June 30th

 I have wrestled with whether I should say anything about what is happening in our country.

As an almost middle-aged, middle-class white South African woman, I questioned whether my voice belonged in this conversation. The reality is that what is happening has not happened to me personally. I have not lived the fear that so many others are experiencing.

But perhaps that is exactly why I should speak.

Because humanity should never depend on whether something affects us personally.

Over the past weeks, leading up to June 30th, and still today, I have watched with a heavy heart as families have lived in fear, people have been forced to leave the places they call home, and communities have become increasingly divided. Behind every headline is a human being. A mother trying to protect her children. A father trying to provide for his family. An elderly person wondering where they will sleep. A child who simply wants to feel safe.

It is impossible not to feel heartbroken.

I understand that people are frustrated. I understand the fear around crime, unemployment, and the very real hardships facing so many South Africans. Those frustrations deserve to be heard.

But I cannot accept that directing our anger towards immigrants—whether documented or undocumented—is the answer.

Our country's greatest challenges did not begin with the people who crossed our borders in search of safety or opportunity. Corruption, failing infrastructure, unemployment, inequality, and poor governance have been eroding South Africa for years. Blaming vulnerable people may be emotionally satisfying to some, but it does not fix the problems that brought us here.

If anything, it distracts us from asking harder questions of those entrusted with leading our country.

Many people also underestimate just how difficult it is to immigrate legally or seek asylum. The process is often painfully slow, requiring countless visits to government offices, endless queues, delayed paperwork, and months—sometimes years—of uncertainty. It is easy to say, "Do it legally," but much harder to appreciate what that journey actually looks like for someone trying to survive while navigating it.

None of this means our immigration system should not have rules. Every sovereign nation has the right to secure its borders and administer immigration laws fairly. But there is a profound difference between enforcing the law and abandoning our compassion. We should be able to uphold both.

Jobs should be awarded based on character, skill, dedication, and the ability to do the work—not simply on where someone happened to be born. Hard work, integrity, and kindness know no nationality.

South Africa has always called itself the Rainbow Nation.

That title was never about pretending our differences don't exist. It was about believing that our diversity could be our greatest strength. It was about choosing reconciliation when division would have been easier. It was about recognising one another's humanity, even when our histories, cultures, and languages were different.

Lately, it feels as though we are forgetting that.

We are becoming so consumed by fear and frustration that we are beginning to see one another as enemies instead of neighbours. And history has shown us, time and again, where that road leads.

I don't want to raise my children in a country where fear speaks louder than compassion. I don't want them to believe that someone's birthplace determines their worth. I want them to grow up believing that courage is choosing kindness when hatred seems easier, and that strength is measured not by who we exclude, but by how we treat the most vulnerable among us.

We can demand accountability from our leaders without turning on one another.

We can want secure borders without celebrating suffering.

We can protect our communities without losing our humanity.

And we can disagree with one another without resorting to violence, hatred, or dehumanisation.

I know this post won't change everyone's mind.

But if it reminds even one person to pause before judging, to listen before condemning, or to choose empathy over anger, then it will have been worth writing.

Because the South Africa I still believe in is one where justice and compassion walk hand in hand.

Where dignity belongs to everyone.

And where peace is always louder than hate.

Now Is the Time to Care

 

I have been meaning to write this post for some time now, or at least something along these lines. I do not often delve into activism or politics on this blog, but this is something—if one can call it that—that has been weighing heavily on my heart. I cannot, in good conscience, remain silent while these atrocities continue to unfold, often right before our eyes.

As South Africans, I believe we often adopt the stance that if something is not happening to us or to someone we love, it is easier to look away. However, history has shown us that this mindset is dangerous. Patterns repeat themselves. Situations escalate—slowly, almost imperceptibly—until one day they are impossible to ignore. Whether or not it directly affects us now, or ever, we have a responsibility as human beings to remain aware of the struggles faced by others, even when those struggles are not local.

I recently completed The Handmaid’s Tale, a series I had long avoided because I knew it addressed themes I would find deeply triggering. I was not wrong. The first two seasons, in particular, were incredibly difficult to watch. There were moments where I had to pause and step away—moments where I felt such anger and emotional overwhelm that I struggled to articulate it.

Finishing the series brought certain real-world issues sharply into focus and ultimately prompted me to write this.

Let me begin with a disclaimer: I acknowledge that people have different cultures, beliefs, and personal preferences when it comes to how they live their lives. Everyone is entitled to those beliefs—provided they do not cause harm to others.

However, there are countries—particularly one first-world nation—where human rights, women’s rights, and LGBTQIA+ rights are being eroded at an alarming rate. This is not something we should ignore.

In the United States, and for some time now, under a particular administration and its ongoing influence, families have been torn apart through immigration enforcement practices. There have been reports of children being separated from their parents, sometimes used as leverage, even in cases where those parents were following legal processes. Stories have surfaced of mothers being detained while awaiting documentation, and in tragic cases, being denied the opportunity to be with critically ill children in their final moments.

At the same time, there is a stark contrast in how immigration is experienced depending on one’s resources and status. This raises serious questions about fairness, equity, and the integrity of the systems in place. Narratives blaming immigrants for broader societal challenges—such as unemployment or crime—echo sentiments seen in various troubling periods throughout history.

There are also growing concerns around restrictions on access to information and education, with reports of books being removed from libraries, curricula being altered, and historical narratives—particularly those relating to racism and colonisation—being reframed or minimised.

The overturning of Roe v. Wade has further intensified global attention on reproductive rights in the United States. Access to abortion and birth control has become increasingly restricted in several states, raising complex and deeply personal ethical questions. At the same time, support systems for families—such as child welfare assistance and food programmes—have faced significant challenges. This has led many to question the broader implications of policies that emphasise birth without corresponding support for life after birth.

Additionally, there have been reports of healthcare providers refusing certain treatments based on personal beliefs, which has had serious consequences in some cases, particularly for women requiring urgent medical care during pregnancy-related complications.

Members of the LGBTQIA+ community have also faced increasing legal and social pressures, including restrictions on gender identity recognition and participation in certain sectors. For many individuals, this has created an environment of uncertainty, fear, and exclusion.

I know that this is all a small measure of the greater issue, but where does this leave us?

It leaves us at a crossroads—one that humanity has faced before. We can choose to look away, to convince ourselves that these are isolated incidents happening “somewhere else,” or we can recognise the warning signs for what they are. History does not repeat itself in identical ways, but it echoes—and those echoes are becoming louder.

The uncomfortable truth is that rights are rarely stripped away all at once. They are eroded gradually, piece by piece, often under the guise of protection, tradition, or necessity. By the time the full impact is realised, it is often too late for those already caught in its wake.

This is not about politics. It is about people.

It is about the understanding that dignity, autonomy, and safety should not be conditional. It is about acknowledging that when any group is dehumanised or marginalised, it sets a precedent that can—and often does—extend further.

The future is not something that simply happens to us; it is something shaped by what we tolerate, what we question, and what we choose to stand up against.

Standing up does not always mean grand gestures. It can be as simple as staying informed, having difficult conversations, challenging harmful narratives, or showing support to those whose voices are being silenced. It is about refusing to normalise injustice, even when it is inconvenient or uncomfortable.

Because one day, it may be closer to home. One day, it may be someone you know. Or someone you love.

And if that day comes, the question will not be whether it mattered—it will be whether enough people cared when it still could have made a difference.

So let us care now.

Let us pay attention.

Let us choose empathy over indifference, awareness over ignorance, and courage over silence.

Because the world we are moving toward is being shaped in real time—and we are all, in some way, responsible for the direction it takes.