Sudan is the world’s largest humanitarian crisis. It demands that we educate ourselves and stand in solidarity, recognising how art and culture become acts of resistance.
Sudan’s history is often reduced to coups, wars and dictatorships. But beneath the headlines are millions of people living through the world’s largest humanitarian crisis. Despite theseunimaginable struggles, they continue to fight with hope.
At the Kaza Kamba Pan-African Theatre Festival in Johannesburg on August 20-22 2026, the film Sudan, Remember Us transported audiences into the world of 2019 Sudanese protesters. In an interview with Brick magazine, director Hind Meddeb explained, “The violence of what we were seeing on a daily basis was so terrible, and not in the news, so I used the camera as a weapon”. She wanted the audience to feel the Sudanese people, “to feel the love and beauty of their culture, not just get a geopolitical explanation.”
Sudan, Remember Us poster. Photo: Watermelon Pictures
When Sudan is framed only in geopolitical terms of borders and political powers, people’s lives are removed from the story. Film’s like Sudan, Remember Us remind us that friendship, poetry, and community become tools of survival and liberation. A testament that creativity becomes a form of defiance and hope.
Still from Sudan, Remember Us. Photo: Watermelon Pictures
History shows how deeply the world’s silence and complicity have cost Sudan. Since independence in 1956, the country has gone through two civil wars, the genocide in Darfur and Omar al-Bashir’s 30-year dictatorship. His regime enforced strict Sharia law, persecuted minorities and deployed militias like the Janjaweed. Even after the International Criminal Court issued an arrest warrant for Bashir in 2009, his regime lasted until 2019 and was eventually taken down by mass protests.
Once the largest country on the African continent, Sudan split in 2011 after decades of civil war. The birth of South Sudan carried the promise of peace but has instead left a country torn apart. Borders carved by war became fault lines of power and survival.
On April 15, 2023, a power struggle between the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) exploded into war. What began as clashes in Khartoum led to one of the world’s worst humanitarian crises, topping the International Rescue Committee’s Emergency Watchlist. Since 2023, more than 14 million peoplehave reportedly been displaced, and over 33 million people are in need of humanitarian aid. Starvation devastates Darfur and Kordofan, hospitals have collapsed, diseases spread quickly, and women and children face heightened risks of sexual violence.
Today, Sudan is split: the SAF controls most of the north and the east, while the RSF dominates Darfur and the Nuba Mountains in Kordofan. Drone strikes tear families from their homes and leave communities broken, while foreign powers fuel the conflict. Although the UN has warned that Sudan is now the largest humanitarian crisis in the world, aid appeals still remain hugely underfunded.
Sudan’s struggle is about human beings, their culture and their refusal to be erased. In a country where traditional media is tightly controlled, protest art becomes a platform for free expression. Women have transformed henna, once just used to mark marriage, into a weapon of resistance, writing anti-government slogans on their hands and feet. Poets, performers and activists risk imprisonment to speak truth to power. These acts matter because silence benefits those who profit from war.
Still from Sudan, Remember Us. Photo: Watermelon Pictures
Sudan is not just a war zone; it is where millions of individuals call home. To look away is to accept their suffering. To hear their story and raise their voices is to demand action: urgent aid, safer passages, and putting real pressure on those who profit from war. Sudan’s people deserve peace, dignity and the chance to rebuild.
FEATURED IMAGE: Still from Sudan, Remember Us. Photo: Watermelon Pictures
Time has swiftly moulded this year’s Wits Vuvuzela team, and the newsroom has become a true witness to our growth.
As the end of block three approaches, the newsroom is busier than ever. People are chasing deadlines, writing features, and trying to fulfil the requirements of our portfolio submissions; the urgency is felt and it almost feels as if one is running out of time.
Yet time is such a fascinating concept, because it feels as if this year flew by. It is easy to take for granted how far you have come when you are so caught up in trying to get everything done all at once. As journalists we are taught to observe the world around us. Rarely do we take time to reflect on our own growth.
For the Wits Vuvuzela team, the journey started on the first day of school, February 3, 2026, when we first became acquainted with the newsroom. The mentors, Bonolo Mokonto and Lulah Mapiye gave us a demonstration of what a pitching session would look like, and little did we know the journey that awaited us. When the first two weeks of pitching came, it was intense to say the least, having to stand in front of everyone and sell your story was no child’s play, nobody realised it then, but we were such shells of ourselves.
With time, we grew out of our shells and started evolving. Collectively, we have watched stories grow from the newsroom into the world. More notably we have all grown together, from karaoke night to late nights working together in the newsroom, to becoming a solid support system for each other; where we laugh the hardest together and comfort each other when doubt gets the best of us. I have learned that the crux of journalism is in human connection. Connection with a source, a colleague, a mentor, and the world – a world of storytelling, and of human connections.
A class photo with Kevin Ritchie.
We have been privileged enough to interact with a variety of experts and places that have ultimately moulded us. Kevin Ritchie was our first guest lecturer and anchored us in purpose as he taught us to, “remember your why.” Alaister Russell taught us how to be one with the camera, Russell reminded us that, “your humanity is your guiding light in everything that you do.” Kgomotso Modise enlightened us about how important it is for journalists to adapt with the times and make use of social media to deliver reliable news. Ray Mahlaka put us on the spot by doing research on us all and effectively showcased the importance of research and active listening for interviews.
On the Left: A class photo with Kgomotso Modise. On the right: A class Photo with Ray Mahlaka.
We have heard from alumni who have found steady footing in the real world and reminded us that the work is never in vain. As our time in the Wits Vuvuzela newsroom comes to an end, we have learnt that journalism is as much about storytelling as it is about the people behind the story. It is about being human.
FEATURED IMAGE: A photo of Sikelelekile Pahlana, this week’s editor. Photo: Alaister Russell
Women in journalism face online abuse – threats, harassment and silencing – but their courage and solidarity, show that storytelling and seeking truth matter more than hate.
We live in a remarkable but complex time of converging crises. The shift from ‘traditional’ journalism to digital platforms has transformed the field. Journalists no longer wait for print deadlines or broadcast slots; they speak directly to audiences, explain issues, challenge power and help people make sense of a world that often feels overwhelming.
This excites me, as it opens new creative ways to engage, but it also scares me. Visibility comes with risks and for women, the price is disproportionately high – harassment designed to discredit, exhaust and silence. Threats of physical harm, sexualised abuse and online attacks have become the new ‘normal’.
On August 6, I attended a discussion in Johannesburg between Karyn Maughan, Qaanitah Hunter and Redi Tlhabi, titled Women VS. The Digital Machine. These are three prominent women in journalism, and they spoke about navigating digital hostility while remaining visible and credible. For women, visibility often comes with targeted abuse that is designed to drive us out of the conversation.
A SANEF study found that 75% of South African women journalists face online misogyny. I don’t need statistics to believe it. It is a lived reality for many of the women I look up to. The hostility is not random. It is ‘manufactured anger’, heightened by platforms whose business models thrive on outrage and misinformation.
Women covering politics or corruption are especially targeted. In 2024, Women Press Freedom identified 12 Strategic Lawsuit Against Public Participation (SLAPP) suits against women reporting on gender issues.
As a postgraduate journalism student, I often think about the work of photojournalist Lynsey Addario. Her career reshaped my understanding of journalism’s power. Addario is a strong advocate that women should not be limited in the assignments they work on. “Men and women have different access, we relate to people on different levels, and people respond to us differently, so certainly that will create a different dynamic with a camera, but I don’t think that, for example, as a woman I see differently,” she said. “What I choose to capture is possibly different from what my male colleagues do.”
Social media, the same tool that connects us to readers, also amplifies anger and division. Anonymous accounts and bots spread lies and hate. We are living in a time that some call ‘hyperpolitics’ – a state of politicisation without corresponding political action.
Yet women journalists continue to report, hold power to account and to tell stories that matter. Their dedication inspires me. It reminds me that journalism is not about ourselves; it is about trying to tell the truth, empathy and refusing silence. As Tlhabi said, “If we get obsessed with the hate we get, then they have won.” Section 16 of the South African Constitution protects freedom of expression. The question Tlhabi always comes back to is, “What is the cost of my silence? If I stay quiet, who benefits and who suffers?”
Safety of women in journalism. Graphic: Hannah Brown
There are no easy solutions. Governments and media institutions must take cyber misogyny seriously. Platforms must be held accountable for the anonymity that shields abusers. Newsrooms, even as they shrink, need stronger support systems. And as journalists we must find solidarity, because joy is a form of resistance too.
As Hunter shares, “Don’t become what you fight. Foster joy. There is nothing that can contend with hate more than seeing a happy woman.”
Journalism has the power to change how people see the world. That is worth fighting for and it is worth protecting. As filmmaker Alice Aedy stated, “how to bring stories to life in a landscape that feels more challenging but perhaps riper with possibility than ever.”
Despite the hostility, I feel hopeful entering this field. Women in journalism have already transformed the industry, but the attacks are disproportionate, and we must continue to stand together. The advice I hear repeated is simple: never stop learning, never stop reading, and never forget the privilege and responsibility of this work.
FEATURED IMAGE: Safety of women in journalism. Graphic: Hannah Brown
A mere Women’s Month special ‘pat on the back’ does not do justice to the contributions women make to South African sport. It is high time we call a spade a spade.
Every August for Women’s Month, a familiar and performative tradition unfolds across South Africa. Corporate brands flood their social media with daring graphics celebrating iMbokodo and sporting authorities release sleek press statements praising the ‘unshakable resilience’ of our female athletes; an obviously calculated, annual performance intended to score cheap public relations points on the backs of women who spend the other eleven months of the year fighting for proper recognition, infrastructure and financial support.
This hypocrisy deserves to be exposed. Resilience should be celebrated as a personal triumph, not weaponised as a convenient excuse for corporate and systemic neglect.
The 2026 Commonwealth Games, a multi-sport event hosted in Glasgow, Scotland, began on 23 July until August 2, 2026. A total of 112 athletes represented Team South Africa, 53 of whom were female athletes, accounting for more than half of the team. Of the 28 medals won, 11 medals, plus 1 shared medal in a mixed event, came from our sportswomen.
On August 1, the Minister of Sport, Arts and Culture, Gayton McKenzie, congratulated Team South Africa on its brilliant performance: “This team went to Glasgow and did us proud.” Post the congratulatory speech, the obvious reality remains unchanged.
These victories were achieved despite the unequal system, considering what our women had to overcome simply to stand on those stages.
After multiple health setbacks, Lara van Niekerk refused to allow hardships to further dictate her success. After successfully defending her women’s 50m breaststroke title in 30.43 seconds, she stated that this victory “means more than the one four years ago because of the difficulties I’ve had to overcome.” Behind her stood a sisterhood of excellence. Aimee Canny won two silver and bronze medals; Erin Gallagher won a silver and three bronze medals; Kaylene Corbett came in with a silver medal and Olivia Nel with a bronze medal. Javelin star Jo-Ané du Plessis, despite having undergone an emergency back surgery for a herniated disc, finished in sixth place.
But why must our sportswomen constantly play the martyr?
Sporting organisations and commercial sponsors thrive on the narrative of resilient women who continuously ‘overcome the odds.’ It makes for a heartwarming marketing campaign, while conveniently skipping over why these odds exist in the first place. Jo-Ané du Plessis was praised for her recovery, but her injury exposes how fragile an athlete’s support system can be. While she received professional medical assistance, the system at large remains broken.
Truthfully, hashtags, shout-outs and branded campaigns during women’s month are not empowering. Financial backing that equals that of sportsmen is.
The South African sports authorities need to put money where their mouth is and start funding our sportswomen like the champions they are. Romanticising the struggles of our athletes to mask administrative incompetence and putting up patronising Women’s Month banners is just not going to cut it anymore.
FEATURED IMAGE: A graphic of South African sportswomen. Graphic by: Naledi Maraisane
Music has transcended borders and languages: why haven’t the Grammys?
For decades, the Grammys have dominated the music industry as the pinnacle of an artist’s career, regardless of genre. For an artist to win a Grammy is to have achieved a highly sought-after goal. However, year after year, loss after loss, we find ourselves asking the same question: “Who gets recognised as mainstream music, and who gets boxed into a separate (segregated) category?”
This conversation resurfaced after the popular South Korean boy band BTS denounced the Grammys in a collective statement posted on Instagram, saying they will not submit their comeback album Arirang for the 2027 awards ceremony. The news came just a month after the Recording Academy introduced a new category to the show, ‘best Asian pop music performance.’ While the academy believe this category is meant to spotlight Asian songs, BTS says otherwise.
“I hope that music can be heard and loved for what it is, rather than being divided by region or language.” – A translation of the message they shared via Instagram.
Yet, this debate is not limited to one group choosing to withdraw from one of the most successful awards ceremonies in the music industry. It requires us to dig deeper into what real inclusion should look like.
This is not new.
For years, the Grammys have faced backlash from both artists and audiences alike for failing to acknowledge the rising global shift in the music industry. Artists from all over the world, regardless of country, genre, and language dominate the charts and influence musical trends online. Their sold-out concerts continue to reshape how we view and appreciate music. Yet, despite these successful statistics, award ceremonies – especially one we deem the industry’s most respected, continue to classify (read: segregate) artists according to language and race. Why not recognise the best work to come out?
For decades, black artists have been questioning why music that has shaped pop culture, that is rooted in Black culture, is often only recognised in genre-specific categories. This is a direct challenge to why the biggest awards of the night are awarded to more ‘traditional’ options. Latin artists share similar frustrations. Why must they have an entire separate awards ceremony? Artists of colour have to work 10 times harder than their Western counterparts yet still do not get rewarded in a more dignified manner.
“It sucks that whenever we, and I mean guys that look like me, do anything that’s genre-bending, they always put it in a rap/urban category. I don’t like that ‘urban’ word; it’s just a politically correct way to say the N-word to me. So, when I hear that, I’m just like, why can’t we just be in pop?” – Tyler, the Creator said after his album ‘IGOR’ won Best Rap Album in 2020.
We have our very own example of this phenomenon at home. Tyla, our South African superstar, whose global hit, Water, dominated charts, social media, and sparked worldwide debates. Regardless of this breakout success, her recognition began to be framed according to an ‘African’ lens, rather than being allowed to simply compete against mainstream pop artists. Another example of this is Tyla’s music being categorised as Afrobeats even though she has stated that this is not the case. “I know there’s a tendency to group all African artists under afrobeats. It’s a thing, and even though Afrobeats has run things and has opened so many doors for us, African music is so diverse.” Said Tyla during her acceptance speech at the 2024 MTV Video Music Awards. Even though this is just the beginning of her career, her rise to fame reflects an industry that has seemingly become inclusive on the surface, while still clinging to barriers that limit artists of colour.
Does representation matter? Yes. The cost it comes at matters, too.
Categories dedicated to genres and cultures that have a history of being overlooked will always be a positive thing. This exposure is deserved and long overdue for many artists. Yet, this inclusion should not be a box. The Recording Academy may have created a bigger table, it has also placed name cards that quietly remind artists where they are supposed to sit.
The idea of this still being a topic of discussion is ironic, given the fact that music has never been more global and diverse. Amapiano blasts from club speakers all over Europe. Latin artists headline major events in North America, such as the Superbowl. K-Pop has dominated streaming platforms and created one of the largest fanbases worldwide. Rising Slovakian artist ADÉLA, emphasises this in her song currently going viral on TikTok, ‘Ain’t in LA,’ with lyrics stating, “It’s all a lie, the baddest bitches ain’t in LA.’
We no longer identify good music by language or genre, but simply whether we connect with it or not.
The Grammys, on the other hand, darken these invisible lines. In an industry without borders, why do they continue to draw them?
FEATURED IMAGE: Graphic of artists of colour who have been nominated for and/or won a Grammy. Graphic: Kerese Govender
Bafana Bafana and Banyana Banyana represent the same nation, but not the same level of support. The difference says more about us than it does about football.
Rather than pretending South Africans do not support Banyana Banyana, the stronger argument is whether the support is visible. When Bafana Bafana competed at the 2025 Africa Cup of Nations, social media timelines filled with countdowns, match previews, public viewing invitations and nationwide calls to rally behind the national team. The yellow jerseys became symbols of national unity, and every fixture felt like a national event.
Fast forward to Banyana Banyana competing at the 2026 Women’s Africa Cup of Nations, and the atmosphere is noticeably different. The defending African champions took to the continental stage without the same intensity of public mobilisation. The contrast is not simply about football. It reflected a deeper pattern in South African sport: we celebrate women’s achievements, but we do not consistently promote them with the same energy.
If the media, sporting bodies and sponsors devote more promotional resources to men’s football, then the public will inevitably become more familiar with Bafana’s journey than Banyana’s. The disparity becomes a self-fulfilling cycle: greater visibility leads to greater support, which justifies even greater visibility.
The irony is that Banyana Banyana have produced extraordinary results. They won the Women’s Africa Cup of Nations in 2022 and have become one of the continent’s strongest national teams. Yet the same CGE report concludes that despite these achievements, they “have not received the same recognition and rewards as their male counterparts, Bafana Bafana.” Success alone has not earned them equal treatment.
Perhaps the most important conclusion from that study is not the numbers themselves but what they mean. The researcher argues that under-reporting women’s sport limits the public’s knowledge of female athletes’ achievements, while the continued trivialisation or neglect of women’s sport creates the impression that it is less important or less worthy of attention.
Recognition also extends beyond media coverage. The CGE points out that SAFA awarded Banyana R1.2 million after winning WAFCON, while previously spending R9 million on vehicles for provincial administrators. It also notes that Bafana players received larger bonuses for reaching the AFCON quarterfinals than Banyana received for winning their continental title. These examples reinforce the message that women’s achievements are too often valued less, even when the results surpass those of the men’s team.
South Africans like to describe themselves as passionate supporters of whoever wears the national jersey. That ideal should not depend on whether the badge is worn by Bafana or Banyana. If we want genuine equality in football, we must stop expecting women to earn support only after they win trophies, while assuming the men’s team deserves nationwide campaigns simply because they are men.
Equal support begins long before kick-off with equal storytelling, equal promotion and equal belief that every national team is worthy of the country’s full attention.
FEATURED IMAGE: A graphic of Banyana Banyana standing under the spotlight. Graphic: Sanele Sithole
Here’s my confession: politics was never my thing. I saw it as something that belonged to politicians in parliament who engaged in debates and speeches televised on the news. These politicians sometimes appeared in headlines that I occasionally skimmed through before scrolling to something more entertaining. In my mind, politics was like arts, maths or science. It had its own people, and I was not one of them.
In high school, my history teacher tried to convince my class to vote. She argued that by choosing not to vote, we were automatically voting for the majority party. I later learned that this isn’t how South Africa’s electoral system works, but the broader point she was making was that choosing not to participate still has consequences.
Ironically, studying journalism made checking out of political discussions much harder.
Current affairs, breaking news and policy decisions constantly impact how and why we tell stories. I realised you can’t study journalism without keeping one eye on the country around you. So, when I stumbled across an Instagram video by content creator zkiaba, I didn’t scroll past.
Their words lingered.
“Politics is not a hobby you do to unwind after a long day or to bond with like-minded individuals online. It is the context in which you live.”
That was the moment I realised my definition of politics was too narrow.
It wasn’t just about politicians in parliament. It was the taxi fare that increases because of geopolitical conflict. It was the quality of public healthcare, the condition of our roads, the education we receive and even the price of bread. I certainly had not considered that the opportunities waiting, or not waiting, for me after university were political too.
One could say it was quite ignorant of me, but we don’t judge, right?
“If you’re not at the table, then you’re on the menu.”
Who is making decisions when I am not at the table?
On July 30, I decided that the decisions affecting my life shouldn’t be made without my participation.
I registered to vote for the first time. It turns out, I was not the only young person thinking this way.
A Mail & Guardian article, citing Electoral Commission of South Africa (IEC) figures, noted that nearly half (46%) of all new voter registrations during the June and August
2026 registration weekends came from people under the age of 29. I now form part of that statistic
Voting is only one part of it. It also means reading beyond party manifestos and staying informed about the issues and policies that affect your life and community. It’s working with others to solve local problems instead of just complaining about them. It’s speaking up when something isn’t right, not just for yourself but for others too. And it’s helping people understand their rights, because democracy works best when participation spreads.
I still don’t enjoy political shouting matches, and I probably never will. But I’ve stopped telling myself that politics has nothing to do with me. Because whether we choose to participate or not, the system continues to shape our daily lives.
There is something distinctly inherited about misogyny.
It lingers and creeps in your veins as if it were a dormant disease. It flows through your blood and poisons the mind. It is almost buried beneath and before you know it, you find yourself looking sideways at the girl you deem promiscuous because she is not docile. You will not realise it is there, even when you pray for a baby boy because they are ‘so much easier to raise’ than girls. Without knowing it you uphold patriarchy in small ways.
This topic is a dead horse that will never stop getting beat. It is constantly on my mind. How can it not be when we live in a world where an abuser can sell out stadiums globally. A world where violence and injustices against women are constantly ignored. Men claim to care but prove daily that they do not. In my opinion, men rarely consider your feelings the same way a women would.
This is evident in the support problematic male celebrities continue to garner. These men are defended and uplifted irrespective of how irredeemable their actions are.
A comment under a TikTok about the recent arrest of Chris Brown.
A comment under a TikTok about Connor McGregor’s court case.
Society expects women to sit idly by, with no bark or bite, because we should be pleased to have a seat at the table. We still have to hope that asking, “What if that was your mother or daughter?” is enough for a man to be empathetic. A woman should not be reduced to her role in a man’s life for her pain to be empathised with.
It does not matter what type of woman you are or aspire to be, nine times out of ten, there is a word out there to demean you. My favourite out of the bunch lately is ‘bird,’ used to refer to a woman who is being wistfully naïve when it comes to seeking male validation. Have you not found the courage to leave your abusive boyfriend yet? Bird. Do you forgive cheating? Bird. Do you complain about your manipulative boyfriend but stay with him? Bird. People on the internet say, “too many birds on the ground and not enough in the sky.”
The latest example are the women on Love Island 2026, namely Melanie Moreno and Aniya Harvey. The term has shifted from holding women accountable for enabling men to blaming women for being mistreated by men. People should be capable of calling out a woman’s wrongdoings without diminishing her entire character, especially without using terms that were created to police women and their actions.
Misogyny shows up in the jokes we find funny; in the memes we reshare; in the bullying we endorse and the two-cent comments we dismiss. It does not just spring up suddenly in unexpected violent outbursts.
It is when we dislike a woman for being too loud, or for taking up too much space, instead of staying in the tiny corner designated for her. We see this experience the most among famous women. From Taylor Swift to Megan Thee Stallion to Chappell Roan, all women hated for different reasons but with one noticeable similarity. In most cases, even if there are valid reasons to dislike these women, rarely are those the reasons why people do.
These ‘jokes’ test your morals and what you deem as okay to say and hear. They question how ignorant you are toward those you love when they make such takes.
Comments under a TikTok about Chappell Roan’s controversy.
Women who are complicit in men’s misogyny should not claim to care about our issues. If you associate yourself with this kind of man, you are complicit. You are the company that you keep. By associating yourself with this type of man, you are that man yourself.
This is the part of the article where I confirm I am not some all-men hating, bitter misandrist. If this is bitter, then bitter is what I will be. As it is, I do not believe we are bitter enough.
How a stagnant job market turned South Africa’s postgraduate programmes into an emergency waiting room for unemployed graduates.
Towards the end of every academic period, a quiet panic settles amongst final year students. You hear it in the conversations on campus and the endless scrolling on LinkedIn: the realisation that a degree is no longer a ticket into the workforce. Faced with a stagnant economy, thousands of us make the same calculation: do we risk entering a brutal job market, or do we register for an honours degree?
Let us be real. For a lot of us, staying in university for another 12 months is not driven by academic ambition or a sudden passion for a postgraduate thesis. It is a survival strategy.
Higher education is becoming a social safety net. Packing your bags and going home to a township or rural area without a job carries a crushing social stigma. After our families made heavy financial sacrifices to support us through our undergraduate qualifications, returning empty handed can sometimes feel like failure.
Enrolling in an honours programme provides a respectable cover story. It buys us another 12 months of the ‘student identity’, preserves our dignity with the family back home and allows time to keep frantically sending out CVs while quietly stalling the reality of a job market that has no room for us.
The numbers behind this decision show just how much the economic landscape has changed compared to when our older siblings were graduating. Looking back at the period between 2008 and 2010, South Africa was navigating the aftermath of a global financial crisis. According to Statistics South Africa, the average national unemployment rate in 2008 stood at 22.9% while youth unemployment for those aged 15 to 34 sat around 32.7%. During that period, figures from the higher education department showed that public universities produced roughly 127 000 graduates in 2007. Back then, an honours degree was predominantly viewed as a traditional specialisation route or an entry point into academia.
A graphic illustration comparing South Africa’s national and youth unemployment rates between 2008 and 2026. By: Rearabilwe Tsebela
Today, the numbers are terrifying. Statistics South Africa’s first quarter labour figures place our national unemployment rate at 32.7% while youth unemployment for those aged 15 to 34 has reached 45.8%. For the youngest job seekers aged 15 to 24, the unemployment rate sits above 60,9%. At the same time, university output has grown by roughly three-quarters, with public universities now pumping over 220 000 graduates annually into a stagnant economy.
Having a tertiary qualification still gives us a slight edge compared to the national average, but when thousands of new graduates flood the market every year and entry-level jobs now require extensive experience while paying peanuts, that advantage disappears fast. As a result, postgraduate programmes below master’s level have absorbed thousands of us who are simply using academia as an emergency shelter.
So, we stall further. We take on additional debt, live on two-minute noodles and risk academic burnout for another year just to keep a respectable title while hiding from national unemployment statistics.
It is time for universities and policymakers to look at the booming postgraduate enrolments and ask the tough questions.
Are institutions really cultivating a new generation of brilliant scholars, or are they just temporarily hiding unemployed graduates for another academic year? Until the South African economy can create jobs, the honours degree will remain less of an academic launchpad and more of an emergency holding pen.
FEATURED IMAGE: A graphic illustration showcasing the post-graduation anxiety of choosing between an uncertain job market and studying further. Photo: Rearabilwe Tsebela
Every year the days leading up to Africa Day, street vendors start displaying their best cultural outfits because they know the public want to look good for the occasion. However, in the mix of cultural outfits and good cuisine the real meaning behind the celebration of Africa Day gets lost.
Ubuntu, I am because we are, is a traditional African philosophical concept and the foundation on which the Organisation of African Unity (OAU) was built on. The birth of the OAU, now known as the African Union (AU), on May 25, 1963, is the core reason why we celebrate Africa Day. 32 independent African states came together to fight colonialism and promote unity. This day is meant to strengthen the Pan African spirit, celebrate cultural diversity, reflect on progress and rewrite the narrative of Africa’s story.
Sadly, the meaning behind the celebration of this day has been watered down, and it has become just another day of dressing up, eating delicious food or a surge in sales for street vendors. Ntando Makhubu, a journalist at The Post Newspaper, wrote in his article that he spoke to a street vendor in Pretoria who said “For me, for us, it means a boom in business” which highlights how unaware some members the public are about the true intent of Africa Day.
Africa Day is only recognized as a public holiday in a handful of African Union member states, only six to nine of the 54. Mako Muzenda, a former freelance writer for Daily Maverick, wrote an article saying that the “25th of May is about statements and fanfare, not about making serious moves.” Africa Day has become more performative than educational or impactful, and this is another reason why the public’s awareness regarding Africa Day is low.
There are multiple articles promoting Africa Day celebrations that involve food, cultural dances, and dressing up. However, there are few speaking to the core reason of Africa Day and how Africa has grown or managed to rewrite its own story after colonization.
The lack of awareness shows how easily African history and unity can fade from public consciousness when not diligently taught. As the African Proverb says, “Until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.” This means if Africans do not actively preserve, teach and celebrate their own history and the foundation that it was built on, it will continue to be forgotten or overlooked.
Featured Image:Headshot of Chrislyn Majiedt, this week’s editor.
A true story of murder and the miscarriage of justice.
“Likewise, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot bear good fruit. Thus, by their fruit you will recognise them.”
Fruit of a Poisoned Tree by Antony Altbeker is about one of the most sensational legal cases in South African history, the Inge Lotz murder trial. The book explores the murder of a young Stellenbosch master’s student; the prosecution of her boyfriend and the exposure of police fabrication and investigation.
On March 16, 2005, Inge Lotz was found brutally murdered in her apartment around 22:30 by Christo Pretorius after receiving a call from Lotz’s friend. The discovery he made was gruesome and extremely violent: Lotz had multiple stab wounds in her neck, chest, and ribs. She had been beaten with a hammer on her head. Her forehead was crushed inwards, leaving behind the flesh hanging on her face. According to the investigators, there was no sign of forced entry, and all her valuable items, such as her laptop and cell phone, were left untouched. This means her attacker was known to her.
Her boyfriend, Fred van der Vyver, quickly became the prime suspect. Although he had an alibi, the evidence found on the scene proved otherwise. His fingerprints were found on the DVD she had been watching the afternoon of the attack, a bloody shoeprint matched Fred’s Hi-tech shoes, and lastly, the hammer used to crush her skull was found in his car.
The trial became an exposé in which the defence and the prosecution were trying to discredit each other. Fred was charged with her murder but was later acquitted because it had been discovered that there was dishonesty from the prosecution. So, the case went cold, and Inge did not get justice.
A friend of mine, Mmathapelo Agatha Motlhale, recently passed away. She, too, fell victim to GBV at the hands of her step-uncle. I remember how much she would complain about him constantly terrorising her and her mother. To the point of getting a protection order, which did not last long. He violated the protection order rules one day and tried to attack her mother. While protecting her mother, she slipped and fell. While on the floor, he trampled on her leg with enough force that broke her ankle. When she reported the incident, he was arrested but was not held in custody for long. Upon his return, he kept terrorising them until he got her mother arrested.
The description of the brutality of the murder really shocked my nervous system. I just kept wondering what type of rage and hatred a person would have to have in their heart to commit such an atrocity. To make matters worse, these crimes are usually committed by people we love and trust. Strangers are less likely to kill another stranger in the manner these crimes are committed. It is so unsettling how the danger is almost always in the same house or family as these victims.
Since her murder, femicide and gender-based violence (GBV) rates have increased drastically. Unfortunately, these murders are committed by intimate or family members of the victim. Still, the justice system continues to fail women.
Unfortunately, during the court cases and living in hotels in fear of her step-uncle, she got an infection on the broken ankle, which resulted in her death. The step-uncle may not have killed her directly, but he influenced her cause of death. Had justice prevailed and the step-uncle arrested, her leg would not have been broken in a scuffle, she would have never had an infection and died.
This book reveals a profound miscarriage of justice and serves as a chilling indictment of the professional bankruptcy and systemic rot within the South African criminal justice system. Just like Inge and Mmathapelo, many other women were failed by the justice system. Many of them would have been alive if the system were just and fair.
FEATURE IMAGE: Fruit of a Poisoned Tree by Antony Altbeker Photo: Naledi Maraisane
The closure of City Press feels symbolic for journalism students growing up in the digital era.
The closure of City Press reflects the decline of traditional print journalism.
Journalism students are preparing for an industry increasingly dominated by digital media.
Despite the shift of digital journalism, newspapers still represent an important part of journalism culture.
As a journalism student, I always imagined my future inside a busy newsroom. Pictured reporters rushing to meet deadlines, newspapers stacked on desks and the sound of keyboards filling the room as stories came together before print. Growing up, newspapers felt permanent. They felt important. The closure of City Press in addition to several other titles shut down by Media24, felt like a violent wake up from a beautiful dream. One never gets used to that.
When news of the newspaper’s closure broke, it felt bigger than the loss of a publication. It felt like the end of a version of journalism many students like me had hoped to become part of one day.
Growing up, I witnessed the slow decline of print newspapers as more people turned to digital media for news. As journalism students we already publish stories online and use websites during practicals, so digital journalism already feels normal to us. However, the closure of City Press still felt significant because it marked the end of one of South Africa’s last major print newspapers.
Most people now consume news through their phones before it ever riches print. Social Media updates appear faster and are easier to access, which explains why fewer people still buy newspapers. Although digital newspapers have become the norm, newspapers still carried a sense of tradition that made the closure of City Press feel Symbolic.
Even though many journalism students are already preparing for digital media spaces, the closure of City Press still feels emotional because newspapers were once seen as the centre of journalism. Watching another print title disappear makes the shift from print to digital feel more final.
Despite this uncertainty, the closure of City Press also reminded me why journalism still matters. Even if newspapers disappear, people will always need stories that inform, expose and reflect society honestly. Journalism may no longer look the same as it once did, but its responsibility remains important.
The closure felt personal because it represented more than the loss of a newspaper. It represented change and uncertainty. Still, while many aspiring journalists continue studying, writing and preparing themselves to tell stories in whatever form journalism takes next they are faced with this uncertainty.
The newsroom may be changing before we even enter it, but the passion to tell meaningful stories remains.
Print in the magazine, phone and laptop: City Press visuals, Photo: Khutso Ngwatoana
FEATURE IMAGE: Print in the magazine, phone and laptop: City Press visuals, Photo: Khutso Ngwatoana
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, […]
