by Abdi Ali-Mumin
From the Editor: Abdi Ali-Mumin is an orientation and mobility (O&M) instructor who holds the National Orientation and Mobility Certification (NOMC) from the National Blindness Professional Certification Board (NBPCB). He lives in Colorado, where he has his own business teaching cane travel. Here is what he says about the challenges and rewards of teaching blind people across the globe:
I was born and raised in sunny San Diego, California, to Somali immigrant parents who fled the brutal civil war in 1991. Both my parents were shot during the war and arrived in the United States without speaking a word of English. Despite these hardships, they did everything they could to give us a good life. My childhood was like any other American kid’s—I played sports, got into trouble with my brothers, and loved nothing more than spending time outside.
When I was a teenager, my family moved to Denver, Colorado, a city I would later realize had one of the best training centers for blind people. Later in life, I was diagnosed with glaucoma, which contributed to my blindness.
For four years, I resisted using a cane. I either relied on family members or just took my chances. When I fell due to my lack of depth perception, I’d laugh it off, pretend I was doing push-ups, or act like I meant to run into that stop sign. But at twenty-two, I finally had enough. That’s when I walked through the doors of the Colorado Center for the Blind (CCB).
CCB wasn’t just a training program—it was a wake-up call. Before I arrived, I had convinced myself that blindness meant limitations. I believed I would never have a career, a wife, or a family. I thought my mother would never be able to look at me with pride. But from my first day at CCB, all of that changed.
I wasn’t coddled. I wasn’t given excuses. If I wasn’t at the door by 8:00 a.m., there were consequences. It didn’t matter if I missed the bus or overslept. Being blind wasn’t an excuse for low expectations.
At first, the demands seemed impossible. I didn’t even know how to turn on an oven, yet I was told I’d be cooking for six people within a month. But I did it. I learned Braille thanks to my incredibly patient instructors. I learned to navigate technology without randomly tapping my phone for forty-five minutes, hoping I’d eventually hit the right icon. But most importantly, the day I received my first NFB long white cane, everything changed. I felt hope. I felt unstoppable.
That moment shaped my future. Today, I am an orientation and mobility instructor, a career I’ve had since 2020. And I love my students. There’s nothing more rewarding than seeing their triumphant smiles when they finally locate that elusive coffee shop or confidently navigate a grocery store alone.
But my journey didn’t stop in the United States. My passion has taken me across the world, where I’ve witnessed firsthand how different cultures view blindness. We are incredibly fortunate to have the National Federation of the Blind because, in many parts of the world, the stigma of blindness is overwhelming. I’ve been to places where people believe blindness is a curse from their ancestors or a punishment from God. In some countries, blind people are shunned, harmed, or even killed. And yet, in every place I’ve traveled—from Kenya to Uganda to South Africa—I’ve found one common thread: the hunger for hope.
Teaching O&M in developing countries is a unique challenge. In the United States, I can explain concepts like textured sidewalks, curbs, and crosswalk signals with confidence because they exist. But in places like Kenya, Uganda, or South Africa, these foundational elements are often missing.
One of the biggest barriers is language. Many students I’ve worked with have never heard of the terms I use to describe tactile feedback, echolocation, or intersection analysis. Translating these concepts into their native languages while demonstrating them physically takes patience and creativity.
Then there’s the infrastructure—or rather, the lack of it. Many roads are unpaved, and sidewalks are either nonexistent or riddled with obstacles. Teaching a student how to distinguish between smooth pavement and rough asphalt is difficult when everything is just dirt, gravel, or broken concrete. Crosswalks? Rare. Traffic laws? Optional. The fear my students experience when crossing a street is completely justified—many drivers don’t stop, and there are no audible signals to rely on. Every intersection becomes an exercise in controlled risk.
In the US, the NFB long white cane is the gold standard. Its lightweight fiberglass construction and metal tip provide superior tactile feedback, allowing users to detect subtle changes in terrain—smooth cement, rugged asphalt, uneven bricks. With this cane, I can feel the difference between a curb and a ramp, or a sidewalk and a driveway.
But in more rural or underdeveloped areas, the NFB cane takes a beating. Fiberglass simply isn’t durable enough to survive the harsh conditions of unpaved roads, jagged rocks, and daily exposure to rough handling. Many blind individuals in these areas use Ambutech canes, which are heavier and sturdier, sacrificing some of the detailed tactile feedback in exchange for longevity.
In Nairobi, Kenya, I experienced a major culture shock. As soon as I landed at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, I was met with well-meaning but misguided “helpers” who couldn’t believe a blind person could travel alone. The streets were chaotic—honking cars, motorcycles weaving through traffic, and no real traffic rules. Teaching O&M in such an environment required adapting techniques to help students navigate pure unpredictability.
Uganda had its own unique challenges. Many of my students there had never received any formal O&M training. They relied on memory, trial and error, or assistance from family members. One student, using a tree branch as a cane, told me, “This is all I’ve ever known.” When he received a real cane, he held it like a sacred object, naming it as if it were a pet.
South Africa was a different experience altogether. The beaches of Cape Town were breathtaking—golden sand stretching for miles, with the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. Sitting by the water, eating freshly caught fish grilled to perfection, was an absolute pleasure. But beyond the beauty, I witnessed an eagerness to learn. The students, teachers, and parents I met at a local school for the blind were eager to embrace independence, proving that blindness does not limit potential—it is society’s perception that does.
The fight for independence does not stop at our borders. The National Federation of the Blind philosophy—that blind people can live the lives they want—needs to be shared everywhere. More people need to take up the opportunity to volunteer, to spread this message across the world, because independence is not a privilege—it is a right.
If you have the chance to travel and teach, do it. If you can donate a cane, do it. If you can simply talk to someone in another country about the power of independence, do it. Blind people across the globe are waiting for someone to believe in them the way the National Federation of the Blind believed in me. So let’s show the world what we already know: Blindness is not what holds us back—low expectations do.