Gisele Emerusenge’s journey into sign language began as a quiet calling—one that would grow into a lifelong mission to bridge the gap between the hearing and the deaf. Born in Burundi in 1993, her family returned to Rwanda after the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi. Rwanda is the only home she has ever truly known, and it’s where her passion for interpretation and disability inclusion took root. “People often ask me how I got into this field,” Emerusenge says. “I’ve been asked so many times that I decided to write a book about it. It’s called My Hands Talk—because that’s really how it all began.” From playground curiosity to self-taught interpreter Emerusenge didn’t grow up with aspirations of becoming a professional interpreter. As a stubborn Primary Three child, she merely wanted a secret language. She vividly recalls watching Scouts use the sign language alphabet at school and mimicking their moves with her siblings. “I just wanted to be able to cheat in class or communicate with my siblings without adults knowing what we were saying,” Then, an unexpected bond shifted her from curiosity to commitment. A new student moved into her neighborhood—another Gisele, who was deaf. They bonded, and the younger Gisele began teaching Emerusenge real signs, expanding her knowledge beyond the basics. ALSO READ: We need more sign language translators “She taught me signs. And I never stopped using them,” By the time Emerusenge reached secondary school, teachers and classmates relied on her to interpret lessons, especially in scientific subjects like chemistry and physics, for deaf students. Despite no formal training, she became their voice. “I found myself interpreting, not because I was trained, but because no one else could,” By 2011, at age 19, she was already earning money from this work—an informal profession turned calling, despite her enrolling at university to study Procurement and Logistics. A career of necessity that needs more attention Rwanda offered little formal support for sign language interpretation. During Emerusenge’s formative years, there were no university programs in special needs education or interpretation. “There was no university for sign language interpretation,” she shares. “I had to teach myself and learn from the deaf community. Most people didn’t even know what inclusion meant,” she says. Her field experience included interpreting in hospitals, schools, and courtrooms—without official training or significant institutional support. Around 2018, she finally enrolled in a postgraduate program in Community-Based Rehabilitation, focusing on disability inclusion, to strengthen her expertise. ALSO READ: Five things Rwanda has done to promote deaf women’s rights Despite personal advancement, she remains candid about systemic shortcomings in terms of scaling sign language to those who need it. “Many deaf Rwandans don’t know sign language. They’ve never had the chance to go to school. There are few schools for the deaf, and most are private—many families can’t afford them.” Breaking hearts and barriers Some moments in Emerusenge’s career strike at the heart of inclusion failures. One such incident occurred in 2014, when she was called to a major Kigali hospital to interpret for a deaf patient with HIV/AIDS. The patient had initially taken medication, then stopped—likely because she believed she was cured. “She didn’t know sign language. She lived alone. She didn’t understand what HIV was or why she had to take medicine for the rest of her life. I tried everything—pictures, gestures—but I couldn’t fully reach her. That broke me.” The experience underscored the everyday tragedies caused by communication breakdowns in health, educational, and legal systems. An interpreter turned advocate At the heart of Emerusenge’s professional tension is the ethical dilemma: interpreter or advocate? Emerusenge recalls a pivotal courtroom instance when she realized a deaf suspect under her watch had not understood the charges against him. Bound by interpreter neutrality but compelled by justice, Emerusenge interrupted the proceedings. “I had to ask the judge if I could speak. I explained what it means to be deaf, how the suspect didn’t understand the charges. That day, I crossed a line—but it felt right,” she says. Her intervention led to a re-evaluation of the defendant’s case, and he was eventually acquitted—after four years of wrongful imprisonment and facing a 12-year sentence. “That’s one of the moments I’m most proud of. That’s when I knew my work could actually change someone’s life,” she points out. Each success is a step forward—but barriers remain Over the last decade, Rwanda has made formal strides: special needs education now exists, a dictionary for sign language launched in December 2023, and interpreters are sought after in NGOs and media. “At least we have something now. We’re not where we were in 2009,” she notes. Nonetheless, major gaps persist. Many service providers—teachers, doctors, law enforcement—still don’t learn sign language. Schools lack trained interpreters. Deaf children are often excluded from early childhood language development. “It’s like raising a child without ever teaching them to speak. Their intellect isn’t limited—they just lack access to communication,” Emerusenge says. Building change, one hand at a time Emerusenge remains determined and active to make a difference. She co-founded Rwanda’s national sign language interpreters’ association. ALSO READ: People with deaf-blindness call for inclusive access to education She is involved in hosting a continental conference for African interpreters later this year. She is raising public awareness about corporate inclusion. She is also training teachers who feel guilty for not knowing how to communicate with deaf students. One such teacher volunteered to pay her own fees just to learn basic sign language. “Teachers come to me and say, ‘I felt guilty being in class with a deaf student and not knowing how to communicate.’ NGOs send their staff for training—they want inclusive workplaces,” revealed Emerusenge. Emerusenge sees the task ahead as both systemic and urgent. Her vision includes formalizing sign language in national education—starting with Teacher Training Colleges, embedding accessibility across health and justice sectors, and raising awareness that interpretation is not an extra, but a right, bridging a clear communication barrier. She is still writing My Hands Talk, part memoir and part manifesto, meant to raise public consciousness about deaf inclusion and language rights. “Sign language is not charity,” she says. “It’s justice.” A life interpreted, a nation listening Over nearly 15 years, Emerusenge has interpreted in every imaginable setting—playground, classroom, hospital, court. She’s seen the difference that accessible communication can make, and she’s acutely aware of the human casualties when access fails. Her career has become a mirror for Rwanda’s progress and its ongoing challenges: from a country with no sign language, no inclusive education, and no official interpreter training—to one with national policy, trained professionals, and access infrastructure being slowly built. “Gosh, look how far we’ve come—and how far we still must go.” Emerusenge’s journey embodies both mercy and mission: uniting hands, voices, and policies in a movement that one day hopes to make inclusion invisible—because it is just how society should work.
