Giving workers their due
May we remember those who are at the bottom of the privilege ladder
MY MOM has always worked. I saw her work hard to get me my first Nokia phone, our first microwave and our DVD player – which was the definitive highlight of that year.
As I reflect on the history of the workers’ struggle, I envision my domestic worker mother, my aunt who runs a crèche out of our backyard, my other aunt who runs a small tuck shop out of our dining room and the countless mothers and aunts who earn less than what I spend on rent monthly, and yet every day they made sure that there was always enough.
Growing up our morning routines were quite simple: I would wake up at 4.30, turn on the kettle, and rush quickly back to bed to steal a few more minutes of sleep before the alarm went off at 5am, signalling the official start of the day. My mom would yell for me to wake up and I would wash in the grey plastic basin while she made
isidudu (porridge).
My homework was often finished in the mad rush of getting dressed and packed for a hasty 6.30am exit to catch the 6.40am Golden Arrow bus to Wynberg. I would stand for an hour on the bus as we commuted to Wynberg for school and work, crammed and very much in each other’s personal space. As we drove past Lansdowne Road, someone would stand up and start iculolase Wesile, and the morning bus service would start with prayer, then more singing and a short word of encouragement for the day.
My mom would often leave for work shortly after I’d left for school and make her way to the local garage where she later worked as a cashier, and would be on her feet for 10 hours a day, with just a 30-minute lunch break. I recently found out she earned about R500 a week, yet she made that stretch to afford my uniform, my weekly bus ticket, food, and everything in between.
I remember at one point when we still lived in Gugulethu, there were three adults and four children living in a two-bedroom house in NY 72. On one night my aunt said we only had rice and salt for supper and she sent
the three older kids out to the neighbours; one to borrow some potatoes, another an onion and another some beef stock so she could make umqa rice – a mash of rice and potato with minimal seasoning. This was the meal that signified that things were bad in the house.
On a “good” bad day my mom would buy some soy mince that she would add to the rice. This was long before soy mince was a hipster vegan staple. But despite everything, I never once went to bed hungry and never once left the house looking dirty or uncared for.
My mom was incredibly pedantic about how I looked and dressed; she would say “abantu funeka bangayazi
ukuba siyasokola”. This statement was a mixture of shame for being poor but also a desire to be proud of one’s body and how I presented myself.
When my mom was a cashier at a garage in Khayelitsha I would sometimes go a whole week without seeing her. Being alone in our two-room shack at night was scary and lonely, but she had no choice in the matter.
When she was able, she would come home and sit and do my homework with me, but the shifts that she worked meant she could afford the school I went to and prepare me for the life I am able to live now.
Today, I am a Master of Arts candidate in history, a teaching assistant, and a tutor at UCT.
Every time I see black students graduating and celebrating their mothers and parents, I am reminded that South Africa’s public and private sectors are full of people raised on umqa rice and raised by domestic worker mothers, aunts and grandmothers.
My mind continuously wonders why, when many of us were at some stage raised by men and women who were at the bottom of the privilege ladder, we still collectively fail to treat them with the dignity they deserve?
Pain and poverty and the workers’ struggle are so deeply interlocked. While South Africa’s economy continues to grow and develop, our bottomof-the-barrel workers are still unionising and battling for fair wages and a dignified standard of living.
The apartheid system thrived on cheap labour and disenfranchisement, and workers had to consistently contend with the migration labour system, pass laws, influx control and numerous other oppressive laws designed to maintain inequality. Workers were central in the Struggle against apartheid, with trade unions galvanising support for the anti-apartheid struggle.
As I reflected on this year’s Workers’ Day, I cannot help but think about
the national elections. I asked my mother what she thinks about Workers’ Day. She just laughed. My mom sees it as a day for her to rest, and for her that’s enough. When I asked her about the holiday and who she would vote for. She laughed and said “hayi wethu maAyi, ngawuyeke”.
Many people will not reflect deeply on workers’ rights or the role unions played in the fight against apartheid, or the long road towards fair employment standards for all work; but we know that the working class were the most oppressed under apartheid and that the struggle for better working conditions and the struggle to overthrow apartheid will forever be linked.
As we reflect on the long road walked as a democratic country, we cannot forget that the fight for economic freedom is closely linked to the workers’ struggle.
May we remember those who wake up in the early mornings to do strenuous work to put food on our plates; those who continue to work and grow this country of ours; those who remain disenfranchised because their work is still not seen as real work; those who continue to face discrimination in the work place; and those who remain without work.
May we bring them to the forefront of our minds and may our hearts propel us to work hard in the pursuit of justice and dignity for them all.
Why do we fail to treat workers with the dignity they deserve?