By Similoluwa Shittu
Cerebral palsy has been part of Karah Kausarat’s life since birth, shaping not only her personal journey but also the way society perceives her. For many people, living with a disability is seen as synonymous with suffering, and this perception has influenced the interactions Karah has faced.
“As far as most people are concerned, it’s not something I live with; it is something I ‘suffer’ from,” Karah explains. This viewpoint creates a binary approach to her existence: either she is pitied and shunned or viewed as an object of inspiration. These narratives, however, strip away the complexity of her lived experience and often cause more harm than support.
Karah’s early years illustrate this dichotomy. At age eight, when she applied to a regular school, she was denied admission outright because she wasn’t considered ‘normal’ enough. “I had to go through rounds of questioning and tests that none of my peers faced,” she recounts. Only after passing these additional hurdles was she admitted, but the challenges did not end there. When she moved away three years later, the school awarded her, not for any remarkable academic achievement but as a gesture that allowed them to highlight their own ‘supportiveness.’ The event was framed as a celebration of the school’s generosity, with even her classmates receiving medals for merely befriending her.
These superficial acts of recognition come with deep implications. “It was as though my entire worth was reduced to a narrative of overcoming,” Karah says. The message sent to Karah and others like her is clear: their value is contingent upon being a symbol of bravery or an object of sympathy.
The burden of these expectations took a toll on Karah’s mental health. At nine years old, she experienced a devastating encounter during a visit to her hometown for her grandmother’s funeral. “A couple of women told me I was a burden on my parents and that I should have died,” she recalls. This cruelty led to months of depression, during which she experienced persistent headaches and isolation. It was only through the patient support of her parents that she gradually found her way out of that darkness. “They reassured me that I was not a burden and helped me understand that I was whole,” she shares.
Her time in college marked a turning point. In Kaduna, Karah found an environment that was both accessible and adaptive. The campus infrastructure allowed her to move freely and, more importantly, reduced the undue attention she had endured elsewhere. “Nobody stared at me like I was an alien,” she says. But this positive experience was limited to the confines of her college. Beyond its borders, the societal attitudes persisted.
Over the years, Karah has received invitations to speak at events and attend award functions, often being labeled as ‘brave’ for simply living her life. “I know I am privileged in many ways,” she acknowledges. “But being called brave for doing ordinary things feels objectifying.” To her, these gestures emphasize her ‘otherness’ rather than fostering genuine understanding or acceptance.
The rhetoric surrounding people with disabilities often features platitudes like ‘What’s your excuse?’ or ‘If they can, you can.’ These well-meaning phrases, however, can be alienating. “I don’t relate to this approach,” Karah explains. “I don’t want to be seen as a figure of bravery. I want to be accepted as I am.” The constant framing of her life through a lens of inspiration overshadows her true experiences—the mental health challenges, moments of joy, heartbreak, and bad days.
“If people want to talk to me about the work I do to make my country more accessible and accepting, I’m happy to discuss it,” she says. But when admiration stems solely from her day-to-day existence, it reinforces a sense of discrimination rather than celebration. Karah’s story is a powerful reminder that the narratives around people with disabilities need to shift from pity and heroism to one of respect and inclusion—seeing them as whole individuals with multifaceted lives.
