No One Should Be Alone in December

The December period should be a time of inclusive festivities and celebrations

By Thuthula Sodumo

This is a hard read, but a necessary one. Necessary because December is here, necessary because if we do not reawaken the spirit of Ubuntu, we risk losing it completely. December exposes the truths we hide beneath our daily noise. It arrives dressed in celebration, laughter, bright lights, and family, yet for millions of persons with disabilities (PWDs), it becomes the darkest stretch of the year.

December is a month where silence echoes louder than carols, where loneliness stretches longer than holidays, and where exclusion cuts deeper because the world is so loudly celebrating without them.

Every year, on the 3rd of December, we celebrate the International Day of Persons with Disabilities (IDPD); we gather to speak about inclusion, dignity, rights, and equity. We share graphics, organise events and clap for speeches, but the true test of inclusion comes after the microphones are packed away, after the awareness slogans fade, after the applause ends because the truth is this: many PWDs are forgotten in December, not out of malice but out of habit, not deliberately but through a quiet, consistent cruelty of convenience.

The World Health Organisation (WHO) warns us that loneliness is a public health crisis; it is not just a feeling that comes and goes. It harms the mind, weakens the body, and shortens lives, especially for PWDs who are already battling barriers every day; it magnifies that pain and struggle. During the festive season, transport becomes scarce, caregivers are overwhelmed or absent, support systems collapse, invitations stop coming, and children, elders, and adults with disabilities sit in rooms the world never enters.

Then there is the truth we whisper about or avoid completely because it shames us to say out loud: in many Black communities, disability exists inside a storm of violence shaped by poverty, inherited trauma, patriarchal norms, and silence. This violence is not always physical; sometimes it is emotional, financial, or spiritual, and it is real.

Children with disabilities are hidden because “people will talk.” Women and girls with disabilities are abused by partners who prey on their vulnerability. Elders with disabilities are neglected in overcrowded homes where exhaustion becomes an excuse. Disability grants are becoming the only income in a household, creating resentment, exploitation, or financial abuse.

Then there are our boys with disabilities, boys who dream of walking the sacred journey into manhood, who long to enter initiation schools, who want to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with their peers. Yet, they are mocked, ridiculed, bullied, or dismissed before they even get a chance. A world that should be preparing them for manhood instead questions their worthiness because of their bodies. A rite of passage meant to honour boys becomes another room of exclusion. These boys are not “less men, but the community’s cruelty convinces them they are.

I hold tightly to the teachings of Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who gifted the world with our deepest truth: “Ubuntu is the essence of being human. My humanity is tightly linked to yours. I am because we are.” “You cannot be human in isolation.” Yet isolation is exactly what persons with disabilities experience every festive season.

How do we claim Ubuntu while leaving persons with disabilities alone in dingy, dark rooms to rot? How do we call ourselves a community when children with disabilities watch others celebrate and play from a window, wishing they’d take part too? How do we celebrate togetherness while someone in a wheelchair eats alone in silence, crying and cursing the world? What happened to the village?

There is an African proverb that should haunt us all: “A child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.”
But in our reality, persons with disabilities are not burning villages; they are burning inside them, quietly, painfully and invisibly to the very people who claim Ubuntu. This proverb is a warning not about destruction, but about neglect. It tells us that every unheld child, every ignored elder, and every forgotten disabled person is a sign that our Ubuntu is dying.

Ubuntu is not a word we perform. Ubuntu is a life we must live; it is how we show up, especially for those whom the world dismisses. A single call, a visit, a shared meal, or simply sitting with someone can make a profound difference. Inclusion is not found in grand gestures but in presence. When the village disappears, loneliness settles in, and it is our collective responsibility to make sure no one is left behind during a season meant for togetherness.

A final reflection to all of us: if December continues to be the loneliest month for persons with disabilities, what does that say about who we are? If we celebrate loudly while the most vulnerable sit in silence, what does that say about our humanity? If violence, neglect, and loneliness flourish during the season meant for love, what has happened to our Ubuntu?

This December, may we choose differently. May we choose connection. May we choose compassion. May we choose to embrace those whom the world ignores because in the end, I am because you are. You are because I am. No disabled person should be forgotten while the world celebrates.