After 50 years of learning and teaching martial arts, Solly Said is glad he followed his heart in his career instead of following his parents’ wishes.
After all, it also brought him love.
It was through karate that he met his wife, Shamsa.
Shamsa Said hurries to the dojo, with only five minutes to spare before her next client, wearing black sweat pants and a loose T-shirt. She joins her husband who is already deep in conversation about his life as a karate master. She insists on being interviewed alone. “It is going to take forever if I do the interview with him [Solly]”. He has a great laugh because of her comment.
Shamsa talks about how she was led to karate because of her interest in Solly. “It was the only way I was going to see him,” she says. She ended up pursuing karate and reached black belt status.
All five of their children have followed in their footsteps and have obtained their black belts. Twenty-eight-year-old Zahra Said is a 4th Dan black belt. Yu-sha is their youngest son and a 3rd Dan black belt. He has a keen interest in soccer and has a position as analyst of the U19 Orlando Pirates team. Tasneem is his oldest child and also a 4th Dan; she is a mother and has chosen to focus her time on family.
‘This was my father’s path, I have to look for my own path’
Said has been teaching karate in Fordsburg for the past 25 years. He wishes that one of his children would take over the karate business and one of his daughters was prepared to until tragedy struck. “My second-youngest daughter passed away 15 years ago, I thought she was going to be the one who takes over.”
He also speaks highly of daughter Zahra and would not mind if she was the one who took over the family business. Although Zahra says her parents have been a true inspiration, she does not feel the need to one day take over the family business. “This was my father’s path, I have to look for my own path,” she says as she explains her independence from the business.
She finds a lot of pleasure in teaching children karate in her own capacity. “I love seeing them learn, I love seeing them apply, I love seeing them getting excited and wanting to show me the new kick-back that they have learnt.”
She also has a big passion for Heal Your Life therapy just like her mother, Shamsa. This kind of therapy helps with relaxation and physiological processes such as circulation.
However, Said believes that his legacy will continue one way or another, even if it is by his students. “I think what I have started 50 years ago will go to posterity. I can see future generations, sucking it dry, drinking it, eating it and enjoying what has been developed.”
Solly Said, the karate master
At the age of 13, Solly knew that martial arts would be the path he would take. Growing up in the violent Malay camp area, he says doing karate was the only means of self-defence and discipline. At the time, gangs were popular and there was a lot of political turmoil in the area and South Africa as a whole.
It became the community’s aim to get young children off the streets . For his early childhood, Said recalls many children from his area playing cricket or soccer every day when they got back from school. “We spent many hours on the streets playing and fooling around,” he says.
The Central Islam Youth Organisation (CIYO) started an initiative to get the youth off the streets. They wanted to introduce sports such as karate and judo that place a great emphasis on discipline and respect. At the time karate was an unconventional sport, especially for “non-whites”, Said says. “Some people only knew about karate because of James Bond movies.”
Said, or Hanshi (master) as he is called by his students, has beaten all the odds to follow his dreams. In his final year of studying BEd he decide to change and study draughting because it was a paying apprenticeship course. This is how he raised funds for his plane ticket to Japan.
Although he was financially and emotionally ready for the trip, his father refused to let him “go to Japan and get killed,” so he did not help Said with his visa. “I was the fourth of five sons in the family, and while the others had seemed to have conformed to the house rules, I was the maverick,” Said says. Said laughs when he thinks of the measures he had to take in order to get a visa. “I ended up forging my father’s signature. He was livid when he found out how I got my passport but that was my dream.”
However, it was not a smooth journey to Japan for him. He had problems with his visa and had to start his travels in Zimbabwe where he would do a short karate course. It was there where he was advised by his karate master to start his international travels in New York. “He told me that there were top karate masters from Japan and you can learn from them and pick up a bit of Japanese.” This is where he was graded and tested for his 1st Dan black belt.
KARATE MASTER: Solly Said (Soke) in his early years of training. Photo: Queenin Masuabi
Said made a promise to himself that he would be in Japan on his 21st birthday and he was. Being in Japan was the highlight of his career because he was taught by the great Japanese Hanshi Masutatsu Oyama, founder of Kyokushin Kai karate.
Said smiles when he speaks about the time he has spent in Japan. “Words can’t describe the experience, the challenges, the charm of studying in a full-time karate school. The one in Japan had the flavours of the East.”
He speaks passionately about all elements of Japanese culture, whether it be music, art, literature or food. “I feel like I must have been Japanese in another lifetime,” he says.
However, deep down in his heart he knew that he owed it to his country to come back and make a difference in the only way he knew how to, through karate. He opened his first gym and dojo at the Suliman Nana Memorial Hall in the late 1960s.
During his travels abroad he met up with his peers, who were advising him to leave South Africa for good. Especially in the 1980s when South Africa was going through political turmoil. At the time there were national school boycotts in most townships. There were also many forced removals in the Vrededorp area where Said came from.
Ken To Fude Ryu karate
He then founded his own karate style called Ken To Fude Ryu. This karate style is a culmination of all the different styles that he had learnt all over the world, including Kyokushin Kai karate. It is Japanese for “the way of the brush and sword”.
“The name came to me in a kind of half sleep, half awakeness, after sleepless nights of thinking, dreaming and contemplating.”
The brush refers to the continuous search for knowledge because in ancient Japanese culture, people did not use a pen but a brush to write. Said says it reflects on his keen interest for literature and writing. It could also reflect on using diplomacy and skills in creating peace through negotiation.
The sword is said to symbolise the continuous practice of perfection. Being a master in martial arts shows just how this Hanshi has worked hard to perfect his craft and this is what he tries to instil in his students. It could also mean, if necessary, people have to fight for what they believe in order to find peace.
The principles of Ken To Fude Ryu karate are meant to instil seven core values. These include ensuring that students become stronger, tougher, gain stamina, gain knowledge of the syllabus and gain skill in their performance. Maintaining a good attitude is also key because Said emphasises that skill alone is not enough for students to progress. Said also emphasises a good form of spirit- building which means producing more confident students.
KARATE: This is the true philosophy behind karate according to Solly Said. Photo: Queenin Masuabi
One of the most important principles for Ken To Fude Ryu is, as Said explains it, converting “pain to power” which means that students will be able to defend themselves more quickly than the average person. This is because they would be able to withstand pain considering the continuous practice which would involve blows to the body.
Ken To Fude Ryu karate has similarities to the Kyokushin Kai style which Said learnt in Japan. Kyokushin is Japanese for “the ultimate truth” and is rooted in a philosophy of self-improvement, discipline and hard training. This concept has less to do with the Western meaning of truth; rather it is more in keeping with the bushido (warrior code) concept of discovering the nature of one’s true character when tried. One of the goals of Kyokushin is to strengthen and improve character by challenging oneself through rigorous training.
Using Ken To Fude Ryu karate, many of Said’s scholars have been able to flourish and, just like him, travel around the world. This makes Said very proud because he feels that he has served as a role model to many of the young children that he trains in and around Fordsburg.
TRAINING DAY: One of Solly Said’s students, Vhorifha Ngobele, training with his sensei. Photo: Queenin Masuabi
Solly Said in Fordsburg
Said speaks of how the dynamics in Fordsburg have changed a great deal since the time he decided to return to South Africa. Now there are people of all nationalities (Pakistani, Somali, Bangladeshi and Egyptian) coming in to learn karate. He speaks proudly of his gym having been used in a documentary as an example of a space where people are accepted regardless of their nationality, during the xenophobic attacks in 2011. “My gym was seen as the ideal kind of centre where people could work together without thinking of people as other.”
FEATURED IMAGE: One of Solly Said’s students, Vhorifha Ngobele, training with his sensei. Photo: Queenin Masuabi
Once it was the crown jewel of movie culture in Fordsburg. Today it has been born again as an icon of a different kind. This is the story of the Majestic, the old, former movie house that becomes a lively, rousing church on Sundays.
The young women walk in and out of the service, to attend to needy babies who have had enough of lying in swaying arms. It’s hot and humid in the church of the Jabulani Ministeries in Fordsburg, Johannesburg, but the fans stationed in front of the stage keep the congregation cool.
Joylyn Bismark and her baby during the church service. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
“A ke so mo bone o tswanang le yena, che che che!” they sing, their voices soaring in the swoop of joy that gives the church its name. “I haven’t seen anyone like Him, no, no, no!” The men of the church band, in their Sunday suits with their neatly combed hair, drive the rhythm on drums, bass and guitar.
The lead singer, Theo Mjeza, wears a burgundy suit with a crisp white shirt. He carries the vocals and the get-down dance moves with his backup singers. Mjeza is unashamedly “flexy” and the trio backing him up, two women and one man, jam along with the groove.
Theo Mjeza in the groove of things as he sings lead for the opening song at the Jabulani Ministries’ Sunday service held at the Majestic cinema. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
The beat has a Nigerian flavour and the thump of the drums have the congregation worked up in a sweat. After Mjeza’s intro comes an older woman in a yellow and black two-piece suit, to sing the deep and spirit-moving worship song, I Give Myself to You.
The congregation is moved by the Holy Spirit. The woes of the week, brought to the Sunday service, trickle from eyes shut tight in emotion and anguish. Their arms flail in the air, to the chorus of “Amen!” They cry and they sigh to the hymn that recognises all of their pain.
Tears can’t be held back as a woman sings the words ‘I give myself to you’. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
Every Sunday, the Jabulani Ministries church, led by Pastor Mark Bismark, breathes new life into the Majestic on Central Road, once the grandest and most popular movie house in Fordsburg.
Now it has been born again as a place of worship, its 800 seats filled only about a quarter of the way with young and old, mostly coloured people who come to sing songs of praise and listen to the sermon.
The atmosphere is far from orthodox as the pastor preaches of his desire to merge the old and the new, the young and the old, by getting the youth of the church more involved in its activities. The pastor’s sermon is full of hope, “Jabulani Ministries is ready to grow, amen! We gonna teach you today, moral intelligence!”
With its famous yellow marquee, the Majestic still stands as a landmark, more of an historical monument than a movie house. The old blue seats with their yellow pillow-stuffing gaping at the rips, and the faded green and brown curtains hung above a square white screen, are all that is left of what was once a place of dreams for black, coloured and Indian movie lovers during apartheid.
Nowadays, it is the churchgoers who redeem the cinema from complete desolation. In its decay and abandonment, it seemed the cinema would not be a home to anyone any longer, but like a phoenix from the ashes, the Majestic lived up to its name and was born again.
The Sunday service lasts three hours, with an additional 30 minutes of “African time” to accommodate the moving of the spirit. Pastor Mark, with his medium-long, grey-black hair combed to the back, says his church has been running its services at the Majestic for the past four years. He too is a musician, a drummer and bass guitarist, but his voice, loud and booming, is his golden instrument.
Playing the guitar. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
The pastor, who grew up in Zimbabwe, the son of a railway worker, says he played in the “kingdom of darkness for about 15 years” and then decided to start the ministry before coming to the Majestic, his current kingdom of light.
It changes lives too, as I learn when I meet Godfrey, a former street kid, who was taken in by the church, fed and clothed, and now works as a car guard outside the cinema.
Close to 60 years old, the Majestic has weathered the waves of change which are frequent to many suburbs in Johannesburg, especially in the transition from apartheid to democracy.
But the Majestic refuses to die, like an old king who still wears his robes. And it still has many years of majesty left, thanks to a 99-year lease from the government to a local family who are not allowed to change the structure but may lend it out to those who need it. As the pastor says, “It’s a heritage site. We haven’t changed anything.”
Pastor Mark Bismark calls all the young people to the front to say a blessing for them for their upcoming end-of-year exams. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
Fordsburg, like nearby Sophiatown, was a magically alive “grey area” in the early days of apartheid. Not because the government of the day turned a blind eye to its social mix, but because much of the nitty-gritty on ownership of property had reached a standstill in court.
At the back of the Majestic, after the service, the cries of children running and playing echo up and down the aisles. A Muslim crèche is run at the back of the Majestic and children from the church occasionally come in to practise plays, poetry and song. Pastor Mark calls the Majestic a “white elephant”, but despite its neglected state, it stands as the only cinema in Fordsburg that has not been transformed into a business.
Just a short walk away from the Majestic, a giant sign, bright red and cursive, proclaims the site of the Avalon, another cinema from the glory days of Fordsburg’s movie culture. But the Avalon chose not the sanctified road like its sister, and fell instead into the abyss of guns and samurai swords.
Outside the Avalon cinema in Fordsburg today. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
Mohamed Dokrat, owner of the Avalon, saw fit to replace the space with hunting uniforms, lethal pocket knives, arms and ammunition. “I am in full support of the right of people to arm themselves,” he says. “We’re talking about a self-defence point of view, people want to arm themselves and rightfully so. It’s not guns that kill people, it’s people that kill people. If the person behind the weapon is an evil person or is mentally unstable, we’ve got a problem.”
While the Majestic calls to the Lord, the Avalon puts its faith in arms and ammunition
Today the Avalon is like a shell without a yolk, although Dokrat did decide to keep the famous Avalon sign. He was once offered R60 000 for the sign, but he refused. “I told him no,” Dokrat laughs. “We wanted to preserve and keep the sign.”
While the Majestic calls to the Lord, the Avalon puts its faith in arms and ammunition. And though Jabulani Ministries remains an island of Christianity in a sea of Islamic faith, everyone lives together in the same community, guns blazing or not.
Next door to the Avalon is the Kentucky Milk Bar, a takeaway store which has been in existence for 50 years and has been witness to the glory and death days of cinema in Fordsburg. Adam Mohamed, owner of the store, remembers his happy childhood in Fordsburg.
“It was a vibe,” he says, his eyes dancing in their sockets at the memory, “and it was the most safest place in the world to be. The beauty part is that people had no money, but the love they had for each other was amazing.”
As we chat, Adam says that I shouldn’t forget him when I’m a “big shot journalist”. He says his neighbour Dokrat could tell me lots of amazing things, and at this Dokrat waves his hand in embarrassment, brushing the comment away.
The good old days at the Majestic
Farhaad Hafajee, who now lives in Cape Town, grew up in the suburb of Lenasia, established as an Indian group area during apartheid. He remembers “a young life without responsibilities”, and says travelling to Fordsburg was filled with variety. They either travelled with his dad’s friend, who worked at the Oriental Plaza, or with the bus, or by hitchhiking.
“It was not only about the movies but it was the whole experience,” says Hafajee. “Walking around the Plaza in the mornings, walking around Fordsburg, peeking into the shop windows looking at the latest fashions, meeting friends for lunch at Akhals.” Everyone in Fordsburg knows Akhals, the legendary takeaway known more formally as Akhalwayas.
Masala chip rolls dripping with sauce, salt and vinegar crisps, Coca-Cola, cartoons and Western movies. Those were the days at the good old Majestic.
An attempt to bring back those days and revive cinema in Fordsburg proved partially successful in 2011. The Fordsburg Film Festival was to be the stepping stone to greater things, a renaissance, a history repeated, but unfortunately that particular film reel had run its credits a long time ago.
The festival came and went in one year only. Zwelethu Radebe, a director at Velocity Films who studied at AFDA, the South African School of Motion Picture Medium and Live Performance, made his debut as a director at the festival, when he presented his documentary Memoirs of Injustice.
“The main focus was that I wanted to know what the involvement of Indian people was during apartheid,” he says. Radebe remembers how nervous he was that evening, worried about how the people of Fordsburg would react to the film. Memoirs of Injustice tackled old Fordsburg with its entertainment, gangsters and political activism. It held up a mirror to local personalities, from Fordsburg’s oldest barber to surviving family owner of the landmark fish and chips shop, Solly’s Corner.
Despite Radebe’s fears, the screening went well. Radebe recalls a man approaching him in the bathroom and saying, “What a great film!” Radebe says he was touched that this man went out of his way to deliver a compliment, even if it was in the bathroom.
Now our old king, the Majestic, no longer houses movies, but has been a star in a movie of its own. In 2013, it was used as a set for Material, starring comedian Riaad Moosa as a young man who defies his conservative father’s wishes and takes to the stage as a stand-up comic.
The congregation sing along. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
“Fordsburg was always the only choice,” says Ronnie Apteker, entrepreneur and producer of Material. “There were of course many challenges. Making an indie film on a tight budget means we did not have a lot to spend on locations, so we had to make sure that we really stretched our resources.”
Apteker, who grew up in Johannesburg, remembers the heyday of Fordsburg well, and feels the movie captures its unique spirit. “Material indirectly paid a big tribute to Fordsburg and its soul,” he says. “I know that the Majestic is another source of great pride to the people of Fordsburg. Movies are not screened there anymore, but I think it is due for a revival. We shot the closing scenes of Material in the Majestic and it was a very beautiful affair.” One can almost see the Majestic take a bow at the compliment.
Cinema spaces in Johannesburg were places of societal delight, but their death would be quick and painless. Mohamed, owner of the Kentucky Milk Bar, agrees that it was shopping malls that killed the cinemas in Fordsburg. “When you go to a Ster Kinekor or Nu metro you’re spoilt for choice. In Fordsburg, there’s no variety for people, there’s no security. You walk into a mall you’re secure, you leave your car, you’re not worried about your vehicle, you can walk in and there’s ice-cream, there’s restaurants, you can do shopping.”
With a slow regression into poverty and crime, Fordsburg would lose its glitter, and the glamour represented by the Majestic, the Avalon, and the Lyric, the icons of its culture as a haven for cinema. “Fordsburg was at the cutting edge of black urban culture,” reads the programme for the Fordburg Film Festival in 2011.
Pastor Mark Bismark lays his hand on a young woman’s head as a blessing for her exams. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
But the crowning jewel, the Majestic, lives on, with song and in spirit, every Sunday, as Jabulani Ministeries fills it with worship, praise, and the cries of amen.
At the end of the service Pastor Mark calls the young people to the stage and places his hand on each head, wishing them God’s blessings for the end of year exams.
“We don’t want to lose this place,” the pastor slowly reflects. “If we were not using it, who would be?”
For every Sunday at least, the Majestic remains an old king with a kind heart and open arms.
FEATURED IMAGE: Theo Mjeza in the groove of things as he sings lead for the opening song at the Jabulani Ministries’ Sunday service held at the Majestic cinema. Photo: Katleho Sekhotho
*This article has been amended to protect the identity of some individuals (17.02.2016).
The women of the Garda family are far from “mainstream Muslim” women. This family of three daughters and seven granddaughters run their own businesses and rarely wear the hijab. Although unconventional, as modern women they fit into their conservative communities by blending their Islamic beliefs and Western influences.
The day Sumayya Mohamed finished high school at the Johannesburg Muslim School in Fordsburg, she packed away her abaya and hijab. They are now taken out once a year when her family goes on hajj, the Islamic pilgrimage to Mecca. On any other day, you will find her in her everyday go-to outfit – skinny jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers.
THE BLENDER: Sumayya Mohamed is a young Muslim girl from Mayfair who enjoys skating and contemporary music. Her family says she is the ‘blender’ with her Western sense of style. Photo: Riante Naidoo.
Her “unorthodox” clothing and short pixie haircut make people in the Muslim community look twice. The stir usually stems from the absence of a hijab neatly wrapped around her head.
“The way I dress is how I find comfort in who I am,” says 22-year-old Sumayya. “I defy every expectation that they throw at me.” She also does not wear a hijab or an abaya because she “does not think there is only one way to express Islam and the world is preoccupied with that”.
Sumayya’s aunt Tasneem Garda, 42, also does not wear a hijab. “I love my fashion and wearing the hijab is a very personal thing and right now it is just not me,” she says. “I wore it for a period of six months once, after I returned from hajj, but then I thought, ‘Who am I kidding?’”
Sumayya is known as “the blender” in her family. “My family say I can go anywhere in the world and look like I’m from there,” she says.
As the oldest granddaughter, neighbours in her suburb of Mayfair expect Sumayya to dress and behave “conservatively”, but she has her own ideas on what it means to be “a 21st-century Muslim girl”.
Modern lifestyles
Sumayya, a master’s student at Wits University, is currently doing her research on Indian women in Fordsburg’s public spaces. “I am interested to know how women situate themselves in a city and get around,” she says. “I want to study that to study myself.”
Safiyyah Surtee, a lecturer in religious studies at the University of Johannesburg, says it is more common for most 21st-century women to have access to university and it is “a really big step away from one generation before theirs, like their mothers”.
“Young Muslim women are now leading modern lifestyles and have careers and access to tertiary education,” Surtee says. She notes that with the progression of time “families evolve and younger generations are very liberal and lead the lifestyles they choose”.
BUSINESSWOMAN: Munira Garda unpacks patterned curtains in the family business Just Curtains she has worked in since she finished high school. Her daughter Sumayya says her mother has always been supportive of their academic decisions. Photo: Riante Naidoo.
Sumayya’s mother, Munira Garda, 49, did not go to university due to a combination of health issues and financial constraints. After she matriculated, she worked at the family business at the Oriental Plaza in Fordsburg.
“She has always supported our decisions and interests because she was never exposed to the degree options we have,” Sumayya says. “My mother has allowed my sister and I to study whatever we wanted and sort of lives through us.”
With every generation, family life and traditions have changed and those changes are always different.
THE GARDAS: Yusuf Garda (left) and his wife Tahera (right) are parents to three daughters and seven granddaughters. Yusuf says that on Friday nights when the entire family gather for dinner, his voice is often drowned out by the cheerful conversations of his wife, daughters and granddaughters. Photo: Riante Naidoo.
Sumayya’s great-grandparents came to South Africa in 1940. Her maternal grandfather Yusuf Garda, 75, married his cousin Tahera, 69, which was common practice at that time. Together, they raised their three daughters, Munira, Zaheda and Tasneem, in Pageview, known as Fietas by those from the area. Yusuf’s youngest daughter, Tasneem, now a mother of three daughters herself, says life then was “very different”.
“I remember playing in the streets with the children next door,” she says, recalling a sense of community she believes her daughters are not exposed to.
Remembering Fietas
Salma Patel, a Fietas resident of 57 years, watched Tasneem and her siblings as children. She used to live across from the Garda family on 14th Street and says Fietas community life was “unbelievable” in the 1960s.
“There was a social glue,” she says as she walks through what is now the Fietas Museum. Patel turned two double-storey houses on 14th Street into the museum, to preserve the memories of those who were instrumental in the financial, cultural and educational development of the Fietas community.
FIETAS MUSEUM: Originally created out of two double-storey houses, the Fietas Museum now stands on 14th Street in Pageview. The museum showcases an array of photographs of families, business owners and the colourful stores that made up the ’14th Street Bazaar’ which was described as ‘a bustling centre of trade’ in the 1960s. Photo: Riante Naidoo.
At the entrance to the museum, a sign reads: “Towards the 1940s, the population had become predominantly ‘Indian’ and merchants turned 14th Street into a famous shopping mecca.” This all changed in 1950 when it was declared a whites-only suburb under the Group Areas legislation and all non-white families were forcibly removed by the apartheid government.
“The streets were filled with children after school,” Patel says, but when they were not in school or out playing, their mothers were expected to take care of them, while their fathers ran the family business.
Women were the main support structure in the community and whether neighbours were family or not, Patel says there was “no hesitation to care for or feed each other’s children”.
Surtee, whose grandparents had a clothing business in what is now part of the Fietas Museum, says “there was hardship in raising children, but there was the broader family and greater community to help raise them”.
“Cooking was a very big part of their existence,” Surtee adds, as “women were in the domestic sphere and had to be the ideal wife and daughter-in-law.”
The “mentality was selfish as they [the older people in the community] expected their daughters-in-law to look after them because self-interest was a big motive,” Yusuf says.
‘Boy meets girls, girl meets boy’
Yusuf was 25 and Tahera 19 when they married. He says families “had to keep the wealth and secrets in the family”. The tradition of marriage began changing when his daughters decided to marry as the Gardas’ three daughters “all married outside the family”. Yusuf says that there was no parental pressure from him or his wife to marry within.
Tasneem explains that her father was the youngest of eight brothers. “We had male cousins that were much older so marrying one of them was not really possible,” she says.
Although Islam prohibits the concept of “courting”, as Yusuf puts it, “boy meets girls, girl meets boy and you can’t do much about the rest.” When Tasneem met Mohamed Fiaz Rajah in school, Yusuf says he “scrutinised his [Mohamed’s] family background and it was decent”.
Tasneem and Mohamed began dating when they studied pharmacy at Wits and, at the age of 23, they married with 700 guests at their wedding. Tasneem says their marriage was their choice but they had no say as to how many guests were invited. “It was what your parents wanted,” she says, “The entire community gets invited.”
Even though traditions have changed with time, older traditions sometimes filter down, like the expectation of marriage in many Indian families.
Sumayya also feels that her mother and grandmother secretly hope she will marry her best friend, Faheem. “But we’re just friends,” she always tells them and, as expected, “they just grin back at me as if they don’t believe me.”
Some of her friends chose to get married after matric, but Sumayya says she never felt pressured to get married. “Those antiquated traditions don’t come into my everyday life,” she says. There are times when her grandmother jokes around, “but sometimes I don’t think she’s joking when she asks when am I going to find a boy?”
Sumayya explains that when a girl decides to marry, part of that decision is to “take the worry off her parents. Indian parents worry about your future as a girl – are you gonna have a good boy?” She says “it’s a thing that stems from tradition”.
Yusuf says a woman was “seen as an asset to the family” that she married into. His own mother, he says,“gained eight daughters-in-law” and they all had a “keen sense to help”. He says domestic skills were extremely important to have.
A PASSIONATE CURATOR: Salma Patel is the Fietas Museum curator. As a Fietas resident for 57 years, her passion to preserve the history of her family and those who contributed to the community’s life and spirit is seen in her detailed account of artefacts and photographs that are displayed in the museum. Photo: Riante Naidoo.
Patel views things differently. She “saw women as unpaid labour”. In the 1960s, “they cooked upstairs and when things got hectic, they would come down and assist in the shop.” This was the convention of the time and women accepted it as the community was “very patriarchal”.
Tasneem says, “I will encourage my kids to be domesticated, more so than I was because I didn’t know how to cook when I got married and I was embarrassed.”
She says her mother prefers to cook alone and, also, did not have the patience to teach her. “My mother would tell me to go study instead because I think she preferred not to have someone in her way.”
Tasneem moved in with her in-laws after she married. “I learnt to cook from my mother-in-law and she is just as patient with my girls in the kitchen,” Tasneem says.
Sumayya is also expected to know how to cook, but admits that “it doesn’t always work out. My nani [grandmother] always kicks me out the kitchen at the most crucial point because I ask too many questions.”
Tahera says “it’s not always easy” to teach her daughters and granddaughters to cook as the recipes are all in her head. “I can’t tell them quantities or measurements, and that’s what they need to cook today,” she says. “I cook from judging.”
Tahera and the family also do not judge their daughters as Sumayya does not feel pressured to fit the image of a “conventional Muslim girl”. She likes that she has “the potential to change the narrative” about the world’s view of Islamic women. “I’m just a normal girl and these are my beliefs,” she says.
Islam allows her the ‘freedom and choice to be a feminist’
Her “different interests” have always been accepted by her family. She loves writing and listening to new music, although it is haram (forbidden). “When we have family braais we put music on and my dad dances to MiCasa which is really embarrassing,” she says, “but my parents understand our generation and the things we enjoy.”
MAYFAIR SKATER: While it is uncommon to see a Muslim girl skating on the roads in Mayfair, it is Sumayya Mohamed’s favourite activity. The master’s student enjoys ‘letting off steam’ when she gets on her board and says it allows her to get her ‘mind off things’. Photo: Riante Naidoo.
Skateboarding is her favourite activity and she describes it as the only thing she can do to “get her mind off things. It’s like my jogging I guess.” Occasionally, Sumayya skates on the uneven tar roads around her home. On more than one occasion, males driving by whistle and ask her why she is skating.
People often ask her “uncomfortable things” like why she wants to look like a boy or if she is a lesbian. “Because I am an Indian Muslim girl, they want me to be like the Indian Muslim girl next door,” she says. “There is a common preoccupation with how an Indian Muslim girl should behave and look, as if that is the most important part of her.”
She views herself as a Muslim girl, but in a greater world, and “will draw on those experiences, in relation to Islam”.
To her, faith is “believing in God and Muhammed as his messenger” and tradition is about “family, familiarity and culture. You teach generations the sense in things,” she says, and adds that Islam allows her the “freedom and choice to be a feminist”.
Surtee also considers herself an “Islamic feminist” which are “Muslim women who are arguing from within the faith for power, inclusion and equality”. She says there are still “pockets of Muslims who are stuck in the idea that Muslim women should be invisible, silent and docile,” but Islamic feminists are determined to change these perceptions.
Although young women are moving away from expressing Islam in an orthodox way, Surtee says, “The trend is to evolve with the rest of the world while also going back to scripture in the Qur’an and interpreting it in ways which are relevant to women today.”
However, Sumayya says the thought of losing her faith sometimes keeps her up at night. One day, she wants to leave Mayfair to work in The Big Apple. “If I moved there, I would have to find a base and find my people,” she says. “The core fundamentals of praying every day and educating children on their faith are the most important traditions to continue for all Islamic women.”
She and her grandfather agree on this as Yusuf says “reading the Quran every day is a must” because “it’s fundamental” to their faith, but that “you can’t impose too much on children,” and should “let them evolve and develop”.
Faith is most important to Tasneem as it teaches “values and discipline. The most important tradition is to continue with prayer and remain close to family. It’s not even an option,” she says.
Whether Sumayya finds herself in New York or some place closer to home, she says it is important for her to leave Mayfair so she can “appreciate it more”.
“Moving away doesn’t mean you’re not that community, you still represent them,” she says.
“Your life is a puzzle, you just have to find your pieces and they won’t always be in the place you call home.”
FEATURED IMAGE: A PASSIONATE CURATOR: Salma Patel is the Fietas Museum curator. As a Fietas resident for 57 years, her passion to preserve the history of her family and those who contributed to the community’s life and spirit is seen in her detailed account of artefacts and photographs that are displayed in the museum. Photo: Riante Naidoo.
Fietas, a working-class community, lies almost forgotten on the outskirts of Fordsburg. At the bottom of the neglected neighbourhood is 14th Street, a once bustling market street now home to the Fietas homeless community. These homeless people have learnt to make their own way, in the area where faith-based relief organisations reach out to make a difference.
“When times are hard, friends are few,” read the spray-painted words on the blue polyethylene bag balancing precariously on a platform trolley against the pavement of 14th Street in Fietas. Times are hard for the owner of the trolley, 46-year-old Joseph “Old Joe” Ngidie, and the few friends who have made the grassy pavement their home.
Sixty years ago, this was a bustling market street. Shop owners would lay their wares on the pavement, as people came from near and far to find a bargain. Then came the trucks and the bulldozers.
A few people walk up and down 14th Street but it is generally quiet. Photo: Samantha Camara
The Group Areas Act of 1950, a cornerstone of apartheid legislation, forced the segregation of races into designated areas. The black, coloured and Indian residents of Fietas were relocated, to the townships of Soweto and Lenasia. The shops of 14th Street were shut down and reopened in the Oriental Plaza, a vast yellow-brick mall in nearby Fordsburg. Overnight, Fietas became a white suburb and was renamed Pageview by the apartheid authorities though its residents still used its old name.
Today, it is a ghost town, a place of half-demolished homes and vacant lots, haunted by the past and the homeless.
One morning, on the corner of 14th and Krause streets, a man displays his wares on a brown, double bed-sized blanket. “My name is Godfrey,” he says. “I come from Mthatha in Eastern Cape. Come, look at what I am selling.” The deep scars on his face tighten as he points to the old books, the radio, and the yellow vuvuzela. Business is quiet on the empty street.
A day later, Godfrey’s blanket bears a collection of belts, an antique lamp stand and a Motorola phone with charger stand. What he salvages, he tries to sell. He is sitting on a weathered, brown couch which is missing both cushions. He is in a circle with some of the other men who live on the street, listening to news on the old radio, which he delicately retunes every few minutes. One of the men sits on an upturned box, washing his shoes in a bucket of soapy, discoloured water. Joseph sits on the pavement next to the group.
Help for the homeless?
Just a kilometre away from 14th Street is Mint Street in Fordsburg. It is lined with restaurants, clothing stalls, and the offices of faith-based relief organisations that care for the homeless and other disadvantaged members of the community. Caring for the destitute is a pillar of the Islamic faith, guided by the principle of zakah, a tithe of 2.5% given by Muslims for the welfare of the community.
The South African National Zakah Fund (SANZAF) is in Zakah House, a double-storey, colonial-style, grass-green building on the corner of Mint and Commercial streets. SANZAF is responsible for the distribution of zakah.
In a blue-walled and windowless office, head of welfare Phomolo “Usama” Beng explains that receiving zakah is an Islamic right. Anyone who is in need can apply. SANZAF helps people pay rent, school fees, and basic living expenses. The elderly, who do not have anybody to look after them, are placed on “permanent assistance”. For the younger and more able-bodied, the organisation encourages skills development through education and entrepreneurship.
“We advise them on the programmes that we have,” says Beng. “We have a skills training programme, we have a university programme and a business entrepreneur programme. If they are not interested in anything, we will not help them. If you are not interested in developing yourself, why must we help you?”
There are about 4 500 people living on the streets of Johannesburg, according to Joburg.org, the official website of the Johannesburg City Council. There are at least 50 people staying on the block at the top of 14th Street, where Godfrey and Joseph live.
“Many people are staying here,” says Joseph. “Many people who are older than me, far older, about 80 years old, who don’t have a pension. They are sleeping on the streets, they don’t have a place to stay. They’ve got a problem with their IDs. That’s a big problem in this place, IDs.”
Joseph wears a beige Imana Foods cap, a faded, black collared shirt, jeans and dusty takkies. When he is pulling his trolley in the street, he wears a yellow reflector vest to make himself visible in the traffic. I ask Joseph about his daily routine. It’s only 10am and he has already been to Sandton and back, a total distance of 40 kilometres.
“With a full load,” he says. “Heavy. Traffic on the street. The taxi drivers, they are fighting with us, giving us big problems. They don’t understand. You try to explain to them, I am also trying to get something to eat. They say ‘fuck off, go back home!’ But I have got a problem at home. That’s why I am here.”
A search for a better life leads to the streets
Joseph sorts through what he has collected. He is getting ready to go to the recycling depot. Photo: Samantha Camara
Joseph came to Johannesburg from Msinga, KwaZulu-Natal, in 1993, when he was 26 years old. He left his family behind. He came in search of a better life and he found it, qualifying as a butcher and working for a meat company in Simmonds Street. In 2007, he lost his job when the company closed down.
He went back home to Msinga with his severance package of R37 000. A year later, he was penniless and back in Johannesburg, looking for work.
Now he lies on a stained, used-to-be-white sofa cushion, in the shade of his empty trolley. The green palisade fence behind him is covered in black sheeting. Behind is a double-storey mosque, undergoing renovations. When it rains, Joseph drags his few possessions, a blanket, sofa cushion and recycling trolley, and seeks shelter under the balcony of the mosque.
Occasionally he asks the builders to fill an empty, two-litre ginger beer bottle with water. He says this is the only help he and his neighbours get from the mosque.
Six streets away from Joseph is Jan Hofmeyer Community Services (JHCS), operating out of a converted church. JHCS runs a feeding scheme and nursery school. Manager Linda Pretorius grew up in the area. “There’s a lot of kids who should go to school but don’t because they are on drugs. They are making this place a vrot apple, if I can put it that way,” says Pretorius.
“I won’t show the door to anyone. I will tell people to come in if they are hungry. Food is food and it’s important.”
Joseph says he has gone to feeding schemes in the area, “but they didn’t help with nothing. They tell different stories, you must come back tomorrow, come tomorrow. Come again on Friday. You end up getting sick and tired and say no, I’m not going there.”
Unable to find work in Johannesburg, Joseph decided to get a trolley and start collecting cardboard and plastic bottles. Every day, he wakes at 4am and trudges to Greenside, Parkview and Sandton, hauling his trolley and filling it with packaging material that he will sell to recycling companies for his daily bread.
The weathered, brown chair has collapsed. It has been pushed against the palisade fence. The legs are gone and it is turned on its side, making more room to sit on. The chair seems to be a communal possession, a relief from the upturned crates and boxes that are mostly used when the men sit together for a break from their collecting routines.
Joseph chooses to make his own way in life. He does not seek help from welfare organisations. “You can’t depend on those people because maybe they are coming today or they’re not going to come,” he says. “So it’s better to wake up in the morning and think for yourself.”
People come to Johannesburg from all over the country, he says, “because Johannesburg’s got money”.
A view of 14th Street from the second floor of the Fietas Museum. The museum is one of the few original buildings still standing and is a homage to Fietas before the Group Areas Act. In the distance is the Johannesburg skyline. Photo: Samantha Camara
But he avoids the centre of the city because he is afraid that his children, who too came in search of a better life, may see him, homeless and dishevelled. He last saw them three years ago.
They are old enough now,” he says. “They are passed matric. They are in Johannesburg, they are also suffering like me. They never got the money to go to university so they can get a job. They also look for a small job, like to drive taxis.”
The only contact he has with his two children is via telephone calls. He hasn’t gone into the CBD since he was working there almost 10 years ago.
“Now it is difficult for me to go see them. You see how dirty I am now,” he says. “I haven’t seen them, but I keep on calling them. I ask how’s their life, okay sharp, I’ll see you next time. The last time they see me I wasn’t like this. I was a good man. Like other people, I was working nicely. If they see me, I was going to make them happy, I could give them something, money.”
‘Each and everybody must look after themselves’
Joseph has learnt the hard way that life is hard, and you have to care for yourself. “Sometimes you can have a friend,” he says. “You can help your friend. But each and everybody must look after themselves.”
I walk back to the Oriental Plaza along Albertina Sisulu Street. I see a man of about Joseph’s age, sitting on a street corner. As I walk past, he gets up and begins to follow me. I cross the street. He follows, walking less than a metre behind me. I stop on a side street. He stops too. “Can I help you?” I ask. “I am thirsty,” he replies. I see a sharpened branch in his hand. “I cannot help you,” I say. “Sorry.” And I walk quickly on.
One block up from SANZAF is Islamic Relief South Africa. Sitting in the boardroom, funds coordination manager Abdullah Vawda says their focus is on providing food, water and medical assistance to the community. Food parcels are distributed monthly to recorded beneficiaries. Many homeless people in the area are undocumented and therefore do not qualify for assistance, as Islamic Relief is bound by its international organisation’s protocol.
“Most of our donors are for the international market or big projects,” says Abdullah. “Locally, most donors will put money in the Mandela hospital. They will rarely donate for food items. Families themselves are buying bread and giving it to the poor, therefore cutting out the need for those people to approach us.”
While the organisation cannot formally assist the homeless community of Fietas, they do help if they have surplus donations of food. But, as Vawda says, charity is not the ideal solution.
“It creates a culture of laziness. People don’t want to work. My own experience in the area for the past five years is there’s more and more beggars every time, and the issue of hand-outs is not solving anything. What’s sad is that you find younger and younger kids are full-time beggars. They should be in school.”
Hauling 100 kilograms for 30 rand
Five days later, I return to 14th Street. The left-hand side of the street is covered in litter, plastic bottles, flattened appliance boxes, and old computer monitors. At the top of the street, on the open foundations of a demolished building, an old television set is burning. The thick grey smoke drifts across the street. For Joseph and his friends, this is a marketplace in the making.
Joseph sorts the rubbish before loading it onto his trolley which he pulls down 14th Street. Photo: Samantha Camara
On Wednesdays, Joseph gets together with the group to sort what they have collected. The plastic, paper, and cardboard are arranged in orderly piles. When the sorting is done, each person loads their trolley and they walk to the recycling depot.
“A hundred kilograms gets about R30 to R40, sometimes R50,” says Joseph. The discarded objects of urban and suburban life are the sole commodity of this community’s livelihood.
I ask if I can pull the trolley before Joseph sorts the last haul. It is almost full. It is lighter than I expect, and I easily pull it a few metres up the road as Godfrey and the rest of the group look on, laughing.
Once, 14th Street was alive with colour and the noise of trade. It was the street where a community made its livelihood. Joseph and Godfrey are the new traders of Fietas, trying to make a living by selling abandoned goods and recycling waste material. The empty street and demolished buildings are a reminder of the hard times that have come to rest on this forgotten area of the city.
Joseph hefts his trolley down the street, his hands behind him, his head forward. He sticks closely to the pavement as he starts the journey to the recycling depot, where he hopes to trade enough cardboard to buy a loaf of bread, something to drink, and maybe a packet of cigarettes.
FEATURED IMAGE: Joseph sorts the rubbish before loading it onto his trolley which he pulls down 14th Street. Photo: Samantha Camara
The neighbourhood of Fordsburg, west of the Johannesburg city centre, is a place of history and a wide diversity of cultures. But is there such a thing as a unique “Fordsburg Style”?
Aneesa Omar leans against the counter in her store in Fordsburg. A beautiful, bright head scarf frames her face, complementing her trendy tweed crop jacket, white shirt, skinny jeans and jewelled, pointed-toe pumps.
Omar is a designer of Islamic fashion for women, and the owner of Silk, a small but popular boutique on Lilian Road. Silk is famous as the home of the abaya – Arabic for cloak – a traditionally black, robe-like dress that leaves only the face, feet, and hands exposed.
It is worn for modesty, but its simple styling allows for great versatility of design and trimming, which new, young designers such as Omar are taking advantage of.
The intricate detail of Silk’s designs can be seen on any of the mannequins that are on display in the store. Photo: Valerie Robinson.
Once a simply functional garment that signalled religious devotion, the abaya has become a fashion item in its own right and Omar’s beaded, laced and embedded crystal designs are proof of her claim that “Fordsburg is at the forefront of Johannesburg’s Islamic fashion”.
Overshadowed by the skyscrapers of glass, concrete and steel, Fordsburg lies just three kilometres from the centre of Johannesburg. It is a vibrant neighbourhood, not so much a melting pot as a masala of colours and cultures and traditions. A masala is a heady mix of Indian spices often used in delicious curries and it springs to mind in the way Fordsburg tantalises and seduces your senses.
The rise of Islamic fashion
In Fordsburg, you will find a modern building with steel windows right next to a century-old building with peeling paint that reveals the layers of its now-fading colours from over the years. You will find an authentic Egyptian shisha or hookah lounge right next to a Pizza Hut.
But when it comes to fashion and culture, the heart of Fordsburg is Islamic and it beats to the rustle of Silk.
Omar runs her boutique, situated next to a hair salon in the same centre as the Fordsburg Chicken Licken, which she jokingly claims “takes up all the parking”. With her mother Shanaaz Patel, a dressmaker, and her father and sisters, they have made Silk into the epitome of glamour for Islamic fashion.
“It started with my mom 16 years ago,” says Omar. “She realised there are no nice abayas here. So she would go to dressmakers and get the fabric and get them to make it. Then friends asked her, can you do one for me?”
Aneesa Omar and Eunice Modise are hard at work in Silk designing and making an abaya for a customer. Photo: Valerie Robinson.
Omar has no formal fashion training and in fact studied a business degree. But through her mother, she became involved in the business of Islamic fashion. “I sketch with my mom, and then my mom is at the workshop where they do the cutting and putting the design into a garment. It is a lot of trial and error.”
Islamic clothing is often stereotyped in the Western view as being drab and restrictive. In truth, Islamic fashion has exploded onto the fashion scene in a big way.
The British clothing chain H&M made headlines this year as Mariah Idrissi became their first hijab-wearing model.Layla Sallie modles a trendy abaya from the brand House of Yushrah, on the streets of Fordsburg. Photo: Valerie Robinson.
Layla Sallie models high fashion Islamic wear, such as the beautiful peach colored leggings on the streets of Fordsburg. Photo: Valerie Robinson.
Layla Sallie shows off detail such as the shoulder crystals on her abaya. Photo: Valerie Robinson.
Silk has been trading in Fordsburg since 2004. Omar explains that Islamic fashion thrives here because it is central, close to the freeway for visitors from out of town, and essential for supplies that are crucial to the practise of Islamic culture.
‘Islamic fashion is breaking through’
“You know with Islam,” says Omar, “when people eat halaal meat and all that, all the requirements are in Fordsburg. They have to stop here to go to the butcher and the grocer and get their spices. It just makes sense to be here.”
And it makes sense to shop for clothes here too. “Islamic fashion is breaking through,” says Omar.
“When we started 11 years ago, it was plain black abayas with not a lot of other detailing, mainly for religious purposes. So people wore them to cover up, and not really for fashion. Now they are very trendy. We have to change our designs every few weeks, and we have two fashion shows a year just to be able to keep up with the fashion.”
People come to Silk for the unique and trendy abayas and the head scarves, says Omar. But the “must have” item in Fordsburg, according to her, is the “high-low” hemline or the seemingly two-piece abaya. This style comes in a form that looks like a shirt and a skirt, giving the illusion of a two-piece, while retaining its essential modesty.
The low-high hemline is when the front of the skirt is shorter than the back and will come up to mid-calf. “It’s an abaya but it actually looks like a skirt,” says Omar. “It’s not so traditional, so they wear leggings underneath them.”
Material and fashion – The gold of Fordsburg
While small boutiques like Silk embody the distinctive Islamic style of Fordsburg, the big, bustling centre of the fashion trade here lies within view of Silk’s storefront in the Oriental Plaza. Of the 360 stores in the Oriental Plaza, 128 deal with fashion in some way.
Jerry’s is one of the busiest fabric shops in the Plaza. It is a family business, run by Jerry Sakoor and his son Mohammed.
Mohammed Sakoor says that most of his clients come from other areas of Johannesburg. “I think everyone still likes their own thing, you know. I mean, we get girls that come in and want something classic and then you get girls that come in and want something modern. There is no such thing as one person’s fashion. Everybody has their own thing.”
Right now in Jerry’s, a trio of young women are helping their friend choose the perfect Chantilly lace for her wedding veil. Oohing and aahing, they place one fabric after the other over the bride-to-be’s head. “I just knew the drive would be worth it,” says one of the women, as the bride-to-be signals her excited approval.
Faruk Mdali, Ismail Hossain and Sunih Rayshanon (left to right), are hard at work even on a Sunday afternoon as their tailor shop, Faruk Tailor Shop, has customers pouring in and out of its doors throughout the week. Photo: Valerie Robinson.
Fabric and fashion are a huge part of Fordsburg’s cultural identity and its thriving marketplace atmosphere. “There are a lot of tailors coming here, and they are starting to do designs,” says Sakoor. “People are getting more and more involved in fashion. I mean, if you walk around Fordsburg you will see new tailors, guys copying guys in France and all that, and they are doing pretty well.”
Even as far afield as Sandton, known as the richest square mile in Africa, the fashion influences of Fordsburg make themselves known. The luxurious Michelangelo Hotel is the venue for the twice-annual Silk fashion showcase. Omar explains that it is an invite-only event, to introduce clients to the new range and spoil them. “Even though it is a closed fashion show, people frequently try and crash the event,” says Omar.
“I think we were the first to do an Islamic fashion show. Before that, it was unheard of to put abayas on a runway. That just goes to show how fashion is changing.”
The detail of Aneesa Omar’s work being reflective of intricate art can be seen by examining the detail up close. Photo: Valerie Robinson.
When you look around Silk, it becomes clear that Islamic fashion is full of colour and detail that goes back centuries, echoing the colours and traditions of Islamic art. The fabric ranges from the fluidity of velvet, which Omar explains is a major winter trend, to the coarse yet silky detail within the lace. “Currently, I would say, lace is in fashion and tweed as well,” comments Omar. The trend is reflected in her own outfit.
Fordsburg, she adds, is one of the few places in South Africa where Islamic fashion is still designed and tailored to suit the customer. “Not a lot of people manufacture the garments in South Africa,” says Omar. “They just buy them from Egypt or Dubai and sell them in places like Lenasia. That is what you get mostly. So I think Fordsburg is the only place where they are still manufacturing and designing, which obviously makes a difference, otherwise everyone else just has the same stock.”
From manufacturing to fashion
One of the local suppliers of fabric to many Fordsburg stores is Nick Keves. He owns Superspun manufacturers, in nearby Albertskroon. He has spent most of his life in the textile business and, at the age of 70, he says he cannot quit as it is almost an addiction to him.
“There were a lot of big companies and one by one they closed down. Now what has taken place is there are a lot of smaller manufacturers who operate from home or garages or backyards or whatever who employ maybe five or six sewing machines.”
This smaller scale of infrastructure lies at the heart of Fordsburg’s fashion and material trade. “I think Fordsburg has always been traditionally, sort of the place for textiles,” says Keves, “and it still is to a large extent. It has kept pace with the times. They cater for every single thing you can think of.”
Showing off his yellow Converse All Stars Isail Gulam poses on the pavement of bustling Mint Street in Fordsburg. He has been working as a car guard in the area for many years. Photo: Valerie Robinson.
The cultural style of Fordsburg
But the style of Fordsburg stretches further than velvet, Chantilly lace and beautiful head scarves. It is seen and felt in the culture and social habits of the people who live here. One of them is Zunaid Varachia, who owns a printing and graphics company in Fordsburg and has lived in the area his whole life.
“I’ve got a lot of friends of mine who say that there is a certain Fordsburg accent, that you could pick up in certain words,” says Varachia.
Asked what fashion statement item is most important in the area, Varachia replies: “Cars.” But it’s not so much about the car you drive, he adds. It’s about the size of your tyres. “The bigger the tyre, the better. So guys with a smaller car with a 17 or 18-inch tyre, that’s what speaks out.”
And, of course, whatever the size of your tyres, you have to hang out at the carwash if you want to be seen in style in Fordsburg. “There are a few carwashes in Fordsburg and it is quite a community hangout spot for young guys. On a Friday and Saturday afternoon you will find a lot of young guys hanging out at the carwash.”
As for men’s fashion in the neighbourhood, there’s a lot more to it than the traditional Islamic style. “Converse has always been a very popular thing,” says Varachia, referring to the trendy brand of sneakers.
“Another important thing about Fordsburg is that guys like their takkies to be pure white. Pure white sneakers are very important. You can have dirty clothes, but you can’t have dirty takkies.”
It’s that kind of attention to detail that dictates Fordsburg style, says Varachia. “You are not going to get that anywhere else, at the malls or the other areas. It is obviously what makes it unique.”
To understand Fordsburg style, says Omar, one has to note how diverse the area is, making it almost impossible to pinpoint. “Fordsburg is a melting pot of cultures, so I don’t think it has a specific style. Our clients prefer garments that are modern and trendy.”
And this seems to be a consensus across the board. Sakoor agrees, “You get everything here. The residents are very mixed. There is Chinese stuff, Pakistani stuff, Indian stuff, everything in terms of fabrics and designs is in Fordsburg.”
But even if Fordsburg’s style may prove elusive by definition, one thing is clear. Fordsburg has a sense of spice and soul that you won’t find anywhere else in Johannesburg. That is what makes this little enclave so rare and vibrant. It is timeless, and yet it embraces change and new trends. Islamic or Western, old or new, traditional or cutting edge, the style of Fordsburg … is Fordsburg.
FEATURED IMAGE: The intricate detail of Silk’s designs can be seen on any of the mannequins that are on display in the store. Photo: Valerie Robinson.
Somali businesses are well known for an unusual pace when it comes to their business growth and development. Many wonder what their secret is to this growth and even though this community believes that they have none, they are still willing to expand and share their business skills with the rest of the small business community.
OVER THE WINDOW: She sits from 5.30am until 10pm in the evening, hoping and praying that someone will come and buy one or two items. The street is buzzing with similar businesses to hers, but Madina Umar says the money she makes every day is enough. Photo: Anelisa Tuswa
“Andazikubabenzanjani, velenjee bona bayaphumelela,” [I don’t know how they do it, but they are very successful”], said Lindelwa Mdanyana “ngingajabulaukwazi pho,” [“I’d love to know, hey”] as she changed seats outside her two-room house, running away from the sun while waiting for her midday customers to come and quench their thirst.
Mdanyana, 40, is a South African businesswoman who is the co-owner of ispoti (an illegal tavern) situated in an informal settlement called Ellias Motsoaledi behind Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital in Soweto.She once owned a spaza shop but said the establishment of Somali businesses in the area killed her shop.
With bigger versions of a typical South African spaza shop but smaller versions of a supermarket, Somali “cash and carry” businesses in South Africa are growing. In all parts of the country, Somali shops are popular for offering goods and services at cheaper rates than most South African shops.
Welcome to Little Mogadishu
Eighth Street in Mayfair, popularly known as “Little Mogadishu”, in the west of Johannesburg, is no different.
From travel agents to barbershops, from cash and carry to clothing shops, success is assured. In 8th Street, where Somali nationals seem to dominate, many of them have flourished as entrepreneurs. Even though their businesses provide similar goods and services, this is considered less of a competition or threat but rather a benefit.
When Mdanyana followed her boyfriend to Johannesburg from the Eastern Cape in 1992, she struggled to find employment in Gauteng. And when she got married in 1994, Mdanyana said that she agreed to stay home and start her business.
When they started their business it was a normal spaza shop where she sold essential household goods. Instead of selling full packets of teabags, she would sell a single teabag for 15 cents, candle lights, paraffin, half a loaf of bread and many other items typically found in a spaza shop. Mdanyana believed she was doing well until 2010 when her business started failing.
Mdanyana described this phase and associates it with “ukufikakwamaKula [the arrival of foreign nationals]” who became her toughest competitors.
She said her competitors’ goods and services were very cheap, so she understood why she started losing customers.
“Bona ilitre ye paraffin yayi yiR4, njeba kum iyi R6,” [“Their litre of paraffin was R4, while I sold it for R6”], she said.
ISPOTI: Mdanyana says she only stocks her alcohol in one fridge because buying in the spaza shop manner (buying in bulk) in this kind of a business is a waste of money and a great loss. Photo: Anelisa Tuswa
Mdanyana said she needed something that could sell fast, and in this case it was cold drink and beer. However, even though there’s less competition in the ispoti business environment, it is highly regulated as there are serious consequences for those who sell alcohol without a liquor licence.
[“If the police arrive and you don’t have a licence, they either pour the alcohol on the floor or some of them leave with it, and say they are taking it to the police station” Mdanyana said. “I’d rather have them pour it on the floor, hey.”
‘No secrets hidden in Somali traders’
According to Abidririzak Ali Osman, general secretary of the Somali Community Board South Africa and a member of the Township Business Association South Africa (TBASA), there are “no secrets hidden in Somali traders”. But “their perseverance and persistence is what distinguishes them from other nationals”, including South Africans.
“They have to work hard beyond the limit of their capabilities,” said Osman, “because of their responsibilities.”
In a blog article by Neil Pate, an American business analytics expert, he shares his lived experiences where he goes beyond what is identified by Osman.
Firstly, he said, “immigrants stick together”. Sharing his experiences as an immigrant child who arrived in the United States of America when he was only seven years old, he said:
“One thing that I never forgot is that when my parents immigrated here, other immigrants helped them out.
“From providing free temporary living accommodations to helping a fellow immigrant to find a job, establishing businesses, immigrants help each other succeed,” he added.
Secondly, Pate said, many immigrants who work in foreign countries understand the notion that “It’s easier to save money than it is to earn it”, hence they find ways to save and invest more.
“They are never afraid to ask for discounts, buy in bulk or even on sale.”
Research conducted by the African Centre for Migration & Society (ACMS) states that not many have explored why Somali businesses are prosperous and how they achieve growth at such a rapid pace. But many Somali business traders are willing to share their skills.
The story of Ebrahim Qaxwo
Ebrahim Muhammad Ali, a father of 17 children and owner of Ebrahim Qaxwo (qaxwo means “coffee” in Somali), a convenience shop in Mayfair, Johannesburg, is one of them.
Ebrahim and his brother come from a very poor family in Somalia and never got the opportunity to go to school. However, as soon as he was old enough, Ebrahim joined his older brother in the city of Kismaayo where they opened a panel beating business.
In 1992, during a civil war, the Ali brothers fled Somalia to Tanzania for safety. This did not stop them from opening a business in Tanzania, and within eight years their panel beating business was fully established. They continued to work there until the political climate shifted. Media reports at the time suggested that refugees from Somalia were being targeted as foreigners.
And Ebrahim said this is what forced him and his brother to move again.
EBRAHIM SPECIAL: With special recipes, branded T-shirts for his employees and personalised cups, Ebrahim wants more. Photo: Anelisa Tuswa
Before coming to South Africa, he moved to Zambia where he stayed for two years, and worked hard to build up another business and bring his two wives and their children to Zambia. Finally, in 2000, accompanied by his brother and one of his sons, Ebrahim made his way to South Africa. He was given quarters in Mayfair and taken to get an asylum seeker’s permit.
According to Ebrahim, it took him and his brother four years to save up and open their panel beating workshop.
“One man gave me a welding machine, in exchange I fix his car,” he said.
At first, the Ali bothers worked on the pavement and from people’s backyards, but soon he linked up with two fellow Somali countrymen, an electrician and a mechanic, and they started a workshop. Working day and night, they built up a strong clientele among the Indian community in Fordsburg.
However, during the 2008 xenophobic attacks his panel beating workshop was destroyed and his brother was killed. This left Ebrahim with no choice but to start again from scratch and restructure.
Ebrahim said a panel beating shop was too expensive and “it was going to take time”.
“When I started selling coffee, I was selling from a flask,” he said.
Since then he has opened his coffee shop in Mayfair. His walls are decorated with a collection of items from Somalia that he said remind him “about home and keeps me going”. Within 15 years, 47 Somerset Street in Mayfair has developed from a panel beating shop to a coffee shop and now a convenience store that sells a variety of things, including homemade juice and fast food.
“I employ six people now, one at home and five here at the shop,” said Ebrahim.
In 2013, research conducted by the African Centre for Migration and Society in the Western Cape suggests that it is the business strategies that Somali traders employ and the effects that Somali trade has on a range of stakeholders. While Somali spaza shops compete with their South African counterparts, the report finds that Somali spaza shops also provide a range of benefits to local economies.
A report released in 2012 by the Migrating for Work Research Consortium (MiWORC), an organisation that examines migration and its impact on the South African labour market, found that “people born outside the country [South Africa] were far less likely than those born in South Africa to be employees, and far more likely to be own account workers [self-employed without employers] or employers”.
The research further states that 31% of these traders employ South Africans. This has enabled more job creation in the informal employment sector.
Economic development: The Township Business Association South Africa
In addition to employment benefits, research done by African Centre for Migration and Society in the Western Cape states that skills transfer is another way that Somali business owners contribute to the South African economy. And with the newly launched initiative of skills sharing programme and the establishment of Township Business Association South Africa, “more sustainable economic benefits are expected”.
Abasi Mkhize, a local businessman from Soweto and chairman of the Township Business Association, said the establishment of the association came “earlier in 2015 when mass looting was taking place in Soweto which spread to various parts of the country. There was a lot of communication and interaction between local businesses and foreign nationals.”
After numerous interactions, Mkhize said the association was then established with the aim of trying to change “the image and the face of a migrant trader in the township”. “In a manner which fosters cohesion with the broader community and society where our migrant trades in.”
There are also a number of developmental activities that are put in place to create a healthy competition with South African businesses.
“We have in place a programme to train any aspiring entrepreneurs to enhance their skills free of charge,” said Mkhize. “We even go as far as availing R50 000 start-up capital.”
The road to this has, however, not been smooth. Both the Somali Community Board South Africa and the Township Business Association have identified a few potential stumbling blocks that hinder the process of skills sharing and challenge the development going anywhere further with the idea.
“As the foreign component of this initiative we have managed to sit down together and realised that we are finding ourselves in the same boat,” said Osman, “but we pride ourselves to say we managed to create one voice for all foreign nationals operating in township spaces.”
According to Osman and Mkhize, it is now the local associations that seem to fall short when it comes to decision-making.
“They have their own issues which include the inability to work together or collaborate to establish a single body,” said Osman.
According to Osman, a memorandum of collaboration with the South African Spaza Shop and Township Association (SASSTA) has been put on hold after various organisations asked SASSTA who they were to sign on their behalf.
But chairperson of SASSTA Rose Nkosi has rejected the accusation that the organisation has any issues that are delaying the collaboration. She said she is waiting for a planned roadshow where she is going to propose the idea to her members and see if they agree.
‘South African business people do not need more help’
Nkosi said South African business people do not need more help in developing their skills. She said further training is not necessary.
“The skills training is not a problem but it’s already done by the University of Johannesburg,” said Nkosi. “Whoever comes and trains people now, it’s just his own thing where they are trying to get money from CETA.”
Although many Somali entrepreneurs such as Ebrahim have lost many things in their journey to seek refuge in South Africa, their future business plans are looking beyond that.
“I hope to grow my business, like franchise, like Mugg and Bean or something,” said Ebrahim “imagine Ebrahim Qaxwo everywhere in the world.
FEATURED IMAGE:OVER THE WINDOW: She sits from 5.30am until 10pm in the evening, hoping and praying that someone will come and buy one or two items. The street is buzzing with similar businesses to hers, but Madina Umar says the money she makes every day is enough. Photo: Anelisa Tuswa
Crime has for many years been a troubling shadow that looms over South Africa. A group of individuals in Mayfair have decided that crime in their area is too great a task for the police to tackle alone. It is here that many community members choose to take an active approach to the safety of their neighbourhood. While this can be seen as a noble cause, it has proven difficult to navigate a relationship with the community, the police and those involved in community policing and this is very evident in the Brixton area.
Another busy Friday night at the Brixton police station, it is 11pm and already scores of people are filling up in the entrance to the station. A police officer walks in shoving a man through the room as he walks past, people tear their attention away from what is in front of them to his cuffed hands. He tries to hide his face but in that second nobody seems to care and return to demanding attention from those behind the counter.
In a sea of uniforms there are a few men and woman who have offered their time to come out on the weekend to help lighten the load. Most of them also form part of the neighbourhood watch in the Mayfair and Mayfair West region and take shifts in the evenings patrolling the area. These are some the members of the Brixton Community Policing Forum (CPF).
LOOKING OUT: Aboo Mohammed, a police reservist, who in his free time offers to patrol the Mayfair and Brixton areas. Photo: Raquel De Canha
Community tackle crime
The Brixton CPF are ordinary people taking time out of their lives to keep their community safe, a community made up mostly of foreign nationals and a community that traditionally does not trust the local police. More often then not it is members of the CPF who are first on the scene and who residents will call when they need assistance.
Every first Tuesday of the month those involved in the CPF for Ward 69, which consists of Mayfair, Crosby, Brixton, Melville, Vrededorp and Auckland Park, meet at the Brixton police station. All members sit around a table in one of the station’s boardrooms, along with members of the Brixton police, to discuss crime in the area and possible solutions. It is at this forum that community members come to air their grievances and seek advice or assistance from the CPF as well as the police. These range from issues such as looting to crime tip-offs and possible solutions to these problems. The group discusses the crimes that were reported over the past month, looking for any patterns and possible strategies to tackle these crimes.
POLICEMAN BY NIGHT: Warrant officers Mohammed and Kruger who have been reservists for almost 20 years at the Brixton police station. Photo: Raquel De Canha
Dealing with tension
At a CPF meeting, some members of the police force are attentive while others sit slouched against the wall on their cellphones. This is until a community member suggests that the police are not doing enough. Suddenly the tension in the room increases and the chairperson of the CPF, Adiel Majam, has to ensure that the meeting remains calm.
“The reality is people are angry and expect immediate attention and as a chairperson I cannot be taking sides,” says Majam. He goes on to explain that his role is to foster a relationship between the community and the police. This is the best way to help the CPF get what they require from the police.
The police station is located in Brixton in the western part of Johannesburg. It was recognised as a low-income “whites only” area during the apartheid era. During the 1970s and 1980s the Brixton station was well known for its Murder and Robbery unit. It was seen as a tough unit and was feared by many in Johannesburg because of rumours of torture at the station. In 2001 it was forced to shut down as part of a plan to transform the police and close units that were believed to be inefficient.
“There has been a clear transformation in the police in recent years, new policies have been introduced around the constitution and the SAPS has become a service that is demilitarised,” explains Warrant Officer Aboo Mohamed.
A racially mixed community
Today the community is racially mixed. Tertiary institutions surround the area and as a result the suburb is inhabited by many students. Today the station looks towards transforming not just internally but also transforming its relationship with the community, and welcomes the introduction of bodies like the CPF to aid them in achieving these goals.
“It really is heroic what these men and women do,” says Mohamed. Mohamed is a police reservist and member of the Mayfair and Brixton CPF. He joined the community watch in 1994 and chose to become a police reservist in 1995.
Mohamed has lived in Mayfair for over 20 years and has no plans to leave the area despite the negative perception of Mayfair and the current crime increase. “I have lived many places but I somehow always land up back in Mayfair. This will always be home.” Mohamed believes that because the area is so central, the relationship he has with the community, the memories it holds as well as its proximity to mosques, Mayfair is the perfect place for him and his family.
With South Africa’s high crime rate, the concept of having neighbourhood watches and community police forums is not new. Like Mohamed, for some, being a part of community watches is a way to help combat crime in their communities and monitor the performance of the local police stations.
Lack of trust in police
Across the road from the Mohameds’ home is a small supermarket. During the day customers roam in and out of the store freely. However, at 5pm the owner Mohammad Hisham closes the store’s security gates. He carries on trading into the night with people passing cash through the security gates in exchange for goods.
Hisham explains that this wasn’t always the case. When he first moved to Mayfair from Bangladesh and opened the store, he would leave the gates open until they called it a night. But, in the three years that he has been working here, they have been attacked more than 20 times and have had countless instances of shoplifting. This resulted in them having to serve people through the security gates for safety.
In broken English, Hisham says by closing these security gates he loses business but he has to choose between his safety and making money. “Customers don’t like to come here if the gate is closed, but if we don’t close it, we get trouble,” says Hisham.
While criminals plague shop owners like Hisham, he says the only police office he will call for help is Warrant Officer Mohamed, who he calls “uncle”. “If I have a problem I call uncle, some people if they call the police they never come. They [criminals] rob you, they run away go home and relax and only then the police come. ”
Because of their disillusionment towards the police, it is people like these who choose to not report crimes. “Criminals will often target certain shop owners because they know that they will not report it. They choose to not report it either because they feel the police will harass them or they will not come at all,” explains Mohamed.
A decline in crime
LOCKED AND LOADED: Warrant Officer Kruger helping the SAPS by cleaning a police officer’s gun at the Brixton police station before he begins his patrol of the area. Photo: Raquel De Canha
According to Stats SA, crimes in the Brixton area have over the past 10 years been steadily decreasing. In the past year, however, there has been an increase in reported crime, to 766 crimes in 2015 from the previous year.
There are some crimes that are more reliable than others when it comes to how they affect crime statistics, says Johan Burger, a senior researcher for the crime and justice programme at the Institute for Security Studies (ISS).
When looking at the statistics one should look at the types of crimes that are reported, these are either what is known as social public crime or property crimes. Social public crime includes murder, common assault, assault with intention to cause grievous bodily harm and sexual offences. Property crimes include robbery, theft of motor vehicles and stock theft. More often than not property crimes will be reported for insurance purposes, making them the most reliable statistics to look at, Burger says. Social public crimes are less reliable, with the exception of murder as this needs to be reported for death certificate purposes.
In the Brixton area, there has been a stable trend in property crimes. In the past five years most of these crimes have experienced changes both positive and negative as CPF chairperson Majam says: “Brixton crime has experienced peaks and valleys over the past couple of years.”
“The best way to look at crime stats is to do so over a long-term basis,” Burger says.
Looking at social public crimes, there is a clear downward trend over the past five years. For example, the number of sexual offences reported were down from 62 reports in 2010 to 49 in 2015.
“What we have noticed is the crimes that have dropped are so-called social public crimes apart from murder. We have found an unexplained drop in these crimes. It is hard to go by these stats, they are not completely credible,” says Burger. He suggests the problem comes from people not reporting these crimes due to a lack of trust in the police by the community.
“It is more of a case of people increasingly not reporting the crimes, either because they have no confidence in the police and/or believe the police have no interest in solving the crimes,” says Burger.
As seen with shop owner Hisham, trust in the police is lacking in the community and this is further proven by resident and wife of Warrant Officer Mohamed, Sumaya Mohamed: “When the reservists are out we see a lot more drive to make changes, but the normal police have shown nothing that will give you confidence in them [the SAPS].”
“We as a neighbourhood watch have to actively encourage people to report their complaints. So the stats are credible, the statistics are nowhere near what happens in the neighbourhood,” says React member Mohammed Vally. React is an umbrella body, formed in the Brixton area, consisting of neighbourhood watches.
FIRST ON THE SCENE: Members of the Booysens neighborhood watch, who were the first to arrive at the scene of an accident. A car drove into a small dam and resulted in one fatality near Crown Mines. Photo: Raquel De Canha
Crime perception vs reality
Vally suggests that the lack of trust in the police stems, in part, from the lack of resources available to the police. As a result the neighbourhood watches and CPFs need to intervene: “If we don’t intervene then nobody will.” As a result, Vally says, there is a shift in confidence from the police to these community policing bodies.
Vally says there is some racial tension in the area. “There is no love lost in certain segments of the community and because of that, we appear to be a splintered community.” He says this makes the community vulnerable to criminal activity.
Sumaya Mohamed believes the problem with Mayfair lies with foreigners.
“There are too many foreigners in the area. Mayfair was never like this, it has become a dumping zone. Mayfair needs to get cleaned up,” she says.
South-African born community members and the SAPS have different perceptions of crime in Mayfair. Over the past 20 years, Mayfair has become a landing spot for many foreigners who have started businesses, built families and become a community. People from all parts of the world have settled in Mayfair, people from Egypt, Ethiopia, Pakistan and Somalia. The common perception of South African community members is that foreigners are to blame for crime in the area.
But foreigners are not the only ones perceived to be driving crime in the area as South African criminals are drawn to Mayfair.
“Criminals find a safe haven here. The access to these neighbourhoods is quite easy. The ability for a criminal to escape to the area makes this an alluring place for them,” says the neighbourhood watch’s Vally.
CPF chairperson Majam believes rising crime in the area is linked to opportunist criminals while Warrant Officer Mohamed believes it has more to do with the hopelessness of those in the community. “It is about unemployment and desperation, people need to eat and they are struggling to feed themselves and their families,” says Mohamed.
Mohamed explains that there are many factors that play a role in crime in Mayfair, foreigners being the least of them. But the perception of crime in the area and the reality are two very different things that both parties might never agree on. This in fact may be the biggest problem with safety in the area.
FEATURED IMAGE: LOCKED AND LOADED: Warrant Officer Kruger helping the SAPS by cleaning a police officer’s gun at the Brixton police station before he begins his patrol of the area. Photo: Raquel De Canha
Just a stone’s throw away from affluent suburbs such as Parktown and Auckland Park in Johannesburg is a “poor white” suburb called Fietas. Over 40 years ago, the government forcibly removed many families to make way for a low-cost residential white suburb. These days Fietas is associated with poverty, drugs, prostitution and crime. At the same time, it is home to many families trying to happily survive in often desperate surroundings.
A REMNANT OF THE PAST: The Jan Hofmeyr Community Services on 8th Street, Vrededorp, provides social support for members of the Fietas community, which is home to working-class and poor white families. Photo: Reuven Blignault
An old church stands on 8th Street in Vrededorp, an area informally known as Fietas. Inside is the smell of pap and vegetables steaming at high heat and the sound of knives and forks on old porcelain plates. It is lunchtime at the Jan Hofmeyr community centre. The centre provides social support for members of the Fietas community, which is home to working-class and poor white families.
Until its destruction under the Group Areas Act in the mid-1970s, Fietas was a colourful, vibrant working-class society, with many wealthy and up-and-coming Indian business owners making a profit there. Fietas was also home to African, coloured, Malay and Chinese people, of all faiths, workers and professionals, shopkeepers and artisans.
Fietas boasted mosques, churches, bioscopes, shebeens, schools, sports grounds, corner cafés, dance halls and bazaars. Fietas was an integrated community, not unlike District Six and Sophiatown, and before similar political changes, it became home to both rich and poor.
The area was cleared of “non-whites” by the apartheid government in the 1970s. Many homes were bulldozed and housing for white people was built on some of the land, with large parts remaining undeveloped. The majority of those forcefully removed were moved to Lenasia and Soweto between 1956 and 1977. This led to fierce resistance that continued into the 1980s.
“Fietas has always been a poor area,” said Alan Jeeves, “but, more particularly, a poor white area that still sees segregations that were designed under the apartheid government today.
“If you look at Vrededorp, the area just above 8th Street, you will see that most of the population is white. But the more you head south, towards 14th Street, you will see a change in demographics.” Jeeves is retired as a history lecturer at Wits University and has published several books, including one about Fietas.
INSIDE: The Jan Hofmeyr community centre helps the poor and homeless in the Fietas community by providing everything from food to drug counselling. Photo: Reuven Blignault
‘The old church’
The Jan Hofmeyr community centre (JHCC) diner is housed in the 1895 church on 8th Street. The centre helps the poor and homeless in the Fietas community by providing everything from food to drug counselling.
As one of the only permanent support centres in the area, the JHCC is a hub for people with social and family issues all seeking to better their situations.
Linda Pretorius, 48, used to come to this church as a child. She is now a manager at the Jan Hofmeyr community centre.
“There used to be weddings, christenings and a strong community atmosphere,” said Pretorius. “In the ’70s, we used to play in the streets and we never felt threatened from crime. The streets were beautiful and the buildings were new, yes we were poor, but that did not seem to matter because we lived a happy life.”
Pretorius suggested that political shifts and tensions led to a downfall in her community. “When the late ’80s came around, there was a housing crisis. Many poor people were moved nearby, and many were criminals. People could get drugs more easily and we saw a lot of children in broken homes because of this.”
Originally from the Cape, Pretorius’s family came up to the City of Gold to seek a better life. They managed to find stable employment and a liveable wage.
“This neighbourhood has always had its problems. Drugs, prostitution, crime, these are all reasons why you would not want to live here,” said Pretorius.
Pretorius wanted to get out. She got married and found a stable job. She had a son, who now lives in Fietas and works at a nearby petrol station.
When her son was a teenager, Pretorius moved back to the Cape, leaving him behind. She acknowledges that this was a mistake. A year later her son was hooked on heroin. Ten years ago, in a message she said came directly from the Lord, Pretorius moved back to Johannesburg to help her son. She found solitude in the JHCC and entered her son into a support group.
When her son “became clean”, she decided to stay at the centre and volunteer any way that she could.
She gave up her well-paying job and volunteered at the JHCC, where she has been working ever since.
“It was God who spoke to me one night after praying intensely. He told me to go back to my roots and give back to my old community as they were in need,” said Pretorius.
“I feel as if I can change just one person’s life in my time here, then I have done my job and I have pleased the Lord.”
Other families in Fietas are not as fortunate to share the relief that Pretorius had.
A HELPING HAND: Elizabeth Kuhn, 76, is a cook at the JHCC. A pensioner in a nearby old age home, Kuhn helps to give back to her community by volunteering to cook for free every day. Photo: Reuven Blignault
Social issues and support
Jakes Jacobs, a manager at the JHCC, explained the kinds of support that the centre gives to families in the area.
“There are many young girls who are sex workers. This is either because they need the money to support their family or, most likely, because they need the money for drugs.
“We try our best to support them by providing counselling but, more importantly, to provide them with a way that they can develop skills to find proper work,” said Jacobs.
Joblessness is a visible problem in the area. At the local corner store, there are groups of young, unemployed white men sitting outside, begging for money from those who have bought bread, cigarettes or cellphone air time.
“There is no work for me,” said 22-year-old Chris Swart. “I am very desperate, and the only way I can get money or food is to ask people for it.”
Swart went to the local primary school, Laerskool Piet Van Vuuren, but that was as far as he went.
“My parents couldn’t afford for me to go to high school. My father is a motor mechanic, so I helped him when I finished grade seven.”
Swart says his father was killed in 2010 during a robbery at their home. “My mother didn’t have enough money to keep his business going,” said Swart. “My mother is a nurse at Helen Joseph Hospital and doesn’t earn much.”
“After my father died I got very depressed, so I turned to drugs to help. I have no money, so I have to beg for it. So, yes, I do take drugs, but I am trying to get help … it is hard.
“I go to a drug support group at the JISS centre in Mayfair a few times a week, the people at the Jan Hofmeyr centre said I must go there,” said Swart. “They said I needed a doctor who could help me and there are free psychologists there.”
There are people in the community who share Swart’s story and that is where the JHCC seeks to help.
But there are also families who are just looking to live in a happy home.
The Fietas home
PORRIDGE: Jan Blom, 68, has lived in Fietas for over 40 years. As a young person, he served a five-year sentence for drug possession. Photo: Reuven Blignault
Willem Smit, 43, lives with his family near 8th Street in Fietas.
Smit used to work in an electronics factory as an armature winder. He was laid off after the company collapsed in 2007. He and his family used to live in Newlands but, due to a lack of income, had to move somewhere more affordable.
Smit and his family live in a building called Wilgehof. The building is one of the many low-cost housing projects started in the 1970s, during the rezoning of the area to accommodate working-class white families. As the breadwinner of the family, his wife works as an administrative assistant in town. They have two children, aged five and six.
“I have never lived in the best of areas, but I’m very worried about my kids growing up here,” said Smit. “I’ve seen young school kids sitting on the corner taking drugs in broad daylight. They think it is cool … And if my sons grow up here in that environment then that is not good. We do make use of the Jan Hofmeyr community centre, my children go to the crèche there and, when times are tough, like when we need food, they provide it for us.”
Support groups nearby, such as Islamic Relief in Mayfair, share the same ideas as to why the community of Fietas and neighbouring areas have an ongoing poverty crisis.
“There is definitely a need for aid for those that live in Mayfair and Fietas,” said Abdullah Vawda, coordination manager of Islamic Relief. “But what we are finding in the area is a culture that wishes to remain poor, as aid is merely provided to them. They do not feel the need to find proper work as they make more money begging than they would at work.”
“Even though we want to do God’s will by feeding the community, we can only do so much,” said Jacobs.
“If we provide absolutely everything for them, then there would literally be no hope of the young population in Fietas finding work.”
Community centres in Fietas and Mayfair provide much-needed support for the community as a whole but do not merely feed the community; they encourage members of the community to find proper employment.
The JHCC survives on food donations from many food markets around Johannesburg. The food arrives early in the morning and is prepared for the lunch hour by a group of volunteers.
HELPING OTHERS: Jane Reid, 73, a cook at the JHCC, makes pap and vegetables for those in the centre. Photo: Reuven Blignault
Making a difference
Jane Reid, 73, a cook at the JHCC, makes pap and vegetables for those in the centre. She explained that she loves doing her job. “I grew up in Fietas, so I feel that it is my responsibility to give back to my community like this.
“My mother was a domestic worker for a family in Parktown, but we lived here in Fietas,” said Reid. “I didn’t have a job for many years, and my children were starving. We used to come to the JHCC to get food every day and after a while I stayed working here at Jan Hofmeyr.”
The centre prepares food that is delivered every day at 8am by benefactors such as Food Lovers’ Market. After taking the delivery, a team of eight people work rigorously to prepare food for lunch time. After the doors close at 1pm, the team immediately starts to prepare food for the dinner time rush.
The Jan Hofmeyr community centre estimates it has helped over 200 families in Fietas and neighbouring areas by providing support for them since the year 2000.
THE STRUGGLE: Miriam Sambukwe, 42, comes to the JHCS every day at lunch with her four-year-old daughter. With very little income at home, she finds the support from the centre a godsend. Photo: Reuven Blignault
Counsellor for Ward 58, Barry Jordaan Musesi, is optimistic that progress will be made to better the lives of those who live there.
“The community was highly upset with my predecessor. They accused him of leading Fietas to a slum status similar to Hillbrow or Malvern,” said Musesi. “I hope that I will make a difference in these people’s lives by addressing their concerns.”
“The residents have raised concerns about illegal businesses, panel beaters, slums and the need for mass housing. After many complaints came up of residents saying that the place is dirty and unsafe, we reported this to the City of Jo’burg. Things have since progressed with additional Pikitup cleaners and more police patrolling,” Musesi told Islamic radio station Cii Broadcasting in a separate interview.
Musesi agreed that police presence had not lived up to the community’s expectations in relation to crime prevention. “Crime in Fietas is everywhere and the police are struggling to cope. In the coming few months I will further my discussions with the mayor to discuss better policing, especially during the festive season.”
Even though Musesi says the conditions of Fietas will improve, the opinions of locals such as Linda Pretorius suggest Fietas will not change any time soon. “We can only do so much for this community, and I wish we had a magic wand that could make life better for everybody, but we try to make a difference one person at a time.
“By helping just one person, and making a difference in their life, even just by giving them a loaf of bread, is enough to inspire them to say that there is more to this life, and especially for the children, it gives them hope.”
Pretorius hopes that all South Africans can be inspired by the work of centres like Jan Hofmeyr Community Services, that communities like Fietas can shrug off their negative stereotypes and that the families of Fietas can take the right path, changing for the better.
FEATURED IMAGE: A REMNANT OF THE PAST: The Jan Hofmeyr Community Services on 8th Street, Vrededorp, provides social support for members of the Fietas community, which is home to working-class and poor white families. Photo: Reuven Blignault
Since her announcement as the Democratic Alliance’s mayoral candidate for Johannesburg, Helen Zille has dominated national headlines. In this bonus episode of We Should Be Writing podcast, hosts Lulah Mapiye and Bonolo Mokonoto dissect a media meet-and-greet with the mayoral hopeful. From her extensive political résumé to her controversial public utterance, we examine why the Democratic Alliance has chosen Hellen Zille as their candidate for the 2027 local mayoral elections. Additionally, […]
