It was February this year when I first met Aro, a 9-year-old deaf girl living in the village next to mine.

Vivason technician Marie Mattei places custom made earmolds into Aro’s ears at a hearing aid distribution event in Antsirabe last month. Vivason photo

Taller than most girls her age with hair plaited into neat braids, I was immediately struck by her quiet demeanor as we sat eating lunch on a woven grass mat in her family’s kitchen. Her little sister chattered, screamed and cried for attention before falling asleep in her mother’s lap; Aro finished her lunch without ever saying a word.

It took several visits before I first heard her speak. No longer a stranger to her or her family, she began talking when I was in the room and later, to my joy, directly to me.

I learned that the real Aro is a clever, mischievous girl who loves to watch movies, play ball with her friends and joke about swiping money from my pocket to buy fried bread.

Soon, after learning Aro could speak and hear a little, I began to search for organizations that might be able to provide her with a pair of hearing aids.

Naively, I didn’t think it would be difficult. I reached out to hospitals, nonprofit organizations and the closest deaf school. Every time, I hit a dead end.

Every time, that is, except for one.

During my search, I was lucky enough to stumble upon a news release in French describing a hearing aid distribution program in Antsirabe, a city north of me. I reached out immediately, and, months later, Aro was approved to take part in the program.

In September, Aro’s family and I traveled to Fianarantsoa to visit a couple of specialists. Before spending the money to travel to Antsirabe, they wanted confirmation that Aro could benefit from hearing aids.

Aro’s dad, left, eats a breakfast of rice and leftover fish mixed with bitter tomatoes at Aro’s grandmother’s house in Fianarantsoa. Nearly a dozen of us slept in this room the night before on our way to Antsirabe. One woman went into labor overnight and was brought to the local health clinic by Aro’s mom; her baby boy, her first child, was stillborn. Vanessa Paolella photo

The first person we met with was a visiting French speech pathologist.

“She’s lonely,” she said to me in English. “She needs to be able to communicate with other people, not just her family. She needs friends.”

For days, I couldn’t stop replaying those words in my mind. Even now, I feel her words as sharply as a scalpel.

That was when the reality of Aro’s situation — and that of millions of children like her — really began to come into focus. Without help, not only would Aro never learn to read or communicate more than the most basic of ideas, I realized, she would also miss out on many of the joys of human connection.

Less than 1% of the estimated 300,000 deaf people here learn Malagasy Sign Language or receive any formal education, according to the Madagascar Federation of the Deaf. There’s just nine deaf schools in the country. Even if you’re lucky enough to be able to attend one of these schools, all but a couple offer only primary and vocational education. Nothing beyond that.

Babies start learning language when they’re 6 months old. This critical period for language acquisition lasts until about 5 years of age. Without exposure to a rich, complex language during this time, whether spoken or signed, a child’s language and cognitive development suffers.

In countries with robust support systems for deaf children, like in the U.S., congenital hearing loss is often detected by 3 to 4 months of age. This enables children to start using hearing assistive devices and begin learning sign language early. With early intervention and continued support, deaf children are more than capable of achieving the same academic and professional milestones as their hearing peers.

But here in Madagascar, deaf children are lucky if they begin learning sign language at 5 years old, the end of the critical language acquisition period. Most never do.

Aro and her family walk toward the bus station in Fianarantsoa carrying their luggage. Soon after this photo was taken, we flagged a taxi and crammed inside. Vanessa Paolella photo

Research has found that children can still learn language after 5 years old, but their ability to read, write and communicate is unlikely to ever match that of a child with early language exposure.

In the worst-case scenario, a profoundly deaf child never learns a language. They might communicate using home signs and gestures understood by their family, but they never learn to read, write or speak.

These days, I spend a lot of time thinking of those children. The ones who can’t describe a proud accomplishment or explain why they’re sad. The ones who will never enjoy the simple pleasure of reading a book or listening to a story their dad is telling for the millionth time.

And so in my quest to help Aro, I discovered what I should have known all along: There are precious few resources for supporting deaf children in Madagascar.

The day after we saw the speech pathologist, we visited an ear, nose and throat doctor. Aro took a hearing test, and the results showed she has severe hearing loss in both ears. We were thrilled when the doctor told us hearing aids could help improve her hearing.

In October, Aro’s family and I made the trek to Antsirabe for the distribution program, which may be the only one of its kind in Madagascar. We dreamed of a future where Aro not only copied her teacher’s words from the blackboard, but understood them, too.

Aro took a hearing test during the hearing aid distribution program in Antsirabe last month. A previous hearing test showed that Aro is severely deaf in both ears. Vanessa Paolella photo

Aro was the first of more than 100 children to receive hearing aids provided by the French hearing aid retailer VivaSon and their local nonprofit partner, Perma Alter. There, at the Alliance du Français, her mom watched children communicate with sign language and spoke with the parents of other deaf children for the first time.

Later, we sat around Aro in anticipation as the receivers were attached to the custom-made earmolds and placed in her ears.

And that’s when I learned a hard lesson in disappointment. Because even though we know Aro can hear, even if only a little, she showed no reaction to the hearing tests conducted by the program staff.

There was no blink when they clapped their hands behind her head, no show of recognition when they shouted her name. She had received a pair of quality German-made hearing aids with a retail value of more than $3,000, and it seemed to have made little difference.

President of VivaSon Michael Touati, right, watches as technicians make custom earmolds in Antsirabe last month. Three Malagasy technicians were trained to make and maintain earmolds to assist with the recipients’ ongoing maintenance needs. Vanessa Paolella photo

I held back tears of disappointment as teachers from the nearby deaf school brought Aro’s parents outside to discuss the reality of Aro’s situation.

Normal school won’t cut it, they said. In order to be successful, to learn how to read and communicate better, Aro needs to attend a deaf school.

We had talked about the option before, Aro’s parents and I. But the idea of sending their daughter to a boarding school three hours away is a difficult, almost unthinkable, proposition for her family.

On our way home from Antsirabe, Aro’s mom and I visited the Fianarantsoa School for the Deaf and met with the director of the school. During our conversation, I learned that the now 10-year-old girl had never slept without her family curled up beside her. If Aro were to attend, her mother asked, who would she sleep with?

When we left, her mother told me she would like to send Aro to the school. She told me she felt it would provide Aro with the best education possible. I’m certain she’s right.

But since returning home, we haven’t discussed it. I don’t want to pressure them into a decision, so I’m giving them some time before broaching the subject again. But I’m holding out hope she’ll attend.

When I first met Aro in February, she was too shy to talk with me in the room. Now, it brings me joy every time I hear her voice. Vanessa Paolella photo

A reader asked:

What do you do for fun? — Carl Sheline, Lewiston

The simple answer to this question is that I love to read, go for walks with my dogs, hang out and chat with Fanja in her little shop, and cook tasty meals. But what brings me the most joy here are the times when I get to experience life in Madagascar like a local. These moments can be chaotic, difficult and crowded — like the nights we spent sleeping at Aro’s grandmother’s house with nearly a dozen people in the same room — but I feel deeply privileged to have these experiences.

Have a question? Send it to van.paolella@gmail.com or by snail mail to the Sun Journal at 64 Lisbon St., Suite 201, Lewiston, ME 04240.

On a personal note:

The Fianarantsoa School for the Deaf is in dire need of financial support. Ten years ago, the Lutheran Church fully funded the school, and their biggest problem was finding beds for all the students who wished to attend. Now, the school is struggling to stay afloat after the church reduced its support to just 30% of the school’s operating budget last year. More than half of the school’s 45 beds are currently unused as the resulting increase in tuition has made the school too expensive for most Malagasy families (a day student is expected to pay $175 a year, and a boarding student, $215). Most of the students who attend can only pay part of this fee. A dozen pay nothing. The school sells beans, peanuts and chicken eggs in an effort to raise funds, but it’s not nearly enough. And so, I’m now on the hunt for grants and other potential resources for this school. As one of the few schools in Madagascar with the expertise to teach deaf children, having empty beds feels like a major injustice. If anyone is interested in learning more about the school or would like to offer some help, I’d be happy to put you in touch with the director. As a Peace Corps volunteer, I cannot personally fundraise or handle any money for the school myself. But when November 2025 rolls around? Just watch me.

Vanessa Paolella is a Peace Corps volunteer in Madagascar, as well as a former award-winning staff writer for the Sun Journal and a Bates College graduate. The views expressed in this column are hers alone and do not reflect the views of the U.S. government, the Peace Corps, or the Madagascar government.