From the absence of Auslan interpreters on TV to the struggle to adapt to life without face-to-face communication, the pandemic has posed unexpected challenges for the deaf community
Mon 18 May 2020 21.27 EDT
Even before isolation, Gavin Balharrie was used to feeling isolated. It’s a side effect of being deaf in a hearing world.
“In a way [the deaf community] has been preparing for this our whole lives,” he says. “There have always been barriers for us, so we are kind of used to it.”
There were plenty of extra barriers for Balharrie as the Covid-19 pandemic hit Australia. The first hurdle was just getting information, as Auslan interpreters weren’t initially common at press conferences.
Balharrie is the president of the deaf services provider Expression Australia, so professionally this worried him, but personally he also knew how dangerous it can be to be left in the dark.
On 30 December last year, his family was in Mallacoota, in eastern Victoria, with a bushfire raging towards the town, and no idea if they should stay or leave.
For hearing people, figuring out the seriousness of a situation is as easy as turning on the radio or TV, but Balharrie and his wife Trisha didn’t have that option.
They are both deaf, and none of the local broadcasts had an Auslan interpreter.
“There was information available in English, written out or in apps, but it’s hard to understand the gravitas. The emotions are removed from it,” he says.
Their 10-year-old daughter can hear, but they are careful never to place the burden of interpreter on her.
Balharrie recorded the local broadcast on his phone and managed to find a translator to send it to. When they got the video back 30 minutes later, they knew straight away they had to get out of there.
“You could see the CFA [Country Fire Authority] walking around but, you know, it was still a beautiful day, the sun was shining, the kids were still playing. I don’t think we were quite cognisant of how serious the situation was until we got that information in Auslan.”
There was a bit of a sense of ‘Oh if the interpreters aren’t there, how serious could it really be?’
They decided to risk driving home. Not long afterwards, roads began to be blocked by the flames. The next day thousands sheltered at the Mallacoota beach as the sky turned red and fire raged through much of the town.
When the Covid-19 outbreak began, Balharrie had a similar uneasy feeling .
“In February and early March we were talking to each other in the deaf community trying to piece together what was happening. We were worried we weren’t getting the right information.
“There was a bit of a sense of ‘Oh if the interpreters aren’t there, how serious could it really be?’… We were like ‘Do we really have to stay home?’ You get the main message but you lose the intricacies.”
The Victorian government started regularly providing Auslan interpreters at press conferences on 25 March, 14 days after the pandemic was declared.
“I think then some of the anxiety eased, but … it shouldn’t have taken so long.”
For Balharrie, staying home is much harder than it is for others.
Firstly, he is the national director of a large surveying firm and now has more than 100 employees to manage remotely, without the luxury of quick phone calls to check in throughout the day.
Secondly, he has had to adapt to a life without the face-to-face communication that is vital to the deaf community.
“In that first week, I was really struggling to change our lifestyle and make sure we had all the tech and tools so we could carry on with our lives. I wasn’t well in that first week, it was really stressful, and I was really emotional,” he says.
“A lot of deaf people are born into hearing families, for these people often the deaf community takes precedence over their birth family. They feel more connected, more at home with that family, because they share that culture and that language.
“When I see my deaf friends we always hug. That quality time is so important… There is Zoom, but Zoom calls can be really tiring.”
When Balharrie is on a video call he can’t look away from the screen for an instant. If the video freezes it’s easy to lose track of what’s being said, and Auslan on a 2D screen will never be quite the same.
“My wife is an Auslan teacher. She has to be on Zoom for three hours at a time,” he says. “Using your eyes that intensively for three hours? That can make you go crazy.
“We are really looking forward to this being over.”
When Daniel Andrews stood up last week to announce the easing of Victoria’s lockdown, Balharrie’s eyes were locked on the interpreter to his left. When she signed that five people were now allowed to come to visit, he was wary but relieved. The very first people on his list: his deaf friends.
“A deaf party, that’s where I want to be,” he said. “A celebration, a picnic of sorts in the great outdoors.”
Postcards from the pandemic looks at how everyday Australians are coping with immense changes coronavirus has brought to their lives. We’d like to hear your story about how you are managing during this crisis. Email: postcards@theguardian.com
