We uncover the unseen struggles of Deaf Malaysians in classrooms, hospitals, workplaces, and beyond—and what it takes to truly bridge those barriers.
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22 Sep 2025
6 Min Read
Chan Huey Qing (Student Writer)
We uncover the unseen struggles of Deaf Malaysians in classrooms, hospitals, workplaces, and beyond—and what it takes to truly bridge those barriers.
In 2008, Malaysia officially recognised Bahasa Isyarat Malaysia (BIM) through the Persons with Disabilities Act. It was a long-overdue milestone that affirmed BIM as the official sign language of the Malaysian Deaf community. On paper, this recognition promised inclusion, equality, and access. In practice, however, those promises remain distant.
For many Deaf Malaysians, legal recognition has not translated into consistent access to education, healthcare, employment, justice, or government. Across the country, they continue to navigate a world that does not speak their language. And when language is out of reach, so too are rights, dignity, and opportunity.
For Deaf children in Malaysia, access to language is frequently delayed or denied altogether. Many grow up in hearing families who do not know BIM. In school, the barriers compound: many teachers cannot sign fluently, and mainstream classrooms rarely provide interpretation or language support. Even in special education settings, students are often encouraged to lip-read or speak aloud—methods that favour assimilation over accessibility.
Without full access to language in early childhood, a child’s cognitive, emotional, and social development can be affected. But the consequences go further. Deaf students also miss out on critical lessons about health, safety, consent, relationships, and mental well-being. These topics are typically taught through spoken explanations or written materials—resources that remain inaccessible without support provided in sign language.
When young Deaf people do not receive complete, consistent language exposure, they are deprived of the tools to participate fully in the world around them. They may struggle not only with academic learning but also with building confidence, setting boundaries, asking questions, and understanding their rights.
Imagine being in the hospital, in pain or afraid, and not understanding what the doctor is saying. For many Deaf Malaysians, this is not an occasional mishap but a pattern they experience throughout their lives. Medical appointments are often conducted without qualified BIM interpreters. Healthcare professionals may resort to written notes, hand gestures, or asking family members to translate—none of which ensures clear, respectful, or accurate communication.
One Deaf woman in the Klang Valley, for example, struggled to understand her doctor’s explanation about high cholesterol. The doctor tried to use pictures from the Internet to illustrate the condition, but the explanation remained confusing. It was not until another Deaf friend stepped in that she felt she understood—but the advice she received was to avoid Western medication entirely. Trusting that advice, she stopped her medication without consulting her doctor. Two years later, she suffered a severe stroke.
This is not about individual negligence; it is about structural inaccessibility. Without trained interpreters, Deaf patients face higher risks of misdiagnosis, poor treatment adherence, and avoidable complications. Many avoid seeking care altogether because of past trauma or humiliation. Consent cannot be truly informed unless it is communicated in a language the patient fully understands, and safety cannot be guaranteed unless every patient has the means to describe symptoms, ask questions, and explore options with clarity and trust.
The need for interpretation does not end in classrooms or clinics. Interpreters are essential in the workplace, legal system, government offices, and community spaces. Yet Malaysia has fewer than 100 certified BIM interpreters—most based in urban areas like the Klang Valley. This severe shortage means Deaf Malaysians are frequently denied fair access to employment, training programmes, court proceedings, police investigations, and public hearings.
A Deaf jobseeker might not receive interpretation for a job interview, while a Deaf survivor of crime might be unable to report what happened or follow legal processes. A Deaf resident might be left out of community town halls, fire drills, or public consultations. These are not isolated oversights but symptoms of a system that has not yet committed to inclusion.
The result is that many Deaf individuals are pushed into informal employment, withdraw from civic participation, or avoid legal protections altogether. When navigating daily life requires guessing or struggling to understand, participation becomes exhausting—and for many, impossible.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, televised government announcements in Malaysia finally began to include BIM interpreters. For many in the Deaf community, it was the first time they saw public information delivered in their own language, offering a glimpse of what inclusion could look like.
But that glimpse was short-lived. Most public service announcements, educational videos, safety guidelines, and awareness campaigns still exclude BIM interpretation. Even when Malay captions are provided, they are not enough. BIM is a distinct language with its own structure, grammar, and cultural context—not a direct form of written Malay. Translating between the two takes more than word-for-word substitution.
Without accessible information, Deaf individuals are forced to rely on social media, friends, or guesswork—opening the door to misinformation, especially around sensitive topics like mental health, sexuality, or legal rights. The consequences are quiet but far-reaching: misinformation spreads, health and safety are compromised, trust in institutions erodes, and what is considered public information becomes, for many, private.
Legal recognition is only the beginning. To build an inclusive society, language rights must be implemented, resourced, and enforced.
Here are five urgent priorities:
Malaysia must significantly increase the number of qualified BIM interpreters. This includes not only hearing interpreters but also Deaf interpreters, who bring cultural and linguistic nuance. Training must be affordable, accessible, and nationally recognised. Interpretation should be treated as a vital public service—funded appropriately and paid fairly.
From hospitals and schools to police stations and job centres, BIM interpretation must be standard, not optional. Policies should mandate interpreter access, with clear accountability for non-compliance. Funding for these services must be embedded in government budgets, not left to volunteers or non-governmental organisations (NGOs).
Policies for Deaf inclusion should never be developed without Deaf input. Deaf people are experts in their own lives and experiences. Whether through advisory councils, consultation panels, or co-design processes, Deaf advocates must have a seat at the table. They are not just service recipients; they are community leaders, educators, professionals, and parents.
The public needs to understand that BIM is a real, complex language—not just a set of gestures or a ‘fun skill’ to pick up. Schools, universities, and workplaces can normalise sign language learning and help dismantle harmful myths, replacing them with empathy and respect.
All government portals, educational websites, and public service content should include BIM translations. Accessibility is not limited to physical infrastructure; it must also include digital design, information delivery, and language access. Everyone deserves to navigate society in their own language.
On the International Day of Sign Languages, institutions may post celebratory messages or colourful graphics, but true celebration goes beyond appearances. Language is how we learn, express, and connect; it is how we protect ourselves, support others, and participate in our communities. For Deaf Malaysians, BIM is not just a tool—it is culture, identity, and power.
If society values inclusion, it must treat language access not as charity, but as justice. If we claim to celebrate sign language, we must ensure it is not limited to hashtags and events, but embedded in systems, services, and everyday life. Learning BIM, hiring interpreters, updating policies, and listening to Deaf voices are not radical demands; they are long-overdue responsibilities.
The work of inclusion is not about pity but about partnership. No one should be left out because their language looks different, and no one should have to fight to be understood. Bridging these barriers between words and worlds is how we begin to honour sign language—and, more importantly, the people who live it.
Chan Huey Qing is currently pursuing a Foundation in Arts at Taylor's College. With her heart in community work and her hands in student leadership, she believes change begins with listening—and acting on it.
