SA’S SHAKY FOUNDATION
AT A recent conference Chief Justice Mogoeng Mogoeng remarked that “South Africans are a peace-loving nation” (Beeld, August 10).
Really, sir? South Africa ranks among the most dangerous countries in the world, according to the Global Peace Index.
Violent protests are a daily occurrence throughout South Africa, massively impacting our economy. Violent crime and homicide are among the worst in the world.
In 2017, Cape Town and Nelson Mandela Bay were voted the most violent metros in the country.
South Africa has been named as the worst country in which to raise a child (Unicef).
Violence against women and children is endemic, and on the rise. Four women are murdered every day. Child murders are more than anywhere else in the world.
Between April and December 2016, 1 433 people were murdered, while 37 630 sexual offences took place. There are 116 rapes every day in South Africa.
South Africa is experiencing a moral decline and nothing good has replaced it. The country needs moral leadership with sound core values, not power-hungry and greedy leaders who focus on themselves.
South Africans are definitely not a peaceloving nation; in fact, just the opposite. This violent trend is being encouraged by so-called revolutionaries for political gain. A sad state of affairs indeed, with no end in sight as land expropriation without compensation has taken centre stage.
A divided country has no strong foundation.
JR Whitlock
UNDER the ground we were eagles.
There were many reasons why we kept on digging.
Under the ground there was something hidden.
It was the garden of Eden.
From a distance we could see it. We could smell the fruits. How desirable they were.
We could hear the earth speak. How melodious it was.
It danced to the symphony of our pickaxes.
To the melody of our carving chisels.
But it was our own sweat that we tasted.
It was always foul. The compensation was worse.
Some of us never emerge from the soil.
They never left this grave. This mine. This slavery.
Under the ground we were never in the eye of the storm.
Calmness was a myth. We lived through typhoons with our hands bleeding. Yet we kept on digging.
For our mothers and daughters. Our sons and our fathers.
And all their forefathers.
Those desirable fruits we smelled; that garden of Eden, they all kept moving further with every hammer strike on rocks.
That ground became futile to our kind.
Our empty arms were holding our wives hostage.
We had nothing to offer.
It was clear. They were masters and we were minions.
Even if it shimmers with gold. A grave is still a grave.
Those tools started weighing heavy on our limbs when our cries started falling on deaf ears.
Our limbs started weighing heavy on our bodies when food became a luxury.
The payment was no longer worth the dust.
The dust was waiting for us to lay on it.
The police were ready to lay us on it.
The police laid us on it!
When dust rose it swallowed us whole.
The only things that penetrated that cloud were flying projectiles.
Bullets were thirsty. They quenched their thirst on our skin.
We learnt the hard way that a green blanket isn’t bulletproof. Do you remember when we died? Waiting, singing, we sat on a hill. The night was young.
Our shovels were clean.
We were preparing for an eternal sleep.
We have killed ourselves many a time before when we entered that grave. That mine. That slavery.
A physical death was a mere formality.
For far too long we had been flirting with immortality. We have yearned for a spacewalk.
For our light to forever shine and for as long as through flesh we breathe.
The night was always young enough for us to continue to dig.
But on that day digging was not an option.
On that day death was the only resolution.
On that day we died to live. To clothe our children. To buy candles for them to study in the dark.
To patch holes on our shacks. Invest in a new bucket for that trip to the communal taps.
Maybe a wheelbarrow too, to limit the water fetching trips and spend a bit more time with our families.
Just 34 more minutes before going back to that grave. That mine. That slavery where police will shoot us down. A minute for each of our souls.
A minute for every reason why we kept on digging.
Under the ground there was something hidden.
It was the garden of Eden. We could smell the fruits. How desirable they were.
We could hear the earth speak. How melodious it was.
It whispered a disarming spell of death in our ears. kashiefa.ajam@inl.co.za karishma.dipa@inl.co.za sheree.bega@inl.co.za rabbie.serumula@inl.co.za sameer.naik@inl.co.za shain.germaner@inl.co.za shaun.smillie@inl.co.za kgopi.mabotja@inl.co.za