Caregivers, Quiet Discrimination, and the Illusion of peace!
I live in a community that has rules. Reasonable, right? Except these rules revealed themselves slowly—quietly—like a trapdoor under a welcome mat. It started with a photo of a kitten posted in the residents’ WhatsApp group. The kitten was adorable. But the mood turned quickly. “Against the rules,” someone said. My civic-minded self asked, “What rules?” A representative from the management company dutifully posted a list. I didn’t read most of it—but one line jumped out like a slap: “No pets allowed.”
And just like that, I had a dose of outrage bloom in me.
I had two immediate questions:
Do I live in a community that is designed to exclude the vulnerable?
Would a visually impaired resident with a guide dog be told they don’t belong?
Would a child who needs an emotional support animal be deemed a policy violation?
The response from the group? Swift and surgical.
“This is exactly why I moved here—I don’t like pets.”
And that, right there, is the problem. Not the dislike of animals. But the weaponized apathy.
The mighty, indifferent to vulnerability, came out guns blazing to defend their comfort. No reflection. No nuance. No pause to ask—what does this mean for someone other than me?
I couldn’t help but wonder:
What level of ignorance allows a community to design itself around convenience while actively shutting out anyone who lives differently?What kind of person is so threatened by say a Gold fish in a sealed jar in someone else’s house?
We talk about inclusion as if it’s a poster, a slogan, or a campaign. But this—this is where it starts. In the fine print. In the silence of rules. In the hearts of people who have convinced themselves that they cannot imagine another person’s life.
One of my neighbors messaged me, half-joking: “Do you even have a pet?”
“No,” I replied, “but I have a brain that can imagine someone who needs one—out of necessity.”
It was shortly after that exchange that I began to really see my surroundings.
There was a child on my block who, every evening at nearly the same time, banged on a window restrainer. The sound was jarring, repetitive, impossible to ignore. At first, I was simply irritated. But then, I noticed the pattern—intentional, rhythmic, it became familiar.
It dawned on me that this might be a child with needs that differ from what society calls “normal.” And in that moment, I changed the way I heard that banging.
I decided it would become music to me. A part of the sonic texture of this place, no different from the soft, occasional sound of a neighbour’s musical instrument—I think it’s an organ. When they play, it’s like heaven. I often wish they would play it more. Daily, in fact. It soothes deeply.
And it struck me: what if we trained ourselves to hear difference not as disruption, but as part of the human chorus? What if instead of designing communities that shut out the inconvenient, we softened our hearing—so that empathy could find a small space in our minds?
It didn’t take long before I met the child—the beautiful interrupter of my ‘normal.’ I suspect he’s the one behind the music of window restrainer -bangs. I say suspect, because I don’t really know. And here, I am as guilty as anyone else—drawing conclusions based on sound and timing. It might be him. It might not.
I was out in the yard, hanging laundry, when a skinny boy came splashing through puddles left by the rain. He was utterly absorbed in the water, joyful in a way that felt ancient and grounding. I greeted him. He didn’t respond. He just looked at me—his eyes wide with something between curiosity and watchfulness. But also… something else.
There was a certain purity in his gaze. A soulfulness that said without words: I am not like the others—and I don’t need to be.
A few steps behind him was his father. Distant enough to give the boy space, but close enough to watch over him. A gentle tether. The father nodded a greeting, and I—carefully, respectfully—asked if the child had a condition.
“Autism,” he said, simply.
His eyes asked a quiet question: How did you know?
In that moment, I wanted To say, I hear him. I hear this little window banger – music maker. And I see you – the way you walk far enough to give him freedom and close enough for ensure safety. I wanted to hand him flowers – for being present – for showing up for his son every day. But instead, I turned back to my laundry—folding cotton and holding reverence in silence.
I moved to this community for the quiet. For the river nearby. For the stillness I thought would cradle my writing. And in many ways, it does. But stillness, I’ve come to learn, is not the same as wholeness. Behind the trimmed hedges and tidy rules, I’ve discovered another kind of noise here—the low, persistent hum of systems that overlook, exclude, and deny. An indifference to vulnerability that yanks at my being. The illusion of privilege politely dressed as “community rules.”
What is policy without humanity?
What is order, if it protects convenience but sacrifices care?
Caregivers walk among us—tired, brave, unseen. Children with different needs live here too, as whole and radiant as any of us, even if the rules deny them pets as companions.
The real question isn’t whether a community is quiet.
It’s whether it’s kind. Whether it is designed with enough imagination to embrace those who experience the world differently and honour ways of being that do not follow the usual script. I, want to live in a place where difference doesn’t need permission to belong.
Muthoni Thangwa 