Walking into The Gallows Museum at Kgosi Mampuru II Correctional Centre, the first thing that hits you is not a sound, but the absence of it. We fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. It did not feel right to speak. The atmosphere was tense, sombre, and thick with a history that was never meant to be heard outside these walls. We were not just touring a building; we were retracing the final, mechanical minutes of 3500 lives.
The dehumanisation was in the details. The “procedure” began at 06:50 AM, and by 07:30 AM, it was over, fast and efficient. Life was extinguished with the punctuality of a business transaction. A wave of nausea hit me hearing how seven people were hanged at a time, their bodies later hosed down with a power washer, like equipment in a slaughterhouse, because the state could not be bothered to afford them individual dignity. They were shoved into coffins, and that coffin was shown to families for mere seconds to hide the trauma of the noose and then buried in unmarked graves. They did not just want these men dead; they wanted them erased.
It was a place designed for the mass production of death, a literal “human abattoir.” The ropes had metal rings to ensure the break was instantaneous, a cold, metallic “mercy” in a room that lacked a soul. If a pulse survived the drop, they were simply hoisted back up and hanged again. It was a loop of terror. Our guide explained that some in charge, like warden Christiaan Barnard, openly enjoyed the work because of how well it paid, even believing he would be forgiven because he was “just doing his job.” To keep the killings quiet, they even soundproofed the room to muffle the thunder of the trapdoors hitting the frame.
We climbed the 52 steps in the shadow of painted silhouettes, counting them one by one. I thought of the prisoners who would sing holy songs on their way up, their voices a haunting contrast to the “last request” they were offered at the top. It felt like a final, cruel joke to bark those requests in Afrikaans, a language many did not even understand, moments before they were led into the room where the ropes awaited. It was in this final room, the gallows, that I saw the plaque for a 22-year-old Solomon Mahlangu, barely younger than I am, who once stood on this same trapdoor.
This experience hit me with a force I did not expect. I realise now that we talk about “liberation” as a concept, but we rarely look at the apparatus that tried to crush it. Our democracy is not just built on grand speeches and signed documents; it is built on the silence of these men and the sacrifice of leaders like Solomon Mahlangu, whose words remain painted on these walls: “My blood will nourish the tree that will bear the fruits of freedom.” Standing where the hearse once sat, permanently waiting, I realised that as Freedom Day approaches, I carry the weight of those 52 steps with me.
We can never truly understand our present if we forget the system that tried so hard to wash this history away. I pray that the souls who passed within those walls have finally found the eternal rest and peace that was denied to them in life.
Power outages at Wits’ International House disrupt postgraduate students’ study routines and raise safety concerns amid aging infrastructure and poor communication.
Recurring power outages at International House since March 2026.
Residents face interrupted study routines and safety risks, particularly at night when corridors are left in darkness.
Limited communication from management and delays in forming a House Commitee or upgrading infrastructure have left residents uncertain and frustrated.
Persistent power disruptions at Wits’ International House residence are straining the building’s infrastructure and backup systems, compelling postgraduate students to relocate late at night to continue studying.
The outages began in early March 2026, with some residents reporting disruptions occurring two to three times a week. During these periods, the residence relies on a generator shared with Sunnyside Hall, limiting available backup power and leaving sections of the building without electricity.
Students say the impact extends beyond inconvenience. Darkened corridors and shared spaces have forced some residents to either remain in unsafe conditions or move across campus late at night to access functional study areas.
Postgraduate resident Ireen Masemula, who is pursuing a BEd honours in language education, described the disruptions as exhausting and unsettling. “The lights go out at around 8 p.m. sometimes, and I only return from the library around 1 a.m.,” she said. “It’s not safe, especially as a young woman. I have to go to the library to work, and I struggle to study in such an environment.”
Studying by candlelight during outages at Wits’ International House. Photo by: Alice Dhlamini.
According to Tyson Mnisi, a security officer at International House, the outages are not solely linked to external power-supply issues. He explained that a combination of external disruptions and internal electrical faults contributes to recurring failures.
“Sometimes it’s just a minor cut, but often it’s an internal load,” Mnisi said, adding that high-wattage appliances such as microwaves and heaters place significant strain on the system. “You’ll have students making popcorn in their rooms, and suddenly the whole circuit trips. The infrastructure is just not built to accommodate such levels of demand.”
Tshiamo Modise, an undergraduate student and a student employee in the residence’s maintenance team, said communication gaps have intensified the situation. During a recent incident involving multiple generator failures, she used her own airtime to contact management after the building’s Wi-Fi and telephones went down.
“I reached out to management for answers, yet I was met with silence and no formal explanation”, Modise said, noting that outages have also resulted in spoilt food and unsafe conditions in shared kitchen spaces.
Residents say the recurring disruptions point to deeper structural concerns within the residence, as temporary fixes have not addressed the underlying causes.
Shanon Smit, a handyman at the residence, suggested that establishing a formal House Committee could strengthen communication between residents and maintenance teams, particularly in reporting faulty appliances before they place additional strain on the system.
Despite these suggestions, students say little has changed, leaving them to adjust their routines individually while managing ongoing disruptions.
Attempts to obtain comment from residence manager Bhekizizwe Nkosi were unsuccessful at the time of publication.
For now, International House residents remain caught between different explanations and ongoing infrastructure pressures, with no clear timeline for lasting improvements.
Residents say that without urgent infrastructure upgrades, the ongoing outages will continue to compromise both the safety and basic living conditions within the residence.
FEATURED IMAGE: International House Residence. Photo by: Alice Dhlamini.
A signage change at Wits University highlights the student centre’s official name, but “The Matrix” remains the name that defines campus culture.
The student centre at Wits University now displays its official name in full, Student Union Building Matrix.
Many students were unaware of the formal name and have always called it “The Matrix.”
Despite the signage, “The Matrix” remains a key part of Wits student culture.
Something felt off at the university’s student centre, something felt strange. The bold, familiar “Matrix” signage that has long marked the heart of student life was gone. In its place was a more formal name: “Student Union Building Matrix.” For many students passing through, the change raised a quiet but lingering question—had “The Matrix” been renamed?
At first glance, it appeared to be a rebrand. But conversations across campus revealed that the story is less about a new name and more about how students experience and define their space.
Many students had not noticed the updated signage at all. Others only became aware of it after it was pointed out.
An image of the map of the Matrix and the Student Union Building. Photo Provided by: Jenna Stelli
“I’ve been at Wits for quite a while, and it’s always just been ‘The Matrix’ to me,” said Obakeng Leping, a fourth-year BSc civil engineering student.
Head of marketing Reshma Lakha-Singh said the official name of the building has always been Student Union Building, with “The Matrix” becoming widely used from 2001. The name gained popularity due to its catchy nature, influenced by both the building’s structure and the release of the movie by the same name at the same time.
“The decision to revert to the original name aligns with the university’s signage and wayfinding policy, which aims to ensure consistency, clarity, and uniformity across campus buildings as budgets allow,” said Lakha-Singh. “The current naming better reflects the building’s long-standing formal identity and institutional purpose.”
Jenna Stelli of campus planning added that the facility consists of two separate buildings. “The original Student Union building is to the south and the more recent Matrix building to the north. Because the building is experienced as one cohesive hub, we decided to include both names on the new signage to avoid confusion,” she said. “There haven’t been any official name changes — we are ensuring the signage matches how the building is used.”
The gap between official naming and everyday language reveals something deeper about student identity at Wits. Names are not only assigned; they are shaped over time through shared experience.
For students like Tiyane Matsheke, a third-year BA general student, the informal name carries a sense of belonging. “I’ll still call it ‘The Matrix’ because that’s what everyone knows. It’s part of Wits culture,” she said.
Attempts to trace the origins of the name remain unclear, with key sources unavailable to comment. Yet its meaning is evident in how firmly it is held by students.
Even as official branding becomes more visible, it is unlikely to redefine what the space represents. The signage may read differently, but in conversation, memory and daily student life, “The Matrix” continues to hold its place.
FEATURED IMAGE: Picture of the Student Union Building Matix. Photo by: Sanele Sithole
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
The Atlas of Uncertainty offers a profound perspective on African migration, redefining our understanding of belonging.
Atlas of Uncertainty opens at Wits Origins Centre.
Various artists, writers and researchers celebrated their work during the opening ceremony.
The exhibition holds significance in today’s divided society.
Picture of papier-mâché boat sculpture entitled ‘Mashuna and Hakuna nija’ by artist Onys Martin. Photo: Jamie Ho.
The Atlas of Uncertainty exhibition opened at the Wits Origins Centre on Saturday, April 18, inviting visitors to question the current agenda around migration, urbanisation and belonging in Africa.
From a paper-mâché boat constructed from receipts to a woven tapestry stitched with burlap, the exhibition offers a more humanising lens for viewing the global phenomenon of mobility: not as burdensome, but as inherent to humanity.
Rooted in three African cities, Johannesburg, Accra, and Nairobi, the Atlas looks beyond the borders that divide us. Migration researcher Loren B. Landau highlights that the current scholarship neglects to capture the complexities of Africa, thereby revealing a need to move “from the counting to the feeling; from the census to the senses.”
To understand the vast complexities that define the continent, the Atlas is not only working across borders, but across different media, disciplines, platforms and ways of thinking. Urban sociologist Caroline Wanjiku Kihato explains that this “lets different ways of knowing sit alongside one another, without forcing them into a single voice.”
The Atlas of Uncertainty is a powerful revision of how we understand African cities. It uproots mainstream narratives surrounding migration, opening the space up for uncomfortable yet necessary conversations.
Spatial practitioner, Carina Kanbi provides some insight into the actual making of the project and how its themes of migratory politics were mirrored over the course of its conception.
Going all the way back to 2023, when the project first began, she notes challenges faced by the artists working across borders, not only in physically transporting the works, but also in handling bureaucratic restrictions between countries. “The exhibition did not begin this morning,” she explains. “It very much began in transit.”
And staying true to this theme of mobility, the Atlas will remain a piece of art that will remain in perpetual movement. While it is on exhibition until July 3 at the Origins Centre, it is also planned to showcase in Accra and Nairobi in 2027.
Each piece of the Atlas reverberates with the passion of its creators. Each tassel holds weight.
Each shard aches with feeling. As the cracks of division deepen in our world, the value of this exhibit lies not only in its ability to challenge the status quo, but in its ability to reach where data and statistics cannot, to reconnect with our ability to be human.
Close-up of artwork titled ‘I am the Graffiti on the Cracked Wall‘ by Windybrow Arts Centre. Photo: Jamie Ho.Picture of ‘Strangers and Spaces’ by Austine Adika. Photo: Jamie Ho.Close-up of ‘A Map of Dreams and Realities’ by Billie McTernan. Photo: Jamie Ho.
FEATURED IMAGE: Picture of artwork titled ‘When We Travel, Where Do We Settle?” by Wezile Harmans. Photo: Jamie Ho.
Main Street in Johannesburg transformed into a car-free zone, inviting people to take back the city centre through art, community, cycling and music.
Johannesburg reimagined its city centre, as Main Street closed to cars and reclaimed by the people.
Music, art, cycling and children’s activities filled the streets, creating a sense of community, safety and connection.
Inspired by cities globally, Main Street Sundays is part of an experiment to revitalise the city .
On Sunday, April 12, Johannesburg reimagined how we can experience the city. What is usually jammed with traffic, became a space for walking, cycling, art and connection. The initiative was led by Jozi My Jozi in partnership with Young Urbanists. For one full day Main Street in Marshalltown was closed to motor vehicles and belonged to the people.
There was something happening on every corner. Music played, book clubs met in the open, art filled the streets, people skated, played games and searched the stalls. It was more than just a street closure, it was a reclaiming of public space from cars.
“Our mission is to bring people back to the city,” said Jozi My Jozi Education Workstream Coordinator, Senty Maphosa. “Let’s relove, let’s reimagine what the city could look like.”
Globally, cars dominate 80% of public space. But as Thandile Manyifolo, BA Architecture Student and Deputy Chairperson of the Jozi My Jozi Chapter at Wits University reminds us, “urban spaces were designed for people to live in. If people come secondary to that, are they really fulfilling their purpose?”
Organisers emphasised that reclaiming the streets is not just about daytime activities but also creating more opportunities and innovation for young people into the evenings.
The event offered a glimpse into how urban space can return to being people centric. Children played freely, with a programme created in partnership with Play Africa, the day included interactive learning activities, face painting, chalk art, sports and a gallery.
People felt at ease, walking around taking photos on their phones, dancing and laughing. There was a sense of belonging. “Today is all about community, it’s all about collaboration and it’s all about bringing back a sense of pride and inspiring people,” said Maphosa.
Jozi My Jozi is reimagining Joburg’s CBD. Photo: Hannah BrownA game of table tennis is held on the street. Photo: Hannah BrownKids area in partnership with Play Africa. Photo: Hannah BrownAs Main Street closed to cars, cyclists rode through the CBD. Photo: Hannah BrownA music group performs at the event. Photo: Hannah BrownSkateboarders took to the city streets, performing tricks. Photo: Hannah BrownVisitors play a game of foosball. Photo: Hannah BrownJozi My Jozi signs during Main Street Sundays. Photo: Hannah Brown
Inspired by cities including Bogotá, Paris and Cape Town’s Bree Street. The event is part of a larger experiment to revitalise the city, reimagine the use of urban space and see what happens when streets are closed to cars and given to pedestrians.
For Johannesburg, Main Street Sundays was the first of what many hope will become a regular event. “We are starting something that will have a domino effect in the long term to open up the streets of Jozi, not just Main Street, but the entirety of the city,” said Manyifolo.
It showed us what Joburg can feel like, where the city is not just a place to quickly pass through, but one where we can come together, connect and move safely.
FEATURED IMAGE: Cyclist from the Sentech Croozers rides a stance bike at Main Street Sundays. Photo: Hannah Brown
The play Sophiatown balances the tragedy of displacement and forced removals with the joys of human connection, jazz, singing and dancing.
It is Saturday, April 11, 2026, and the theatre kid in me is geeking throughout the entire experience of witnessing the revival of Sophiatown on stage. A legacy, a history so rich, words cannot begin to describe the greatness embodied through the characters, the storytelling and the finer details that reflected the true intentionality in honouring and remembering Sophiatown.
Upon arrival, I was excited and deeply curious about what the play Sophiatown would actually be about. The audience sat in the lounge area of the Wits Theatre, anticipating the journey we were about to embark for the next two hours. Chatter and joy filled the lobby as we patiently waited for the show to start.
Boy, were we in for a true treat! Drum rolls and a groovy jazz tune is how we were introduced to Sophiatown, a fitting opening for a place known for its sonically rich cultural heritage and legacy. One of the main characters, Jack, took us back in time. It is the 1950s: typewriter on the desk, a bookshelf in the background, blue lights and the interior of a warm family home, await the rest of the characters.
Jack, an aspiring journalist, resurrects the legacy of Drum magazine by calling out names of the 1950 Drum legends such as: Can Themba, Lewis Nkosi, Bloke Modisane, and Todd Matshikiza, he highlights how they paved the way for African storytelling in Sophiatown at that point in time. Soon after, the rest of the characters join in on a chorus and soothes our ears with a sweet melody, the peanut gallery begins to cheer, and we have officially taken off.
The play is truly nothing short of amazing, and it importantly showcases how Sophiatown can never be solely understood through a singular lens or a singular story. It is culturally rich, consisting of diverse people, multiple races and different lived experiences. We are taken through a story of history, as the play reflects the severity of living under the apartheid regime which pushed for racial segregation and alienation. As one of the main characters Mingas says, “Sophiatown is not just about clubs and jazz, it is about war.”
The play explores the plight of BantuEducation, and the complexities of interracial relationships as we see through the arrival of a white Jewish girl, Ruth Golden, who is originally from Yeoville. She finds herself in Sophiatown after seeing an advertisement in the Drum magazine for the “diamond lady, number 17.”
Ruth’s presence at 65 Gerty Street in Sophiatown reflects the different living conditions between the white people and black people. Ruth is forced to adapt to life in Sophiatown, in a smaller house where everyone shares rooms, it enhances the complex relational dynamics between characters such as Lulu and Princess, Mingas, Jack and Fafi and the mother who all occupy the home.
Above all else, the play highlights the brutality of forced removals in Sophiatown with reference to the Native Resettlement Act of 1954. The apartheid regime used to remove black people from their homes, through bulldozing houses and destroying the infrastructure. The wound of displacement is so deeply felt by the audience as the characters are forcefully moved to Meadowlands.
Actors of Sophiatown play on stage. Photo by: Sikelelekile Pahlana
The play effectively and harmoniously balances light-heartedness through humour, singing and dancing with the seriousness of how violent the apartheid regime was.
The play asks to be remembered, embraced, and treated as a real point in time because it was and forever will be. We are urged into carrying the memory of Sophiatown with us and be conscious enough to ensure we never forget the pain, the joy and the collective fight it took for us to taste freedom, not idealistically yet in reality – to feel the things, the legends of those times always hoped to one day be a witness to.
I spoke to the writer, Malcolm Purkey, who said the play Sophiatown was created 40 years ago, in 1986 and it still stands today, a true testimony to its importance and relevance. When I asked him what he wanted people to take away from the play, he said, “If we found the right way, we could live together with respect. The gap of poverty and inequality is still there, and the war is not over,” Sophiatown reminds us of our common humanity and truly reflects the times, with dignity.
We are reminded, as Don Mattera once articulated, “Memory is a weapon!” Our history, South African history awaits you on the stage, it is worthwhile to go check it out and experience it for yourself. The play runs from April 11 to May 8, 2026. You will laugh, you may shed a tear, yet you will not regret it.
Vuvu Rating: 10/10.
FEATURED IMAGE: Picture of stage during Sophiatown play. Photo by: Sikelelekile Pahlana
Joburg Theatre’s Tribute to Hugh Masekela unites and uplifts the community, revealing the enduring and powerful influence of his music.
Joburg Theatre hosts a 4-day concert to honour the legacy of Hugh Masekela.
A lineup of artists delivered heartfelt performances celebrating his music.
The community united to show their love for the cherished musician.
Picture of Zoe Modiga singing at Joburg Theatre on Friday evening. Photo: Jamie Ho.
The Joburg Theatre held a 4-day musical tribute to Hugh Masekela from Thursday April 9 to Sunday April 12, with performances from some of South Africa’s renowned jazz artists including Tresor, Baobab Sisters, iComplete, Vusi Mahlasela, Judith Sephuma, and Zoe Modiga – all to celebrate the legacy of a man affectionately known as Bra Hugh.
Wits Vuvuzela was thrust into the magic of the event on both Friday and Sunday evening. Pulsing through the stage was the rich lifeblood of Masekela’s music. It flowed through the vocals of the performing artists and poured into the crowd creating a tangible, powerful bond.
On both evenings, the theatre was alive not only with the sounds of his music, but with the liveliness of the crowd. People were dancing, throwing their arms in the air, spinning with loved ones. Every hip sway, every chuckle, every cheer: a testament to their love for Hugh.
No longer were we seated in an auditorium, but in a living breathing piece of history. Infected with rhythm, infused with soul, each song trembled with passion, sending ripples across the sea of luminescent faces.
Those that attended the concert were deeply moved by the power of its performances. One attendee, Oratile Morotolo summed it all up saying, “We were witnessing something we had no business witnessing. As though we were seeing something unseen. A transcendent catapult in time.”
Born in Emalahleni, near Johannesburg, Hugh’s passion for music started at an early age. He contributed massively to the struggle movement against Apartheid, with songs like Soweto Blues and Stimela. Most famously he is known for his protest-anthem Bring him Home (Nelson Mandela) demanding the release of Mandela from prison in 1987.
Not only is he a voice for freedom, but a voice for Africa. Every note of his music pays homage to what he describes to be “the wealth of African culture.”
He passed away on January 23, 2018, at 78 years of age. But his soul continues to live on, not only in his music, but in the people as well.
Even as the lights dimmed and the performers took their last bow, there remained something sacred in all of us that night: something that can never die, a heart that will go on beating.
Picture of Hugh Masekela’s famous trumpet. Photo: Jamie Ho.
FEATURED IMAGE: Picture of the stage during the concert at Joburg Theatre. Photo: Jamie Ho
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.
Student photographers at Wits University raise concerns over being denied the opportunity to work during graduation season after missing an accreditation deadline they claim was not clearly communicated.
Student photographers were denied access to graduation due to a permit system.
Many missed the deadline because communication was unclear.
Students are calling for better communication and inclusion in future.
Over the past two weeks, Wits University Campus has been filled with celebrations as graduates marked a significant milestone. For many, taking photos at iconic locations such as the Great Hall has become a tradition. However, this year, some students were forced to make alternative arrangements after unaccredited photographers were denied access.
The university introduced a system requiring photographers to obtain permits to operate during the graduation period. A limited number of registered photographers were allowed to work in designated outdoor public areas, while Campus Protection Services (CPS) removed those without permits.
According to the Examination and Graduation Office (EGO), the application process was posted on the university website ahead of the graduation period. Officials say that the system aims to manage the high volume of people on campus and ensure safety during the ceremonies.
However, several student photographers say they were unaware of the process until it was too late.
A student photographer with they camera around they neck by the Great Hall. Photo: Sanele Sithole
Bakithi Mntungwa, a Bachelor of Education Honours student, said he only learned about the permit requirement shortly before graduations began.
“I only found out about the permit a few days before the first day of graduation, when I was already booked to take photos. By then, the application had already closed around February,” he said.
Other students echoed similar frustrations.
Thabo Mthembu, a Mining Engineering student, said while he understands the reasoning behind the rule, he believes student photographers should have been prioritised.
“I understand the need for regulation, but I had hoped student photographers would be given priority,” Mthembu said.
Mthembu also described difficulties accessing campus with his equipment, despite being a registered student, saying he was denied entry by security.
Students argue that communication could have been improved through official university channels such as email or social media platforms. They pointed to previous opportunities, such as photography competitions, which were widely advertised to students.
“When the applications closed, I was still dealing with registration and financial issues. Checking the website was the last thing on my mind,” Mntungwa added.
While acknowledging the importance of safety and organisation during graduation, both photographers believe that clearer communication and greater inclusion of student creatives could have prevented missed opportunities.
As graduation season has ended, students are calling for more transparent processes and better access in the future so that student photographers are not only present on campus, but part of capturing its most important moments.
Questions were sent to the EGO for comment, specifically regarding concerns raised by student photographers, but no response was received by the time of publication.
FEATURED IMAGE: A student photographer by the Great Hall taking a picture of the landscape. Photo: Sanele Sithole
Rirhandzu Shilubane uses her platform to challenge beauty standards and empower women and children.
In a world increasingly shaped by changing beauty standards where weight-loss culture dominates and more young people feel pressured to change their bodies, Rirhandzu Shilubane is working to rewrite that narrative. When she entered the room, she did so with bright energy and a welcoming smile that immediately put one at ease. She has a presence that reflects both confidence and intention.
Shilubane, is a 24-year-old third-year law student at Wits University. She is also a Top 14 finalist in the Face of Plus-Size South Africa 2026 pageant. For her, the pageant is not about appearance, but about the impact.
“I’ve always known that I wanted to be a vessel of change,” she says. “Even before I fully understood what that looked like, I knew I wanted to work in a space where I could contribute to something bigger than myself- especially in advancing rights and justice.”
Her academic journey reflects this purpose. “I became interested in how laws actually work in people’s lives, how we make sure rights are not just written but realised.”
Her decision to enter pageantry is rooted in deeply personal experiences. Growing up, she often felt excluded because of her body size during pageants at her primary school.
Rirhandzu Shilubane, Top 14 finalist in the Face of Plus-Size South Africa 2026 pageant. Photo: Dzulani Muthaphuli/ Plain World PicturesRirhandzu Shilubane, Top 14 finalist in the Face of Plus-Size South Africa 2026 pageant. Photo: Dzulani Muthaphuli/ Plain World Pictures
“I wanted to be part of something that tells young girls, especially those who look like me, that they are worthy, that they are seen,” she says. “Representation matters. When you see someone who looks like you taking up space, it gives you permission to do the same.”
Through her initiative, Elevate Her and Children, Shilubane has translated advocacy into action, running food and clothing drives, supporting a children’s home, and organising programmes centred on dignity and care.
“Dignity is a basic right,” she says. “Sometimes we think it’s something abstract, but for many children, it’s about being acknowledged, being cared for, being given space to just be children.”
Her advocacy for body positivity is equally extensive. “It’s not just about plus-size women,” she explains. “It’s about everyone. You could wake up tomorrow in a different body, but if you’re not at peace with yourself, nothing changes. Body positivity is about being comfortable in your own skin, regardless of size, shape, or appearance.”
Despite criticism that often surrounds beauty pageantry, Shilubane remains steady in her purpose. “I understand the criticism, because some spaces do reinforce harmful standards,” she acknowledges. “But for me, this platform is about deconstructing those ideas. Even if I only reach one person, if one girl starts to see herself differently, then that is enough.”
Rirhandzu Shilubane, Top 14 finalist in the Face of Plus-Size South Africa 2026 pageant. Photo: Dzulani Muthaphuli/ Plain World Pictures
Her resilience, she says, is rooted in her upbringing. “My mother taught me that when a door closes, you don’t stop- you find another way in,” she says.
Looking ahead, Shilubane hopes to use her law degree to expand access to justice and empower communities through education. “People are not voiceless,” she says. “They have voices, they just need platforms that amplify them. I want to be part of creating those platforms.”
Her message to young women is both simple and profound: “When you fully embrace who you are, you give others the freedom to do the same. And that is where real change begins.”
FEATURED IMAGE: Rirhandzu Shilubane, Top 14 finalist in the Face of Plus-Size South Africa 2026 pageant. Photo: Dzulani Muthaphuli/ Plain World Pictures.
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, […]
