The making of an eco-warrior and the struggle to give a community a voice

Murdered activist Sikhosiphi ‘Bazooka’ Radebe addresses a crowd in 2015. (Photo: Supplied)

16 Mar 2025

Nonhle Mbuthuma’s voice resonates beyond South Africa’s Wild Coast. Her struggle reminds us that true sustainability isn’t just about preserving natural resources — it’s about protecting the human relationships with those resources that have sustained communities for generations.

In the rolling hills of South Africa’s Eastern Cape, where the Wild Coast meets the Indian Ocean, Nonhle Mbuthuma’s story begins.

As spokesperson of the Amadiba Crisis Committee, she has emerged as one of South Africa’s most formidable environmental defenders. Her journey from a young girl collecting medicinal plants with her grandfather to a leader fighting multinational corporations reveals a personal evolution and a profound philosophy about the relationship between people, development and the land they call home.

Lessons from the land

“My grandfather was a person who loved nature,” Mbuthuma recalls, her voice softening with the memory. “He would always take me with him when he went out to collect traditional medicine.”

These weren’t mere foraging trips; they were lessons in stewardship that would shape her worldview. “He taught me that if you want to preserve traditional medicine or the plants for the next generation, there is a way to harvest. You can’t simply take everything. You need to ensure there’s enough left for the next generation.”

Nonhle Mbuthuma is from Sigidi village on the Wild Coast. She is the spokesperson for the Amadiba Crisis Committee. (Photo: Supplied)

She grew up in the Amadiba community, and her grandparents helped raise her — a cultural practice for firstborn children — so nature was not separate from humanity; it was divinity itself.

“My grandfather loved nature so much that he said nature is God,” she explains. “He said there is no god you’ll ever see other than nature. Because if we don’t care for nature, it means we are not taking care of ourselves.”

This philosophy extended beyond mere appreciation; it was a way of life that recognised the sacred in the everyday: “The guava tree grows in my garden. Now I can eat and thank God. This type of tree flourishes in my yard — I have shelter and shade. We must be thankful for those things, not always yearning for vast wealth and grand possessions.”

The ocean as ancestor

For coastal communities such as Amadiba, the connection to the environment reaches out into the sea. The ocean is not merely a resource — it’s an essential part of their cultural and spiritual identity.

“The ocean sustains us. The ocean restores us. It forms an essential part of our healing environment and heritage,” Mbuthuma explains. “As people in Africa, we hold the belief that many of our ancestors dwell within the ocean.”

This connection isn’t metaphorical — it’s literal and alive in daily practice: “That is why, during difficult times, we go to the ocean. The rivers flow to the ocean. That’s where even the waterfalls end — they enter the ocean.”

Community members often sit by the sea not as tourists, but to connect with their ancestors. Traditional healers incorporate ocean elements in their practices. It’s a relationship so fundamental that it defines identity itself.

“You cannot just come and say people are not connected with the ocean,” Mbuthuma insists. “The ocean doesn’t exist by itself. As human beings, we are connected with the ocean in many ways.”

Community as home

The expansive definition of home marked Mbuthuma’s childhood in Amadiba. Although walking 12km to school and back might seem arduous, she remembers it differently.

“I didn’t feel it was too long because life in our community was very good,” she recalls. “When we walked, it wasn’t just about your home; every home was ours.”

This communal care was practical and nurturing: “When you came from school, you’d pass by somebody’s house, and they’d see you walking and share food with you — sweet potatoes — because they knew you were coming from school and were hungry.”

Nonhle Mbuthuma, spokesperson for the Amadiba Crisis Committee, is campaigning for preserving a way of life, a relationship with the land and an understanding of home that defies commodification. (Photo: Lucas Ledwaba / Mukurukuru Media)

This understanding of home transcends Western concepts of property. “Home for me is a place that cannot be exchanged for money,” Mbuthuma explains. “Home is a place you transfer to another person, not sell it.”

The spiritual connection runs deeper: “Home is where your umbilical cord is buried, connecting you and the land. That’s what’s called home.”

The birth of resistance

When an Australian mining company discovered titanium in the ancestral lands of the Amadiba people in the early 2000s, Mbuthuma and others recognised a fundamental threat to their existence. This discovery catalysed the formation of the Amadiba Crisis Committee in 2007.

“We realised that no matter what we said to this mining company, it made no difference,” she recalls. “We kept informing them that we did not want this type of development, while the government and the Australian company continued to push, telling us that this development was beneficial for us.”

Their organisation proved effective. They took the Department of Mineral Resources to court in an attempt to get a declaratory order that would prevent proposed titanium mining from taking place on their land and ultimately won a judgment affirming their right to free, prior, informed consent before any mining activities could proceed. Yet victory remains precarious. Years later, the Department of Minerals and Energy filed a notice to appeal, but has yet to present arguments, creating a limbo that prevents other community development.

“I realised that being organised assists communities in defeating the enemy,” Mbuthuma reflects. “When you’re disorganised, they can easily take advantage.”

Redefining development

At the heart of Amadiba’s struggle is a fundamental question: What constitutes real development? The proposed N2 toll highway through Amadiba lands has become the latest flashpoint in this debate.

In addition to environmental concerns, there is suspicion and worry within the community that the road has been deliberately routed in such a way as to make the coastal areas accessible for mining activities. Many believe that a fresh onslaught to mine the dunes will inevitably be made again, this time with a road that makes access to the area easy.

“I’m not against the road,” Mbuthuma clarifies. “I do support building it because our communities need to be accessible. The difference is that I don’t want the road built in a critical biodiversity area.”

For Mbuthuma, development isn’t about imposing external projects on communities. “If development is to develop people, then people must be part of the decision-making. They must participate in the process, not just be told what to do.”

She questions projects labelled as “development” that undermine local livelihoods: “This highway — we’re not going to benefit from it at all. Instead, we will lose our local economy because we need to clear space for the toll road. The gardens where we farm will be lost.”

The personal cost of resistance

bazooka radebe Murdered activist Sikhosiphi ‘Bazooka’ Radebe addresses a gathering in 2015. (Photo: Supplied)

Standing against powerful interests comes with grave personal risk. In 2016, Sikhosiphi “Bazooka” Radebe, a leader of the ACC, was gunned down outside his home in front of his teenage son. His killers have never been brought to book.

Today, nine years later, Mbuthuma lives with bodyguards.

“I’ve received death threats directed at me through SMS. There are still verbal death threats,” she says matter-of-factly. “To protect our wild coast, we realised the best way is to have bodyguards because we don’t feel safe.”

Justice remains elusive for those who have been killed. Yet the struggle continues: “What else can we do? It’s better to protect those who are still alive to continue the struggle.”

A simple message, a profound challenge

After years of battling mining companies, government departments and road agencies, Mbuthuma’s message remains strikingly simple: “Just listen to us. Allow our voice to be heard.”

“We are the people they are here to develop,” she says, “but they can’t talk about development without us. And they can’t plan about us without us.”

This seemingly straightforward request requires a fundamental shift in how governments and corporations approach development — from top-down impositions to genuine dialogue with communities.

For Mbuthuma, this isn’t just about one mine or one road. It’s about preserving a way of life, a relationship with the land and an understanding of home that defies commodification. It’s about ensuring that when development comes, it respects not just the physical environment but also the cultural and spiritual connections that give life meaning.

“We will continue with this battle,” she vows, “as long as we still breathe.”

In a world increasingly recognising the wisdom of Indigenous approaches to environmental stewardship, Nonhle Mbuthuma’s voice resonates beyond South Africa’s Wild Coast. Her struggle reminds us that true sustainability isn’t just about preserving natural resources — it’s about protecting the human relationships with those resources that have sustained communities for generations. DM

Anneliese Burgess is an independent journalist. She assists the Amadiba Crisis Committee with media training.

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