Looting and our lives a year later

As a child I remember being excited about going shopping with my family in Church Street, the beautiful blue fountain and the streets alive with people.

Then, as a journalist, there was the commute to the Pietermaritzburg High Court, with a stop at Café Bavaria to get one of their famous spinach and feta pies.

However, on July 13 it was a different scene. The roads were filled with the debris of shoe boxes, appliances and broken windows. The bustling CBD as I knew was filled with a deafening silence.

As I stopped the car along the way, to get pictures, I checked if the baton I carried was within reach.

I felt guilty as a I lifted my phone, to capture our beautiful city in that state.

This is not what I left behind the previous

Friday when I left my office.

That last Friday, on my way home, the road to my area was being blocked off by a service delivery protest. I had just made it in before the last tyre started burning.

It was the usual protest, we knew would end in an hour or so, and it did. The entire weekend went by and there was not an inkling of what would happen. Yes, we saw reports of the possibility of a strike, but we never thought that the July unrest could ever happen.

Never in our wildest dreams did we think that we couldn’t go about Monday morning as usual when we saw Brookside Mall burning. I thought that I could go to the scene, but soon realised this wasn’t a normal breaking news scene. It was far too dangerous.

Our roads were dead quiet, while our phones were buzzing with video footage and images of malls on fire and looting taking place.

Loud noises – were they gunshots or the sounds of buildings being torn down? Clouds of smoke could be seen from our homes. Our news team kept checking in on each other.

We did our best to keep people informed without creating more fear.

July 13, was the day I ventured out and saw our once beautiful city in ruins. There was not a soul in sight. As I drove back to the office, everything seemed out of place. There was no one; just the ruin of a city laid bare.

The city was in mourning. One of the first tragedies I reported on was the bodies of eight people found in Campsdrift. Was the looting worth their lives?

Then there was a father who died during a community watch shift. What followed in those days were the heart-breaking images that we took of establishments we had known since we were children. Damaged beyond repair.

It was a time when the community came together. News of establishments being unable to rebuild was heart breaking. But then there was light at the end of the tunnel for those who could and wanted to rebuild.

People helped build each other up. That is all we needed a year later.

Yes, the looting happened, it was wrong and we still bear the brunt of it. What matters is that we have used what we had to rebuild. Yes, fear resides in us at times, but today we know better. We can only hope we know better.