Sadly, I cannot help but
feel neglected by everyone in this planet. Until now, the only thing that has
remained constant in Nyamangoro camp like all other camps with albinos is constant
increase in number of people with albinism. It will be good, to say, finally,
we are living in a community that accept us for who we are simply because we
are all born with the same curse. But that, to say the least, does not make our
lives any easier considering that all other perceptions and misplaced innuendos
remain the same. Earlier this morning, the principal announced that the camp
was intended as a temporal stay for 50 people. With the number skyrocketing to
300 people more than the intended number, occupants here have no idea of when
they will be free to join their families again. We will have to share whatever
is available amongst ourselves. In as much as I have no qualms whatsoever
sharing, what I cant seem to comprehend is why we have to live like animals and
be treated like second class citizens. It’s sad that we have to constantly deal
with discrimination, nepotism, favoritism in a world that has largely embraced
globalisation and civility.
The agony of being in this
place is not that we do not have enough beds, mattresses, clothes or even food,
it’s the psychological torture and the toxic shame planted in our minds since
we were born that we are doomed and consigned to a life of misery for reasons
beyond our control. Psychologists talk of codependency as good feelings of self
validation that lie outside of ourselves and cannot be generated from within;
but if you were born in a society where you were not accepted from day one,
where do you find this happiness?? Sometimes, I wonder what we did so wrong
that we had to be imprisoned in these camps let alone being hunted outside the
walls of the camp. Those of us who have been here long enough have come to
terms with the fact that seeing our family is something that probably would
never happen. We have resigned ourselves to the fate dictated upon ourselves
and have no option but hope for the best. The codependency happiness is
something that we will never know. I was brought here by Aunt Sarah six years
ago and since then; no one has come to visit or to know how I am doing. At
times, it feels like they were relieved to know they finally got a place to
dump me and at the same time keep their hands clean. I miss home, I miss my
people and I wish they did the same.
Stories have to be told or
they will die, that is what my grandmother used to say every day before she
would tell me one of the oldest stories about how my great grandparents fought
for their freedom. My name is Matatizo, I was born and raised in Nyamagana
village, Mwanza region in Tanzania and this is my story. It is a story about
life, about survival; it is a story about an ache in my heart for the imagined beauty
of a life I haven’t had, a life that I had been locked out from simply because
I was born different, it is a story about denied freedom in a country that
claims to be an island of peace.
I am the first born in the
family of… am not sure how many siblings I have now. I, like many other
children with albinism, never knew my father. People in my village say I was
born guilty of a curse that I have never understood. The only thing I know is my
biological father hated me from the moment I popped out of my mother’s womb. He
told my mother I was a curse that I was born this way because the gods were
angry with her. Because of that, my
mother named me Matatizo which means problems. My father told her to poison me,
but my mother said she could never bring herself to do so. So he left her when
I was still an infant.
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Growing up, I kept wondering
what I did so wrong to be born with a curse. If there was a way to make things
right, if there was any other way for me to be like the others, I could have
embraced the opportunity with two hands. Even today, as a sixteen year old girl,
I still wonder if that possibility exists through science. I must confess that
should there be a slim chance, I would give anything to have color like other
people because I know I can never be happy in this skin. I have spent years
trying to accommodate myself but it gets harder as time goes by. I remember how
lonely I would feel every time the kids in my village would refuse to play with
me or run away from me because they thought I was a ghost. My mother would tell
me they were too stupid to know how special I was. There are times when I
believed her but there were also many other times when I was skeptical
especially on seeing the skeptical look of disapproval from her fellow women. Deep
down I formed the notion that she was just being my mother and as much as it
was difficult for me it was also difficult for her.
Even though my mother was a
very beautiful woman, she spent years trying to get a man in her life after my
father left. It is a shame for a woman of her age to live without a man. Not
that she never had any suitors; every man told her he could not live under the
same roof with a cursed child. It was either them or me, and she kept choosing
me over and over again. Then one day, she finally got her prince charming; a
man who never cared if I was a curse or not (Or so he pretended). They never
got married; they just moved in and started living together as husband and
wife. I was happy; finally I had a dad like all the other children in my neighborhood.
I subconsciously harbored of being showered fatherly love like all my peers.
They say if you never
received love from the ones who are meant to love you, you will never stop
looking for it. I never had a father and it was for the very first time I experienced
fatherly love. My step father was a good pretender; he treated me like a
princess. He bought me toys and taught me how to write and read. He was my
light, a father figure I had so much yearned for. Little did I know that a
shadow is never created in the darkness but it is born out of light. One day
when I came from school, I found him home. My mother had gone to the market to
buy groceries. He then called me to his room. Took off my clothes and told me
since he loved me so much, he was going to teach me the horror of this life and
make me a stronger person. I hate to relive the moments of that day. It was
painful and I felt like I was going to die. He then told me what ever happened
was to be our secret or else he was going to kick me out of his house. I was young but I knew it was wrong and
dirty.
All I ever wanted was to be
loved for who I was, to be accepted because I never chose to be born as an
albino but to him I was just a ghost who never felt pain anyway. I wanted so
bad to keep his affection, it felt nice to know I had a father but somewhere
along the lines my inside became too cold. I hated everything and despised him
for I knew all his affections were not honest. My stomach coiled every time I
heard his voice, it reminded me of his breathe beside my ears every time he
called me to his room or forced me to it when I didn’t want to go in. I cringed
with hate whenever I saw other children playing because I knew besides being
cursed and a ghost I was also dirty and didn’t have anything in common with
them. I was jealous of their freedom, of the fact that they could just be kids
and don’t have to harbor secrets that get heavier every day.
Over time, I got desperate. All
I felt was pain in my chest and my heart. It was as if I was already buried
deep and no one could hear my cry for help. I wanted to tell someone, a friend
may be but I had none. I thought of telling my teachers but they too wouldn’t
understand. So I went to the only person that I thought would, my mother. But
instead, she reacted by sending me away to my grandmother; accusing me of
wanting to end her second marriage. I remember her painful words because they
cut across my heart like a sharp knife. She told me, perhaps I was really
cursed and she would be damned if she let me ruin her life again. I left, confused,
full of regrets, lonely and desperate for something I knew I couldn’t have.
Someone to hold me and tell me it was going to be okay. I went to my grandmother’s
house wondering if I could ever change or stop the curse that has been eating
me inside out.
My grandmother was blind,
she never saw how my skin was so she never really cared if I was an albino or
not. Sometimes I wish all people were blind. At least we would not treat each
other differently just because one is born with a different skin color. Even
though my grandmother never treated me different, the burden I was carrying
from my mother’s house never stopped weighing me down. I could not understand
why my step father physically abused me and I was the one to blame for it. The
pain of these events was unbearable at other times and I would try to imprison
my thoughts hoping to feel normal and clean someday.
I never told my grandmother
of what had made me move from my mother’s house to her house. I wanted to
forget but at the same time the “why me “questions would never stop nagging me.
Why would a father do that to the daughter he claimed to love. Why did I have to
be born with a curse? Why would any mother accuse her own daughter of such
despicable thing? Too many questions ran through my mind but there was no one
to answer. It is so much later I came to learn that my step father was infected
with HIV/AIDs and he was advised by a witch doctor that sleeping with a virgin
albino could cure him. Knowing the truth can be a curse just as much as being
born with albinism because from the time I knew this, I lost a part of me. I
lost my ability to trust men and people in general. I became scared of how many
people would want to use me to save their lives. It was already a terrifying
thing to be a ghost and a curse. Now I was a supposed cure too!!!
Some people think death is
the scariest thing on earth, it’s not. Those of us born with albinism could
tell you for sure that living is what’s scary. From the moment I learned about
the myth of using albinos to cure Aids I no longer felt safe in my own house or
skin. I could not fall asleep at night; I was scared of my uncles, of the neighbors,
teachers and everyone around me. Every time I slept I had a nightmare. In my
nightmares, people would come take me and do the terrible things I was so
afraid of. I no longer awoke in the morning refreshed but tired and full of
fear. I refused to let my imagination work during the day because all I could
think of is how I would have a horrible death anytime just because of some
superstitions. Every single night, I would tell myself I had made one
successful step toward my grave. At times,
I felt like suicide was the best option. I didn’t want to go through another
abuse but then again, I didn’t want to go to hell.
Before I woke up to the
brutal world that kept reminding me I was a ghost every time I turned my head,
I always thought I was going to be someone important, a chief justice maybe, a
pilot or even a president of my country. It felt bad to know my dreams were
just dreams, that the possibility of a ghost to be someone important was slim
to none. At times I would cry until there were no more tears in my eyes and
then I would scream and curse the gods. Other nights, I would pray to whatever
god was listening but still I would wake up in the morning and I was still a
ghost and the curse I was born with would still be hanging on my neck. There
are times that I would wonder if I was ever going to have the life that was intended
for me, or maybe this is what was meant for me anyway and I had to make peace
with it.
You know, our parents often
warn us about taking candy from strange adults but they never warn us about
greeting them. In fact they insist on children to be respectful and greet
adults all the time. Little do they know greeting strangers can be as dangerous
as taking candy from them. Two weeks before I came here I met two strangers on
my way home. I was a loner so I used to walk to and from school alone. They
called me and since I was being a child I was raised to be, a respectful child
I went to them and greeted them. They asked me my age and where I was living. I
told them and they Iet me to go. That night before we slept they came for me.
Up to that moment it had not crossed my mind that someone somewhere thought
part of my body could be used to make a portion that would be used to make them
rich. They came knocking on my door. My uncle asked who was knocking but no one
answered. He told me to hide under the bed. I was terrified. All the nightmares
and possibility of all sorts of things that could happen to me came running to
my mind.
Before I knew it, they had broken
the door and calling my name, asking where I was hiding. My uncle told them I
didn’t live there but they silenced him with a machete on his head. He then
fell down unconscious blood flowing on the ground. I could see what was
happening from the place I was hiding. I began shaking uncontrollably and
sweating and tears flowing out of my eyes. I knew I was going to die, then they
went to the other rooms continued with their search and I got a chance to
escape. I ran as fast as I could to the nearby forest. I was so scared but I
didn’t want to die. I could not stop thinking of my dead uncle. For the next
few days I never dared to go home or school, I was in the forest eating fruits
and sleeping under trees until Aunt Sara found me when she was going to the
stream to fetch water.
People don’t know but sometimes
it is easier not to know things. You live with no fear, you are happy.
Following these events, I knew my life was in danger. I wish I could undo that
night and live a normal life but I knew my life was not going to be normal
again. It is at this time that I learned there are superstition beliefs that
parts of an albino body could be used to make people rich. How could the gods
be so unfair to those of my kind? What did we do so wrong to deserve all this?
I kept asking myself. I was not just scared but enraged, angry with all the
humans, the gods and whoever was responsible for making me who I am.
After this attempt, it was
no longer possible for me to continue living with my grandmother. I had to be
taken away. The best option available was Nyamangoro camp for albinos. My aunt Sara
brought me here. She had promised she would visit but she never did so. She
lied. Every time I got access to a phone,
I would call her but just like my mother she would make promises of coming to
see me but she never did. For the past six birthdays, the only thing I wished
for, prayed for or even asked for was for them to come and visit me. They both
promised they would and never showed up. Sometimes I wonder how they sleep at
night. Why is it so easy for them to forget about me yet I have difficulties
doing the same?
Every child has a dream;
some dream many dreams and others just one dream. While other children dreamt
of going to Disney world someday, most of children here at the camp dream of
the day they will be reunited with their family and live with no fear. I keep
wondering if it is fair to be given imagination of what our lives could be if
we were not born different. Some of the children here will never know their
parents names or how they look like especially those who were brought here when
they were still toddlers. They spend a lot of their time wondering why they are
here. They really don’t understand why they had to be separated from their
families and they have no idea of how evil, merciless and heartless people
outside these walls could be, but at least they will never know the pain of
being abandoned by their family. I don’t think they understand the whole
concept of family anyway. May be they think the whole world is just made of
albinos and few colored people like our principal. It is sad to know that some
of us will die inside the camps and none of our relatives will care enough to
attend our burial.
Despite all these, am
jealous of these children. They don’t have scars in their hearts yet. They
still don’t know to be an albino is to live with fear. Fear of death, fear of
skin cancer, of loss of your limbs, of loneliness and isolation, fear of abuse
and disease transmission or simply fear of losing your family, not just in the
world of flesh and blood but having them disappear inside you. They remind me
of my own younger sister who was born before I was moved to my grandmother’s
house. She was so little and beautiful. She had a colored skin, more like what
people will call normal. When she was born I was so happy, I knew finally I was
going to have someone I could play with. Someone who will love me and will look
up to me, I was determined to be the best sister in the world, but fate had
other plans for me. That was six years ago she must be so grown now, she
wouldn’t recognize me if she saw me, perhaps she will think am a ghost if she
got to meet me today. I get so jealous of her every time I think of her. She has
a family that loves and cares for her. She has a father that would protect her,
she has a life and she can reach the future she wants to unlike most of us in
these camps who can only dream of such a future.
I never liked my life as a
child even though I had a family nor do I like it now. It is as lonely as it
was back then. It will be too simple if I said I grew up feeling invisible like
how real ghosts are but the truth is I felt visible and totally ignored. In
this camp am not ignored but then am in the middle of many lonely souls every soul
wondering if this is where it has to be, searching for answers that we might
never find.
At times I wonder what the term earthly happiness is. For those of us who never knew happiness,
finding it is akin to looking for a needly in a hay of stack. Will there be a day when we also get to
experience what the rest of the world is experiencing? For colored children,
growing up was pretty much easy for them. I remember the first day I was going
to school; I was so excited about meeting new people. I hoped to find new
friends since the ones in my neighborhood did not like me. They thought I was a
ghost, they said I would transmit a curse if I played with them. Because of
that, I spent a lot of my time playing alone or helping my mother with
different chores. When I got to school, my life got even harder, I was the only
albino child in my class and no one wanted to sit next to me. I felt bad but
what was worse was that, wherever I went, other children would run away. They
made fun of me and called me names. I cried so many times but no one seemed to
hear my cry, not even my teachers.
A lot of people struggle to
be rich, successful or be whoever they were born to be. But for me and most
other children in this camp; we struggle for just one thing, our freedom. The
day that we will all be allowed and seen equal to other human beings, the day
that we will be free to go wherever we want and be whoever we want without
worrying that someone somewhere is hunting us and want to chop off our limbs or
part of our body. A lot of people might think we are free inside these walls,
but we are not. Yeah we don’t have to run every time we see a stranger
following us, or lock the door of our houses as soon as we get it or sleep with
a machete under the bed but no one can be free inside the cage. No matter how
big the cage is.
It will be easy to end my
story by saying I am looking forward to the day that I will be a free human
being and make all my dreams come true, but am not. Not that I do not believe
that such a day exist but I know like my grandfather I will not live to see the
day of our freedom because for four years I have been on ARVs I don’t think I
have a lot of time left on this earth but I hope my story contributes something
toward the fight for the albino future generations.
All beings want to be
happy, free and loved yet very few know how to. It is sad to know people could
create myths that could be used to hurt others. Identity is a prison one can
never escape; it defines us, it makes us who we are but it should not be used
to discriminate people. We are all human beings and just as much, none of us
chose to be a male or a female. In the same breath, we also do not choose the
color of our skin or our identity. There is nitrogen in our DNA, calcium in our
teeth, iron in the blood flowing through our veins and our hearts longing for
love and affection. What color our skins are does not make us ghosts, it makes
us different.
There is more to life than
the appearance of a person; there is more to life than being rich. The
difference between a curse and a blessing lies within our hearts. It is easier
to look at something different as a curse than a blessing because we are afraid
of change. There is beauty in everything and one only has to look closely to
see it. And if we let our hearts tell us what to do instead of or minds, then
no one would want to see an albino being butchered like an animal or
participate in the crime against humanity just because this person is
different. I just wish everyone could see it.
