THE LIBERATOR

Nomasonto Grace Mazibuko

By Standing Voice

June 29^th, 2020

I grew up in a country that believes strongly in the pigmentation of one's skin.

I was born into a large family in Sophiatown, Johannesburg. Out of ten children, five of us had albinism and five did not. I was the ninth! It was a surprise to my parents when they had their first child with albinism. Neither they nor anyone in either of their families had the condition.

My parents were extremely supportive. I always respected my father for refusing to let his extended family have a say in our lives. His sisters were extremely discriminatory, refusing to see my siblings and I. I often used to ask myself: why did my mother continue having children despite the risk that they might be born with albinism? It’s painful to think that during her pregnancies, it was never a question whether the baby would be a boy or girl. It was always whether or not they would have albinism. But my parents never seemed to be affected by these concerns. They accepted us as a gift and nurtured us with love and respect.

“We were the only family in Meadowlands to have children with albinism. Nobody in my community wished to have a person with albinism born into their family. People would never want to be touched by me because they thought albinism was contagious. They did not understand that albinism was a disability.”

We grew up during the time of apartheid in South Africa. When I was five years old, we were forcibly removed from our home and moved to a western township, Meadowlands, where we still reside. A lot of separation was happening, even in schools. It was a very difficult time for my family. Our move to Meadowlands meant we had to walk 10km to get to school every day. But my father was insistent that my siblings and I would get a good education. He instilled in us that we must read and learn. I would read again and again to make sure my results at school were in the top 5. My listening skills were sharpened because I could rarely read what was written on the board. I had to be better and work twice as hard as my peers. I used my education to defend myself.

My father sadly passed away in 1960. My mother, who had stayed at home to look after my siblings and I, was forced to go back to work. Coming home to an empty house rather than seeing my mother forced me to quickly grow up. I always made sure to look after my younger brother and protect him from harm. We would play together outside but discovered much later that our skin was sensitive to the sun. Nobody insisted that we wore a hat or put on sunscreen. We would return home burnt, unable to sleep because of the blisters all over our skin.

“We were paired as children and could never go anywhere alone. You would never be out for longer than two hours without someone checking in on you. We were always made aware that it was not safe for us as children with albinism and the myths were well known. I grew up hearing that people with albinism did not die but simply disappeared.”

When I was old enough, I left home to train as a teacher. When I arrived at the training college, the matron was terrified of me. She wouldn’t allow me to wear anything other than the uniform I brought with me. Throughout my training, the principal would have to prepare my students prior to my arrival in the classroom. They would say “this lady does not look like you but she speaks Zulu. We don’t know what happened to her.” I had to prove myself to the teachers and students because there was so little understanding of albinism and genetics.

In 1960, my sister, Principal of Thembalethu Lower Primary School, hired me as a teacher. No other school would employ me because of my albinism. I taught at that school for 20 years until I was appointed Deputy Principal.

“On my first day in my new position, protests had gathered outside the school demanding the removal of myself and my sister. People had placards and were shouting that they could not be led by albinos. Teachers, parents, students, everybody. We were driven from our school and never allowed back. Our names were spread across all the newspapers and people harassed my mother at home.”

The Department of Education could not reinstate us at our old school so offered us a job instead. It was during these years that I quietly completed my diploma in project management and started my own albinism society. The Albinism Society of South Africa, initially based out of my house, made me realise how many people with albinism there were in my community. It wasn’t just my family. There were so many people who were suffering silently and needed my help. I refused to let others be treated badly anymore. Through our society, I was determined that children with albinism would be able to meet each other and relate to one another. I needed to give them the confidence to face life head-on. They can achieve. They can do anything they want.

I met my husband at school in Standard 6. Benedict saw me grow into the woman I am today. We’ve been married for 45 years, with four children and two grandchildren. For me, Benedict was very brave when we first got together. Other boys would be afraid of me and would question what their parents would say if they were to bring a person with albinism home to meet them. We weren’t what they considered ‘normal’. But Benedict took a stand and didn’t care. He loves me regardless of my skin.

Photo by the Commission for Gender Equality in South Africa

Photo by Department of Social Development

I feel like I was put on this earth to liberate people with albinism. I have been National Director of the Albinism Society of South Africa since it was first founded and am completing my second tenure as Gender Commissioner for the government of South Africa.

In the 21st century, I look forward to a promising future. My hope is that people with albinism will be liberated. I stand today, after everything I have been through, with a strong voice at 70 years old. I would like to see people with albinism coming together to form one voice. Let us unite in our fight for our rights.