Part 6
of 7
Carmen
Reyes-Zubiaga is the Manager for Public Relations,
Development and Planning of Tahanang Walang Hagdanan
(House with No Steps), Philippines.
I was not
quite two when I had polio. I grew up under the care of
my five older brothers. I remember how much fun I had
with them. Although from an early age my mother sought to
convince me that I would not marry but would be taken
care of by my brothers for the rest of my life, I never
accepted the destiny that she had in mind for me.
As with most
girls, my adolescent years were critical to the
development of my social relationships outside the
family. I could not always join friends and was often
depressed when I thought of the fun they might be having
out on the beach, at parties, or elsewhere. I had crushes
on boys just like other girls but my friends were not
encouraging because they doubted if men would date me.
However, I did have a number of boyfriends. They made me
feel attractive and showered me with affection. My mother
was wary of my relationships with boys and wanted to
protect me from being hurt.
When I met
Dennis, I knew right from the start that he really liked
me. He was not the picture of my ideal man but he had
qualities that are hard to find: sincerity, simplicity,
principles and a sense of purpose in life. When he asked
me to marry him, I asked if he would accept what his
family would say about me. It was his determination to
stand by me which helped me make up my mind.
Initially, my
family was not happy with our decision to marry. When
Dennis asked my mother for permission to marry me, she
tearfully pleaded with me to change my mind. I told her
that I wanted somebody to take care of me and have
children of my own. I was capable of having my own family
and I would work hard to have a happy home. My mother
eventually gave her blessings when she saw how determined
we both were.
We were
married five months after we had first met. Our wedding
was held in a big church in my home town on 27 August
1988. It was the first time people in our town saw a
bride in a wheelchair. A prime-time television talkshow
covered our wedding and broadcast it throughout the
country. Even now, I am still surprised by strangers who
recognize me from that television talkshow. Our wedding
has been an inspiration to many.
With our
small savings we built a house beside my parents home.
The house was designed to suit my needs and I had no
problems carrying out my tasks as a housewife.
After seven
years, I can proudly say that I am happy and content. We
have two children, both boys. Jolly (Jose Ronaldo), our
eldest, aged 6, is now in the first grade. Mogo (Moses
Gregorio), aged 4, is in kindergarten. Both of them are
happy, healthy and active children. Our hope is to give
them the best education possible and prepare them for a
better future.
Kesang
Choden, 23, is a first year trainee teacher at the
National Institute of Education, Bhutan. She is the first
blind woman to be admitted to the Institute. This is her
story of her struggles and aspirations.
I was born in
a remote area in central Bhutan. My village is about two
days walk from the nearest road accessible to motor
vehicles. My parents told me that I lost my sight when I
was two. I do not remember how it happened; it seems my
life has always been engulfed by darkness.
Despite their
poverty and isolation, my parents were able to put me in
a school for the blind. I was a boarder in the school and
was separated from my family for long periods. For the
first couple of weeks in school, I learned the alphabet
and simple words only. Then I started to read and write.
At first, I found reading and writing very difficult. But
gradually, it became easier and I managed to complete
class eight without much difficulty. Since I could go no
further with my education at the school for the blind, I
was sent to a high school. I continued to live in the
dormitory of the school for the blind and walked daily to
the high school which was about 15 minutes walk away.
There, I had a tough time as I was the only blind
student. It was very hard for me to cope with my studies.
I also found it difficult to take part in social
activities. With much suffering, I completed class ten
and so completed high school.
I wanted to
become a teacher, so I decided to enrol in the National
Institute of Education (NIE) which is in Samtse, in the
southern part of the country. I chose the profession
because it is an honourable one and will allow me to
serve my country meaningfully. But it has been a
struggle. There are no facilities for blind trainees like
me; there are no references in Braille. I am fully
dependent on friends. I ask them to read the reference
books and materials to me and I take notes. This is how I
manage to do my assignments. It takes me many more hours
than others. I have completed my first year. I had felt,
at times, that the demands were too great, but I am not
willing to give up. I am the first visually impaired
woman trainee, and I want to set a good example to other
disabled women in Bhutan.
At the age of
18, N S Hema, together with two others, co-founded the
Association of the Physically Handicapped in the city of
Bangalore, southern India. Little was she to know then
that the organization would remain the centre of her
dreams and work for over 35 years.
Hema was four
when she caught polio. It was so severe that initially it
left her with little mobility below the neck. It was
during World War II and few in India knew about the
disease at that time. It was a year and a half later,
after a desperate search by her parents for a cure,
before they were told that there was no known cure. She
never went to school. Tutors and her parents taught her
at home. Hema remembers growing into a young girl who
wanted to keep to a world of her own and who, at the same
time, constantly asked what the future held for her.
Her family
moved to Bombay for a year and there two events occurred
which opened up her world and shaped her future. For the
first time, Hema met other disabled girls of her age at
the hospital in Bombay where she had gone for treatment,
and where she also found friendship and understanding.
She learned the importance of meeting others with
disabilities. Her father had also arranged for her to be
fitted with a wheelchair at an army centre. There she met
Mr Devan, who lived in a home for disabled veterans. He
became her mentor and subsequently her partner in the
work of APH.
Back in
Bangalore, together with another social worker, Hema and
Mr Devan organized meetings of persons with disabilities.
At first, the meetings were solely for providing
opportunities for them to meet socially. Later,
discussions turned to the plight of people with
disabilities and what could be done to create
opportunities for improving their lives. It was felt that
the most useful thing that could be done was to provide
training which would prepare disabled persons for jobs
which would give them a regular wage. Hema s father s
garage was converted into a training centre and APH came
into existence. The year was 1959.
Although jobs
were found for them in the factories in and around
Bangalore, the trainees found it difficult to fit because
of lack of support from the other workers, and they
pleaded to be taken back by the centre. The situation
shaped the next phase in the development of APH –
while it continued to provide skills training, it
competed for contracts to produce various parts and
products for the industries in the area. The trainees
stayed for at least two years and were paid a stipend.
Hema s family connections with local industrialists were
helpful in obtaining contracts and the centre grew to a
medium-sized industry.
By 1970, the
number of trainees had grown to 450 when a crisis
erupted. The trainees went on strike, demanding
recognition as regular employees with pay and benefits.
The strike lasted over a year and the dispute went to the
courts. Work came to a complete halt, contracts were
lost, equipment and materials were removed. It appeared
to Hema and Mr Devan that the centre which had taken more
than a decade to build up was being demolished before
their very eyes. For a while they could not understand
how the trainees could have turned against the centre
which had with all sincerity wanted to help them.
Acceptance came when they realised that the trainees had
aspirations too and were prepared to fight for them, and
as such, were to be respected and valued. APH learned its
lessons and restructured into two separate entities
– an industry and a training centre. The industry
generated income to run the training centre, which in
turn provided skilled labour.
In the
meantime, new work with disabled children was started.
Coaxed by Mr Devan, who was convinced that if children
with disabilities were reached early enough, the
intervention would make a very significant difference to
their future, Hema started a school in 1973 with ten
children. The number was kept deliberately small "in
case we failed," she explained. "I embarked on
this project with great trepidation. I had never gone to
school, so what did I know about schools?" Today,
the school has 200 students with classes from
kindergarten to middle secondary level. Through the
school, the students receive medical assessments and
rehabilitation services. The students and their families
in turn have led APH to reach others. Currently, APH s
education and community rehabilitation work involves some
800 children. Because the school has gained recognition
for its high standards, parents vie for places in the
school for their non-disabled children. Now, a fifth of
the students in the school are non-disabled children and
the integration creates a positive environment for
interaction between disabled and non-disabled children
and their families.
It was the
rainy season in Thailand and the downpour started soon
after Yodying Khajitmanee had set up her stall for women
s clothing on the sidewalk of Silom Road, in the
commercial heart of Bangkok. Three hours later, it was
still raining and the clothes remained covered by plastic
sheets. "As you can see, it s not a good day for
business," she grinned as she signed the words.
Yodying has been deaf from birth and is one of some 30
hearing-impaired sidewalk traders in the area.
She was
introduced into this business by a deaf friend eight
years ago. "It was a much smaller stall then. I had
5,000 baht (about US$200) from my savings for
capital." Promise of better money prompted her to
leave her job as a seamstress in a tailor s shop. With
two children to bring up on her own, the daily wages of
60 baht (about US$2.40) were simply not enough.
Everyday,
except Wednesdays – which is her day off –
Yodying sets up her stall at about half past four in the
afternoon. If the weather is good, she stays until about
11 at night. As her stall is located in a main tourist
shopping area in Bangkok, most of her customers are
foreigners. Although earnings vary from day to day, the
business has provided her with a reasonable income of at
least 5,000 baht a month. Overheads are few: rent for
storage of the goods at a nearby ware- house and monthly
"goodwill" money to keep her spot on the
street. Her stall is flanked by other stalls, run also by
deaf persons selling much the same merchandise as hers.
Whereas in other circumstances, the competition might
have caused uneasy relationships, here their common
disability seems to have created an atmosphere of mutual
support and camaraderie.
Yodying's two
children are both studying at the university with the
help of scholarships. However, she does not expect them
to support her in her old age. She reckons she will stop
operating her sidewalk stall when she reaches 50 (she s
43 now) and expects that the interest from her savings in
the bank will provide her with sufficient income to live
on.
Part 7 of 7 
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