is economically in a better situation than other deaf refugees due to the economic capital of her family. The business is successful because of its excellent location, and Halimo and her husband employ other, hearing refugees to cook and clean for them.

Halimo’s house was a key site for my research because every time I visited, I met about 5–10 deaf refugees from different tribes, ethnicities, countries, and religions who gathered to eat and socialize there (see Figure 3.5). Halimo is a very hospitable person and often told me how she loved to host other deaf refugees in her house and give them food for free. She enjoyed sharing what she had and talking with them:

We share stories, we eat together. Deaf people come to visit me and we talk a lot, sometimes I feel that I had better help them and I give food to them. Then, we talk and they are not hungry, and they say thanks and talk and then go home. Deaf people from Sudan come to my home to talk. Me, Halimo, I am happy and ask, “Do you want to eat?” I give them pasta and then they are full and go home. Later, they come again to talk with Halimo.

Halimo’s house has grown into a key deaf space for several deaf refugees in the camp, alongside other key places such as the deaf units in the schools, and the courses and church in Kakuma town. Socialization at her place involves the exchange of gossip, information, and advice, and deaf refugees regularly come to her house to ask her for assistance. Some ask to be accompanied by Halimo to the hospital or to the UNHCR Protection Delivery Unit because many deaf refugees know that Halimo is skilled at navigating these spaces and, due to her experience and social capital, specifically knows what is required for deaf people to have successful interactions in these places. Halimo is able to speak to hearing people using Somali and Arabic, the languages used by her ethnic group, Dhulbahante, and her clan, Daarood, and she is also very skilled in communicating with gestures; this linguistic capital has given her knowledge of the dynamics in the camp. Linking back to the Bourdieusian concept of field, Halimo’s knowledge of the “rules of the field” means she is a source of information for others. Even hearing refugees who have deaf relatives will visit her to ask for advice about deaf education or sign language, asking Halimo’s opinion on which school to enroll their child in, and gathering social networks from Halimo’s knowledge of people working for the NGOs who are responsible for deaf education in the camp.

Figure 3.5. Halimo with other deaf refugees in her house.

According to Bourdieu, different forms of capital can “change into one another” (Bourdieu, 1986). In the situation with Halimo, she is building relationships and networks with deaf refugees by providing free food and hosting them in her home; in other words, she is transforming her economic capital into social capital. By facilitating deaf and hearing refugees to gather in her space to share information and advice with her and each other, she not only allows her own social capital to develop but also the social and cultural capital of other refugees. Through the networking that takes place in her space, and through Halimo’s own guidance of people into spaces of education, they can build up even more cultural capital. Therefore, although deaf refugees may struggle to expand on their economic capital inside the camp, they may be able to capitalize on other areas using the social, cultural, and linguistic capital that they bring into and develop while staying in the camp. Refugees thus try to compensate for barriers and the lack of resources with various other forms of capital.

As a result of Halimo’s social, cultural, and economic capital, she is seen as a leading figure and a central source of information when she moves through other places in the camp:

We go to the kitchen for the cooking class. It is only Ken and Halimo who are there, the other deaf people are not there. The refugees ask Halimo directly where the deaf refugees are, and she says precisely what the deaf refugees are doing: Someone is now at the UNHCR Protection Delivery Unit to complain because her ex-husband does not pay her at all for her baby; someone else has a new baby and needs to rest. I ask Halimo how she knows this, and she tells me that she goes to every deaf house near her in the morning to find out who is going to do what. (Fieldnotes, March 9, 2018)

This example shows that houses are central meeting places. Deaf people making the rounds to deaf houses is described in Kusters’ (2015) ethnographic study in Adamorobe, where about 40 deaf people live in the same village due to local hereditary deafness. Kusters (2015) noticed that deaf people in Adamorobe tend to gather in the houses of deaf people who are taking informal leadership positions in relation to deaf people living in the village; she observed that these deaf people would make “greeting” rounds in the morning, going to houses of hearing relatives and of deaf people. Similar to this phenomenon in Adamorobe, Halimo’s mobilities in various hearing-run places (e.g., the hospitals, the NGOs, the houses of other refugees), as well as deaf people’s houses and other deaf spaces in the camp, play an important role in her leadership alongside the forms of capital she employs and expands in and through these mobilities. Halimo’s mobility as a central person thus coincides with her house being a key destination for other deaf and hearing refugees’ mobilities within the camp. The accumulation of capital, particularly social capital, is often a labor-intensive process that involves a significant amount of effort and investment. In the case of Halimo, her mobility and interactions with others play a key role in her accumulation of social capital, but the labor (physical capital) involved in this process is not always explicitly acknowledged. This labor may take various forms, including the physical labor of walking around to meet people, the emotional labor of networking and conversing with others, and the intellectual labor of strategizing and building relationships. Bourdieu’s ideas highlight the importance of recognizing and valuing this labor, even in situations where traditional notions of work may not apply. Despite the immobility and “stuckness” of the people living in the refugee camp (see Chapter 10), there is an immense amount of mobility and labor involved in building and maintaining social capital.

Discussion and Conclusion

In Deaf Refugee Studies, few scholars have considered deaf refugees’ views; instead, most studies have focused on the perspectives of teachers, interpreters, and other professionals working with deaf refugees. Additionally, most studies are focused on deaf refugees, particularly children, who are being resettled in and hosted by countries in the Global North. There has been very little focus on deaf refugees living in refugee camps and/or in the Global South. This study contributes to the field of Deaf Refugee Studies in taking an approach centered on the deaf refugees’ own experiences and perspectives, and in being situated in a refugee camp in the Global South.

Several earlier studies (Elder, 2015; Olsen, 2018; Sivunen, 2019) have argued that deaf locals from the host country play a crucial role in providing opportunities for deaf refugees to access networks in the host country. In Kakuma Refugee Camp, few deaf nonrefugees socialize or work in the camp; one exception is Anthony, the Kenyan deaf teacher working in the Nassibunda school’s deaf unit. He would sometimes be involved in interpreting for deaf refugees, for example, when he was volunteering at the event organized by the Starkey Hearing Foundation. In addition, some students go to school outside the camp, attending high schools in Kenya (see Chapter 10). This is an indicator of networking with deaf people in the host country.

Deaf refugees often learn one or more new sign languages in their host country. For some of them, it is the first time that they are formally taught in a signed language (Duggan & Holmström, 2022). Returning to Holmström’s earlier study (2019), deaf migrants or refugees in Sweden must learn both Swedish and SSL; in contrast, Sivunen (2019) states that deaf migrants or refugees in Finland have no access to FSL classes and only have access to interpreters using International Sign (IS), which means that refugees quickly learn some signs in IS (Sivunen, 2019). As in the Swedish case, deaf refugees in Kakuma Refugee Camp learn the national sign language (KSL) in classes where all the students—and even some of the teachers—are refugees living in the camp. Because there are so many refugees from the same countries (e.g., Sudan, Somalia), they also use signs from their own countries among themselves.

Earlier studies on deaf refugees in new host countries have also explored the role of interpreters in providing access for deaf refugees. For example, as Sivunen (2019) reports, deaf migrants often have difficulties understanding and communicating with interpreters during asylum processes because the interpreters are not aware of the deaf refugees’ sign language of origin. In Kakuma Refugee Camp, on the other hand, interpreters are more aware of the signing used by deaf refugees because they are interacting with them frequently. However, problems can arise in the lack of professionalization and training, as well as interpreters’ lack of understanding of their role. There are some deaf interpreters, such as Anthony, who volunteer to translate KSL into village signs. However, deaf refugees do not always work with interpreters because they can themselves employ a large resource of communication strategies, including writing or gesturing.

The Bourdieusian framework of field, habitus, and capital has been helpful in uncovering more details of deaf refugees’ daily practices than previous studies, which focused only on educational spaces or interpreted situations. The field of networks between deaf refugees emerges in different spaces in the Kakuma Refugee Camp. Deaf refugees’ habitus includes characteristics specific to being deaf, such as the use of sign languages, which confers access to deaf spaces, including schools and other educational spaces, workplaces, and more intimate spaces like households. These spaces play an important role in deaf refugees’ growth of their linguistic, cultural, social, and physical capital. The settings invite and encompass a diverse and changing group of refugees in terms of ethnicity, gender, and religion, with some spaces being gendered and religion- or ethnicity-specific. Some forms of economic capital are also transformed into various other forms of capital, such as into the social capital derived through networking with deaf people to gather relevant information about how to improve their living conditions in the camp or how to be selected by UNHCR for resettlement. People who do not have the chance to obtain cultural capital through education, or who have limited economic capital, rely on their social capital.

1. LGBTQIA+ stands for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer or Questioning, Intersex, Asexual, and more.

2. In this excerpt, Ken refers to deaf refugees from Congo and Burundi. However, there were very few deaf refugees of these nationalities at the time of my fieldwork because most had resettled or moved back to their home countries.