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
Today, apartheid-era spatial planning and car-centric design continues to shape commuting in Johannesburg, as cycling reemerges as an affordable and sustainable way to move around.
Johannesburg, South Africa’s most populous city, has a long and complex history with bicycles. Today, commuting is a daily struggle shaped by Apartheid, inequality, and inadequate infrastructure – factors which make cycling a difficult option for many.
A 2025 News24 report, citing the World Bank, revealed that “low-income commuters spend more than 50% of their earnings to get to work.” The bicycle is a tool for affordability, sustainability and freedom. However, in a city designed for cars, we need to reimagine urban space, to make it safer for pedestrians and cyclists while integrating public transport.
In the early 1900s, Johannesburg was celebrated as a cycling city. In an article published in the Guardian, Njogu Morgan, a postdoctoral research fellow at Wits University, quoted a 1903 newspaper stating that “nearly every third inhabitant rides a bicycle.” For white residents, cycling was fashionable and modern. However, for black residents, bicycles were often a necessity, but their freedom to ride was restricted and policed.
By the 1930s, rising incomes from the gold economy led to many white residents buying cars, and motoring became a symbol of wealth. Under apartheid, spatial segregation forcedblack workers into distant townships, far from job opportunities. Cycling became associated with black-working class commuters and was stigmatised as a ‘poor man’s mode of transport’.
Since, unsafe roads, long distances and investments in highways pushed bicycles aside completely. By the mid-1990s cycling had almost disappeared from the streets.
Modern Johannesburg was designed around cars instead of people. Urban Planner Phano Liphoto documented his morning journey on TikTok, his story sparked hundreds of responses from people who faced similar situations of waking at 4am and returning home after dark.
Commuter cycling is re-emerging as a cheaper and more environmentally friendly alternative, and it’s becoming increasingly popular among students, including myself. I’m fortunate to live relatively close to Wits University, making cycling a practical option. Many people told me it would be impossible to commute by bike in Johannesburg, warning that, especially as a white woman, it would be far too dangerous. Yet, I have found the city is absolutely cyclable, though it is far from being well supported.
With very few dedicated cycles lanes, and those that do exist are often blocked by taxis and cars. Bike lanes that had been introduced in the 2010s were criticised as “luxuries for the rich”, even though evidence showed lower-income workers were the main cyclists. Many cycle lanes are just painted on the ground, and according to a 13-year-old study “painted bike lanes without physical barriers are often more dangerous than nothing at all.”
On my route to campus, a cycle lane suddenly appears along a busy road, only to disappear in the middle of traffic. But, with some planning and the use of back streets, cycling is manageable and a great option. There are also groups, such as Banditz Bicycle Club and Girls on Bikes, that are advocating for more people to take up commuter cycling, offering affordable bikes and helping to map safer routes. Groups like Young Urbanists have proposed low-cost upgrades and protection, including in their “Stage 01 of Reclaiming Our Cycling Lanes ”briefing for Cape Town.
Transport experts argue that a cycling infrastructure cannot succeed on its own. Stigma also remains a concern. As Morgan explores in the book Anxious Joburg there is a complex relationship between identify and transport and “identities are constructed through transport behaviour.”
As Director of Wits University’s Centre for Diversity Studies, Professor Nicky Falkof, stated in an interview on YouTube, “There also needs to be a significant shift where people stop thinking bicycles are a lower-class form of transport.” This highlights the link between transport and identity and explains why bike lanes often go unused. They were built without broader cultural and systemic support.
Reclaiming the bicycle is not just about transport, it is about ending spatial violence and redesigning cities to prioritise people. While South Africa faces challenges from its past, there is an opportunity to build a more inclusive and connected urban space.
Some people still measure degrees based on its employability. Is this a fair standard to use when degrees are not obtained solely to get jobs?
Are Bachelor of Arts (BA) degrees really “useless”? Many people on social media think that it is simply because of the apparent employment challenges BA graduates face. This idea is further portrayed by governments cutting funding for specifically humanities degrees. As seen in the United Kingdom, the University of Hertfordshire scrapped courses such as History, English Literature and Linguistics to name a few, due to a declining demand making the courses no longer financially viable.
The common perception of BA degrees is that, because they are not professional or specialised degrees, they are mostly academic, and unemployment among BA graduates is high. It would be unfair for people to use this criteria to label Bachelor of Arts degrees as “useless”.
According to Statistics South Africa’s Quarterly Labour Force Survey (2025), “possessing a tertiary education, especially a degree, enhances one’s likelihood of securing employment.” The report also shows the more employable sectors for the youth such as Elementary occupations (which require short training) at 25.3%, trade at 24.5%, sales and services at 20.0%, community and social services at 19.8%. This highlights that unemployment is not tied to a specific field of study but is embedded in a country’s economic challenges. The real divide is between graduates and non-graduates in a struggling economy like South Africa’s, but to assume that employment is the only reason degrees are pursued is incorrect.
Graphic showing the top four employable field in South Africa according to Statistics Soth Africa Quarterly Labour Force 2025 report. By: Zebrena Ralph
Professor Paul Ashwin, from Lancaster University, argues that “rather than the employment and salaries of graduates, the central educational purpose of university education is to transform students through their engagement with knowledge”.
Degrees are obtained for different reasons. While some people prepare for specific career paths like healthcare or law, the purpose of higher education goes far beyond employment. A university degree enables knowledge acquisition, critical thinking and personal growth. To label a degree as “useless” because some graduates — including Bachelor of Arts graduates — face unemployment is inaccurate and reveals a deeper misunderstanding of what a university degree is meant to achieve.
BA career paths are unique, hence the stigma. Graduates from specialised fields like Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics (STEM) often move into clearly labelled graduate programmes, making these career paths appear neat and measurable. BA graduates, however, rarely follow a linear path. Their broad skills allow them to move into media, marketing, governance, research and corporate roles, often shifting between industries over time. These careers are diverse and non-linear, thus harder to track statistically. Tracey Ashington, a graduate recruiter, explains, that “many jobs are not advertised at all… This is known as the hidden job market.”
BA careers are therefore not nonexistent — they are simply harder to map.
Ironically, employers often complain about graduates lacking the very skills a BA degree develops. According to LinkedIn, adaptability, teamwork, problem-solving and communication skills are seen as core workplace competencies. In an era of automated and artificial intelligence, the ability to interpret information, understand people and think ethically are becoming more valuable.
Perhaps the biggest problem with the ‘useless BA degree’ narrative is that the sole purpose of studying is employment. Reducing tertiary education to a degree being a ticket to getting a job ignores its role in developing thinkers, citizens and problem-solvers, not just employees.
FEATURED IMAGE: Graphic showing the top four employable field in South Africa according to Statistics Soth Africa Quarterly Labour Force 2025 report. By: Zebrena Ralph
Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, Albertina Sisulu, and Adelaide Tambo are often remembered as women who stood behind great men while their husbands were imprisoned, exiled, or silenced by Apartheid. However, that memory is incomplete.
These women are not simply supporting figures in South Africa’s liberation story; they are central characters in it. They were organisers, political actors, caregivers, and leaders who carried families, communities, and, in many ways, the struggle itself on their backs.
The new Netflix documentary The Trials of Winnie Mandela offers a deeply moving portrait of Mama Winnie — from her youth to her marriage, to becoming one of Apartheid’s fiercest opponents, and later enduring public scrutiny during the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. What the documentary captures so powerfully is not just Winnie Mandela’s politics, but her resilience.
When Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years, Winnie kept his name alive. While the apartheid state tried to crush resistance, she remained visible, vocal, and defiant. At home, she was left to raise two daughters under immense pressure. In public, she became the face of resistance. In private, she still had to be a mother, provider, protector, and head of the household. She was expected to be everything.
That reality is not unique to Winnie Mandela. It is the lived reality of millions of South African women today.
According to Statistics South Africa, approximately 6.1 million households or 37.9% of all households in South Africa were headed by women in 2018, with female-headed households being most common in rural provinces such as the Eastern Cape (46.9%), Limpopo (45.8%), and KwaZulu-Natal (45.0%). More recent figures show that by 2024, that number had risen to 42.4% of households nationwide, meaning more than two in every five South African homes are led by women.
This is not a small social trend; it is the backbone of South African society. And yet, despite carrying homes, raising children, and often being the sole breadwinners, women continue to receive little recognition for their labour. Their sacrifices are normalised. Their struggles are overlooked. Their strength is expected.
Instead of appreciation, many are met with criticism, scrutiny, and impossible standards much like Winnie Mandela herself, whose legacy is too often reduced to controversy rather than the weight of what she carried.
A graphic of resilient women. Graphic and photos: Sanele Sithole
I think of women like my own mother, and countless others whose names will never appear in documentaries or history books, but whose work has held families together against impossible odds. These women build homes from very little. They sacrifice quietly. They endure endlessly, yet we rarely tell their stories in full.
South African history has long celebrated men as heroes, while women are remembered as wives, widows, or footnotes to male greatness. Women were never standing beside history; they were making it.
The question is no longer whether women deserve recognition.
The real question is: when will we finally honour the women who have been carrying this country, often alone, all along?
FEATURED IMAGE: A graphic of resilient women. Photo by: Sanele Sithole
Bleeding every month against our will is already too much to deal with.
South Africa treats sex like a public health crisis and periods like a personal problem. You can walk into almost any campus clinic, any bathroom, any office, and find a bowl of free condoms. No questions asked. Try finding a free pad. Sex is a choice; bleeding is not.
This is not just a South African oversight, but a continuous pattern rooted in a system that has historically centred male bodies as the default. Male needs are treated as public health priorities, and female biology a private inconvenience.
The hypocrisy is costing South African girls their education, according to Dr Lydia Chibwe from the University of Pretoria, roughly 30% of school-going girls in this country skip school each month. That means missed classes, stifled opportunities, and compromised dignity.
I have noticed something rather absurd: I can access free condoms more easily than I can access pads. And those condoms are usually made for men. Which is odd because sex is a choice, periods are not. A simple walk into most female bathrooms on campus, and you will not find a single dispensing machine for pads or tampons. If there are any, they are always empty. If your period arrives unexpectedly, or if you just cannot afford products that month, you are on your own.
In the South African economy, sanitary products have become a luxury that many girls cannot afford, so they resort to toilet paper, newspaper, or even socks, which are not designed to sit against the body for hours, catching blood. Not only is that undignified, but it is a health risk that can cause infections, rashes, and toxic shock syndrome.
There is a shift in conversation in Africa. At a regional level, the African Coalition for Menstrual Health Management has been pushing for menstrual health to be recognised as a human right, not a private issue. In Kenya, two days of paid menstrual leave for employees was introduced in December 2025.
Conversations about allocating national budgets for sanitary products in schools in the above countries are being had. Yet, South Africa has only removed Value Added Tax (VAT) on menstrual products.
Condoms displayed on the table in the Campus Health Clinic reception area. Photo: Naledi Maraisane
Access and cost aside, women and girls still have to deal with the pain.
Period cramps are not just ‘discomfort’, but they can be so severe that you pass out; I know, because it has happened to me. The pain is unbearable, and yet, in South Africa, we do not get sick days for it. There is an expectation to sit in lectures, meet deadlines, and show up to work while our uteruses contract like they are trying to escape our bodies. We push through because “that is just what women do.”
Add cultural stigma to that, and it gets worse. Many girls are taught that periods are dirty, shameful, and not to be discussed. So, they do not ask for help. They do not ask for pads. They just disappear for a week each month and fall behind.
We are always fighting to belong in spaces that were not built for us. The last thing we need is to be shunned for bleeding against our will every month. We should not have to work and study through agonising pain, while still struggling to afford and access basic menstrual products and services. If society can make space for free condoms, it can make space for free pads. Because equality does not start when we stop bleeding, it starts when we stop being punished for it.
FEATURE IMAGE: An empty sanitary pad dispensary box located in Solomon Mahlangu’s basement female bathrooms. Photo: Naledi Maraisane
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Mama Africa: the image of a South African singer, songwriter and a fierce civil rights activist reduced to the representation by a British-Nigerian actor?
The Road Home is an upcoming a musical drama, set to begin filming in June 2026, with no official release date. It explores Miriam Makeba and Hugh Masekela during apartheid and their pointed efforts against the regime. Makeba will be portrayed by British actress, Cynthia Erivo and Masekela by South African actor, Thabo Rametsi.
The film is written by the famous South African author, Zakes Mda and is to be directed by Bill Condon, the American director and writer behind the film adaptations of musicals, Chicago and Dreamgirls.
The casting of Erivo to portray Miriam Makeba in the film has sparked quite the conversation, with many contradicting views. Social media users asked how the lived experiences of a black South African Xhosa woman can be reimagined for the big screen by a non-South African? Of particular concern – language. You know, the “Igqirha lendlela nguqo ngqothwane” of it all.
Those concerned about the casting want a seasoned South African professional actress at the helm. There are many examples like Thuso Mbedu, Nomzambo Mbatha, and Bonnie Mbuli to name a few with international silver screen experience. However, in the film and television industry’s eyes, the value of the Xhosa tongue is nothing compared to the power of a global British passport.
While I have nothing but the best wishes for Cynthia Erivo, a talented, multi-award-winning actress with a voice like the harmony of angels. I cannot help but face the uncomfortable truth about how African legacies are portrayed in film and television. Can Erivo truly embody the linguistic and cultural texture of an iconic Xhosa woman like Makeba? A woman who was boldly and unapologetically South African.
To ignore the skills of an actress and singer-songwriter like Erivo would be to disrespect her craft. In her own pedigree, she too is an icon, a powerhouse. Erivo is no stranger to portraying legends in the music industry. One such example is her portrayal of Aretha Franklin in the National Geographic anthology series “Genuis: Aretha” (2021). Receiving an Emmy nomination for her performance.
She ticks the boxes. She will look the part; she will act the part and will most certainly sing the part, but will her singing be a mere imitation? Will she truly be able to fully embrace the South African identity that comes with Miriam Makeba’s songs that were tools to fight injustices during apartheid?
In addition to the cultural texture that accompanies a powerhouse like Makeba is also the language in which Makeba sang: isiXhosa. In her 1963 performance of “Qongqothwane” live on Ce Soir à Cannes, Makeba prefaces the performance by emphasising that the English speaker cannot say the name of the song thus they call it “the click song.” Even then, Makeba chose to proudly embrace her identity and prove that black South African culture mattered.
Miriam was defiant; she was fierce, and she was proudly a black, Xhosa South African woman even in her exile. Her songs weren’t just words on a paper; they were incantations. They were brilliant. They were the representation of the South African nation fighting against discrimination.
This is not about preference for South Africans; it is about having our cultures represented by the very people that speak and live them.
FEATURED IMAGE: Graphic of legendary South African singer Miriam Makeba, taken by Paul Weinberg and Cynthia Erivo at an FYC panel for Wicked in Santa Monica, California taken by Kevin Paul. Source: Wikimedia Commons.
At Wits, decolonisation remains incomplete as English dominance continues to limit true multilingual inclusion in learning and assessment.
In 2015, during the #FeesMustFall movement, South African universities were forced into a reckoning that extends beyond protest and policy reform. At the University of the Witwatersrand, this moment led to a language policy that introduced English, isiZulu, Sesotho, and South African Sign Language (SASL) into its academic framework. Yet, as Wits advances through its 2023 Strategic Framework, a plan guiding the university’s goals around transformation, inclusion, research, and global competitiveness, though a contradiction remains: the institution speaks of decolonising knowledge while leaving the language of learning largely unchanged.
Decolonisation without linguistic transformation is incomplete. A curriculum may diversify its content but if access to knowledge remains dependent on English, exclusion is not removed but relocated into the medium of instruction. This dynamic can be understood through what Miranda Fricker terms epistemic injustice, which is a condition in which certain forms of knowledge are undervalued because of the language in which they are expressed. In this context, students are not excluded from knowing, but from having their knowledge fully recognised unless it is articulated in English.
As Steve Biko warned, “the most potent weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed”, a condition sustained not only through content, but through the very language in which knowledge is delivered and recognised. His insistence that education must cultivate critical consciousness rather than reproduce subordination sharpens this argument: when students are compelled to translate their intellectual lives into English to be legible, the system does not liberate thought; it disciplines it.
This is not abstract. In lecture halls across Wits, language shapes how students learn and are assessed. In science and health sciences courses, students encounter, process, and are tested on complex ideas in English, even when understanding often begins in other languages during peer discussion. Learning in familiar languages can improve comprehension, participation, and confidence, reduce cognitive load and also allow students to engage more fully with complex material.
In engineering tutorials, students switch to isiZulu or Sesotho in order to unpack difficult concepts, only for that cognitive work to disappear in formal assessment, where only English counts. In Sociolinguistics, this is understood as code-switching, a skilled practice rather than a deficiency. What appears as hesitation is, in reality, intellectual labour: students are learning disciplinary content while translating it across linguistic systems; a demand not equally placed on all. They are not struggling with content; they are performing unpaid intellectual labour to make that content legible within a single dominant language.
Wits visibly acknowledges four languages on campus signage, raising questions about the absence of South Africa’s other official languages in learning and assessment. Photo: Alice Dhlamini.
This extends beyond technical disciplines and reflects a broader experience across faculties where language shapes who can fully access knowledge.
As third-year industrial engineering student Tshedza Tsiololi explains, “some engineering terms, such as dynamic system or torque, do not translate easily into everyday language… This makes learning time-consuming, especially in the absence of accessible translation tools”. This translation process carries material consequences. When comprehension is delayed, so too is performance, affecting assessment outcomes, time to completion, and the cost of education. Language barriers are therefore not only pedagogical concerns but structural inefficiencies.
The result is not a lack of understanding but a delay in it. Students carry an invisible cognitive burden, constantly translating their thinking. Language cannot be treated as a secondary issue in curriculum reform.
Language shapes how knowledge is accessed, processed, and recognised. When a medical student must translate reasoning to communicate with a patient, or an engineering student is assessed in a language that can flatten thinking processes, language becomes a gatekeeping mechanism. Yet the persistence of English is often justified through its role in global academia. While not unfounded, this argument is incomplete. Countries such as Germany, Japan, and South Korea demonstrate that strong language production can occur in national languages alongside English. Multilingualism is not a barrier to global relevance but a source of intellectual flexibility.
Wits’ current approach reflects both progress and limitations. As noted by the Head of African Languages, Dr Soyiso Khetoa, “the university’s focus on English, South African Sign Language, isiZulu, and Sesotho is informed by demographic research”. Institutional efforts, such as language-learning applications, support isiZulu acquisition. However, this raises a deeper question: what happens to students whose linguistic identities fall outside these dominant categories?
A comparative perspective complicates this further. In Tanzania, the adoption of Swahili under Julius Nyerere aimed to democratise education and strengthen national identity. This model significantly expanded access and participation at foundational levels, enabling students to learn in a familiar linguistic context. While access improved at foundational levels, challenges emerged in higher education, including limited technical terminology. This illustrates that linguistic transformation is both possible and complex, requiring sustained commitment rather than selective implementation.
Accommodation based on geographic prevalence may be efficient, but it is not neutral. It creates new margins. Students who speak other African Languages remain excluded, not because their languages lack value, but because they fall outside institutional feasibility. In this way, multilingualism risks becoming selective rather than transformative. South Africa’s own history offers parallels. Institutions such as Stellenbosch University and the University of Pretoria have shown that full academic systems can be developed in Afrikaans, raising the question of why similar levels of investment have not been extended to African languages in a democratic context, while also revealing how language can function as both inclusion and exclusion.
Bert van Pinxteren argues that expanding the language of learning is expensive and complex. “Developing academic terminology in African languages, training staff, and redesigning assessments require time and resources”, he notes. These challenges are real, but difficulty is not a justification for permanence. Technology tools, from translation software to AI-assisted terminology development, are reshaping what is feasible. The limitation is increasingly institutional: whether universities are willing to invest in systems that reflect their students’ realities.
When African languages are used informally for explanation but excluded from formal assessment, universities reinforce a hierarchy where legitimacy remains tied to English. Inclusion becomes conditional.
Restricted-access signage at Wits mirrors ongoing debates around who is fully recognised within the university’s linguistic and academic spaces. Photo: Alice Dhlamini.
The 2015 policy was a meaningful step, but without implementation, it risks becoming symbolic. If students must translate their intellectual lives into one dominant language to be recognised, decolonisation remains incomplete. The issue is the distinction between symbolic and material transformation: policy signals intent, but assessment determines whose knowledge is legitimised.
A serious commitment to transformation does not require abandoning English. It requires building multilingual academic systems where English is one of several legitimate languages of learning. This could include bilingual modules, expanded language support, and discipline-specific terminology across a broader range of African languages.
And perhaps the most uncomfortable question is this: must students once again protest to be heard? The 2015 moment demonstrated that institutional change often follows student pressure. If language remains a barrier, it raises concerns about whether dialogue alone is sufficient.
Decolonisation, if it is to mean anything, must be a dialogue, not only between institution and student, but between languages themselves. The question is not whether English will remain at Wits; it will. The question is whether students will continue to think in multiple languages but be recognised in only one language. Until students can be recognised in the languages in which they think, decolonisation remains a translation exercise, not a transformation. More fundamentally, it is whether Wits is willing to move from being a university that is merely in Africa to one that is truly of Africa.
FEATURED IMAGE: A student points toward an emergency assembly point at Wits, symbolising urgent questions around language, access, and transformation in higher education. Photo: Alice Dhlamini.
Wits journalism students confront apartheid’s execution site and argue visits should be compulsory for future reporters and lawyers.
At least 130 political prisoners were hanged there, including ANC freedom fighter Solomon Mahlangu, with many buried in unmarked graves at Rebecca Street Cemetery.
The trapdoor at Kgoši Mampuru II is now a national heritage site, but between 1960 and 1990 it executed more than 3,500 people — seven at a time.
On Wednesday, April 15, 2026, Wits Centre for Journalism students took the 52-step ascent to the gallows at Kgoši Mampuru II Correctional Centre. The trapdoor is now part of a national heritage site, but between 1960 and 1990 this room executed more than 3,500 people — seven at a time. If Wits University trains the next defenders of our Constitution, then Wits should make this site compulsory for first-year Law students and Honours Journalism students.
Department of Justice records show more than 3,500 prisoners were hanged at Pretoria Central Prison, which closed in 1996 and is now known as the Gallows Memorial Museum. At least 130 to 134 of the prisoners were political activists, including ANC freedom fighter Solomon Mahlangu. Many were buried in unmarked graves at Rebecca Street Cemetery in Mamelodi. The last political execution took place on 29 September 1989, months before the government abolished the death penalty. This was the same gallows where Kgoši Mampuru II himself was executed in 1883, and later, Daisy de Melker.
Critics may argue that the site is traumatic, or that students already study S v Makwanyane where the Constitutional Court outlawed capital punishment in 1995. However, reading a judgment is not the same as standing where the law failed. Law students practise justice in moot courts at Wits. First-year Law and Honours Journalism students must also face where justice failed. The facility is 54,3km from campus. The tour exists.
This visit should be compulsory because Law and Journalism students can’t just read about historic event. Law students will stand up in court one day to talk about people’s freedom. They need to see the room where the state used to execute people. Journalism students will write news stories about jails and courts. If the visit is optional, most students will skip it because it’s hard, but protecting the Constitution isn’t optional. If Wits wants to train lawyers and journalists who care about justice, this isn’t just an educational excursion, but foundational training. If we have never faced the state’s most final act, how can we report it with the weight it demands?
I believe education without memory is incomplete. Wits should partner with the Department of Correctional Services to include an excursion to the Gallows Memorial Museum for first-year Law students and Honours Journalism students, with proper counselling support. A Constitution written to prevent 3,500 deaths cannot be understood without confronting where those deaths happened. The law is not only in textbooks. Sometimes, it’s at the top of 52 steps.
FEATURED IMAGE: Wits Great Hall. Photo: Khutso Ngwatoana
From pre-colonial wars to the mechanics of state execution, students are demanding a more nuanced history. It is time to stop sanitising the past and walk the 52 steps.
The Department of Basic Education is currently reconsidering how we teach our past, a move that comes not a moment too soon. In a recent series of conversations at the University of the Witswatersrand (Wits), students expressed a clear hunger for a history that goes beyond the “standard” narrative.
Joy Cain, a first-year Biomedical Sciences student, noted a lack of perspective on the white experience during Apartheid, while Shane Yurar, a first-year Film and Television student, suggested the curriculum should expand to include pre-colonial history, specifically the tribal wars of leaders such as King Shaka. Others, like Aluta Manale, an international relations honours student, pointed toward the migration stories from Congo. Or as Tinashe Morena, a second-year psychology student, said, the need to study the Black authors and struggle writers who defined an era.
The underlying message from these students is clear: they feel their history has been “filtered.”
As I stood in the Kgosi Mampuru II Gallows last week, Wednesday, 15 April, I realised just how thick that filter is. While students are asking for more diverse stories, there is a physical site of memory in Tshwane that remains almost absent from our national consciousness. The Gallows is a “human abattoir”, a place where 3,500 lives were ended with clinical, industrial efficiency.
My mentors cautioned that the Gallows might be too ‘deep’ or too ‘sore’ a topic to bring up in a casual vox pop, and they are right. It is a heavy, sombre reality. But that is exactly why it needs to be taught. By shielding students from the ‘scary parts’ of our history, we are not protecting them; we are leaving them with an incomplete understanding of how we got here.
We learn about the “In Detention” poem in English class, but we do not walk the 52 steps in History. We talk about the triumph of 1994, but we do not look at the white telephone that never rang for those awaiting a pardon.
If the Department of Basic Education wants to truly localise our curriculum, they must include the sites that prove Apartheid was not just a set of laws, but a factory of dehumanisation. To truly appreciate the “Freedom” we celebrate on April 27th, we must stop sugarcoating the past. We must look at the darkness of the Gallows to understand the value of the light we live in today.
Drawing of a noose that represents the Gallows, in South Africa. Graphics: Daniella Ripamonti
FEATURED IMAGE: Drawing of a noose that represents the Gallows, in South Africa. Graphics: Daniella Ripamonti
South Africa celebrates Easter as a public holiday so why are Yom Kippur, Eid or Diwali just another day at work?
South Africa has 12 public holidays under the Public Holidays Act (No 36 of 1994). The Act recognises Easter and Christmas but does not recognise significant holy days of other major religions practiced in South Africa. Although South Africa’s constitution protects the right to religious observations, the public holiday calendar leans more towards Christianity. For a country with one of the most inclusive constitutions in the world, this appears to be a misnomer in our imagination of what our nation is and should be.
According to the DITSONG: National Museum of Cultural History , the arrival of Jan van Riebeeck marked the start of the South African colonial era and the introduction of Christianity to the region. As noted by Ancestors Research South Africa , the foundation of Christianity shaped the country’s public holiday calendar through the various colonies, as each colony observed Christian holidays before the South African Union in 1910.
Graphic showing how South Africa’s official public holidays include Christian holy days while excluding other faiths. Graphic by: Reatlehile Mashamba
Easter celebrates the resurrection of Jesus Christ after his sacrifice. This comes after 40 days of Lent for some Christians who use this time to reflect and fast. Easter Sunday (usually in March or April) is the biggest holy day preceded by the public holiday Good Friday and followed by Easter Monday, another public holiday.
Yom Kippur, the holiest Jewish day, known as “Day of Atonement,” is a 25 hour fast and five prayer services observance asking for forgiveness from God and people (usually in September or October). During this period, work is forbidden leading to many South African Jews taking an annual leave or a personal day off as South Africa does not consider Yom Kippur a public holiday. Eid al-Fitr (usually in April or May) an Islamic holiday that marks the end of Ramadan and celebrated with morning prayers, feasts, family gatherings and charity confirmed by the Jamiatul Ulama and not as a South African public holiday. Diwali (usually in October or November) known as “Festival of Lights” and falls on a Sunday symbolising light over darkness and good over evil. It is observed with lighting diyas, rangoli designs, exchanging sweets and prayers to goddess Lakshmi.
The Public Holidays Act does not reflect the country’s diverse religious culture. It reflects the assumption that there is only one dominant religion, Christianity, with holidays being built around that one religion while other religions must make amends to miss work. Considering South Africa’s multiculturalism, the religious calendar should include elements of each religion’s holy days allowing everyone to celebrate and understand their true meaning.
Academic, Benedict Anderson, defines a nation as an imagined community. What if in that imagination other religious holy days were made public holidays? The country would get the chance to stop and allow Jews to fast, Muslims to pray and Hindus to light up lamps while everyone else celebrates it as a long holiday.
The argument is not whether Easter should be or not be a public holiday. It is whether other religions deserve the same recognition given to Christianity. In a country as diverse as South Africa with 12 official languages and a constitution that protects religious freedom, the public holiday calendar should reflect this diversity.
With no change to the calendar, Jewish students will continue to ask for leave during test and exam season, Muslim families will continue to celebrate Eid after a long day at work, Hindu homes will continue to light up diyas at night and Easter will remain the same, a religious holiday for everyone but a holy day for Christians.
FEATURED IMAGE: Graphic titled “How South Africa’s calendar became Christian”. Graphic showing how South Africa’s official public holidays include Christian holy days while excluding other faiths. . Graphic by Reatlehile Mashamba
We used to protect our most intimate moments: grief, prayer and quiet joy within the four walls of our homes. Now, we trade them for likes. As the line between experiencing and performing life vanishes, we must ask: If everything is for sale online, does anything remain sacred?
A camera is always ready, lingering in the background to record even the smallest moments. In the age of the non-stop vlog, the boundaries of human experience are dissolving. Social media has not just given us a platform, it has turned our very existence into a product. We are no longer living our lives: we are curating them for an invisible audience that does not actually care.
William Shakespeare once wrote that “all the world’s a stage”, suggesting that we are all merely players acting out our roles. Centuries later. Sociologist Ervin Goffman expanded on this, arguing that in our social interactions, we are constantly “performing” to manage how others see us. Goffman believed we had a “front stage” for the public and a “backstage” where we could finally be ourselves. However, the digital age has effectively abolished the backstage.
Look at your feed. You will see funerals livestreamed, hospital beds used as backdrops and personal breakdowns filmed through a beauty filter. We see random acts of kindness where the camera is clearly set up before the help is even offered. In these moments, the experience itself becomes secondary. The grief is not about loss: it is about engagement. Kindness is not about the person in need: it is about the creator’s brand.
Even the sanctuary is no longer safe. Instead of lifting both hands to praise the Lord, many are now holding up a phone to take content. We see congregants capturing the choir or the sermon for their stories instead of being present in the moment. This raises a chilling question: Are we still experiencing life, or are just performing it? How is one supposed to be fully immersed in worship when they are preoccupied with the right camera angle?
A packed auditorium during a contemporary church service, featuring integrated live-streaming and digital displays. Photo: Rearabilwe Tsebela
This shift is fueled by a hungry algorithm.
Research from the University of Malta in 2025 found that the “TraumaTok” trend encourages young people to turn their private grief into public confessional narratives. This specific trend is exactly what is destroying the sacred and private nature of our lives. When we see life through a lens, we stop being participants and start being directors. We wait for the right lighting before we cry: we pause the conversation to ensure the aesthetic is correct.
This is the death of the sacred. Something is sacred precisely because is it not for public consumption. Its value lies in its privacy, the fact that it belongs only to the people in the room.
Critics will argue that social media connects us and in some ways it does. But there is a massive difference between connection and performance.
True connection happens in the unrecorded silence between two people. When we broadcast those silences, we strip them of their power. When everything becomes content, nothing feels special anymore. We are feeding a hungry algorithm with the bits of our souls that should have been kept for ourselves.
It is time to draw a hard line in the digital sand. Not every moment needs a caption. Not every heartbreak needs a story update. Not every sunset needs a filter. Some things should remain unseen, not because they lack value, but because they hold too much of it to ever be liked. In reclaiming our privacy, we might just rediscover the quiet, unrecorded beauty of being alive.
FEATURED IMAGE: A professional camera rig stands ready on a sidewalk in Braamfontein. Photo: Rearabilwe Tsebela
“A society that discourages critical thinking is unwittingly admitting that its foundations can’t survive honest examination.” – Kalen Dion
During my Undergraduate degree, I was assigned a group presentation on France’s foreign policy. It was a layered topic: one that required days of research and rigorous group meetings. One of my group mates, however, insisted on using ChatGPT to write her entire speech.
Unluckily for her, our professor happened to be an expert in French policy. Like a bloodhound, he sniffed out numerous inaccuracies in her speech. In front of the entire class, she had spewed flimsy words, inaccurate facts and false statistics from ChatGPT mindlessly. She presented the information as confidently as if she herself wrote it.
Ask anyone and they’ve probably used AI at least once. It’s so deeply entrenched in our everyday lives; it’s inescapable. When you write an email, an AI suggestion pops up recommending what to say. When you open Instagram, you’re bombarded with a surge of AI-generated reels. Even something as simple as a Google search has an automatic AI summary built in.
AI has burrowed itself so deeply into every channel of our lives that it has become difficult to imagine life without it. But is AI training us to be passive consumers of information?
A study by MIT Media Lab revealed that participants who had used AI to write their essays showed extremely low brain activity compared to those that didn’t. This was largely because they were not actively engaging with any of the material; they were simply parroting it. Ultimately, the tool that was built to supplement our thinking is, in many cases, actually replacing it.
This has dangerous repercussions for human development. If we blindly consume content generated by AI, what else will we be blind to?
In George Orwell’s infamous 1984, he depicts a totalitarian society in which independent thought is abolished under the dictatorship of Big Brother. At the time, it seemed like a fictional dystopia, a far-off tale too outrageous to be taken seriously. Now, it has bled into our reality.
It was Steve Biko who once said, “The greatest weapon in the hand of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.”
We must hold onto our vigilance. We must sharpen our minds. The world is undergoing a rapid digital shift. Our ability to think, to question what we know so that we are not mindless followers becomes our greatest and most potent weapon.
FEATURED IMAGE: Headshot of Jamie Ho, this week’s editor.
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, […]
