The bustling main street of Germiston, a decaying suburb of Johannesburg, pulsates with commercial activity. Hair salons jostle for space with internet cafes, the aroma of grilled sausages spills from a doorway, and a grocery store nestles between a mobile phone repair shop and a hardware store. This vibrant tableau is abruptly shattered by fear as businesses hastily close, anticipating trouble from a growing crowd on the street. A slow-moving procession of fifty demonstrators, flanked by police officers, advances down the street. Pauline, a Congolese refugee who has lived in South Africa for fifteen years, tends to her fruit stand on the pavement. Before she can react, a female demonstrator overturns her table, scattering fruit and vegetables worth hundreds of kronor across the ground. Friends help Pauline salvage what they can while the police issue a mild reprimand to the demonstrator, but no real consequences follow.
The march continues, led by Davis Magolego, a gospel artist who has taken on the role of protest leader. He engages his fellow demonstrators in a call-and-response chant: ”South Africa for?” ”South Africans!” ”Zimbabwe for?” ”Zimbabweans!” They identify themselves as ”Operation Dudula,” a vigilante group protesting immigration, born from the economic hardship following the COVID-19 pandemic. While xenophobia has long simmered in South Africa, it has intensified in recent years. ”Dudula,” meaning ”to push” or ”to shut” in isiZulu, has become a rallying cry for these street mobs. They not only demonstrate but also aggressively demand documentation from business owners suspected of employing undocumented immigrants, forcing many establishments to close under threat of violence.
This particular demonstration in Germiston focuses on mass deportation, with participants chanting slogans demanding the expulsion of immigrants. Magolego addresses the group gathered in a parking lot, declaring, ”We will never apologize for our viewpoints. This is not about skin color. Our territorial integrity can never be questioned. We are Africans, yes, but Africa is divided by borders!” Ayanda Ndindibala, a key organizer of this protest, joined the movement three years ago after she claims she was robbed on the street by an undocumented immigrant. She rejects the characterization of Operation Dudula as xenophobic, arguing, ”Isn’t it xenophobic when a foreigner first comes here illegally – that’s the first crime – and then sells drugs? They come here and rape our children, they come to our homes and rob us.” Ndindibala grossly overestimates the immigrant population, believing it to be at least one-third of South Africa’s 60 million people, or around 20 million.
However, researchers like Loren Landau at the Wits University Centre for Migration Studies place the actual figure between 3 and 5 percent, or 2 to 3 million. Landau also confirms that there’s no evidence to suggest immigrants are disproportionately involved in crime. Despite this, Ndindibala remains convinced that the immigrant population is far larger and that ”most” come to commit crimes. She believes Operation Dudula is necessary to pressure the government into action, asking, ”What are the inspectors who are paid to check the food vendors doing? The police and other law enforcement agencies know about it but do nothing. How many children have died?” She refers to a recent series of poisoning cases that claimed the lives of at least 23 children who ingested organophosphate, a substance used as an agricultural pesticide. Some children died after consuming snacks from local convenience stores, known as ”spaza shops,” many of which are owned by immigrants.
While the source of the poison remains unclear, social media is rife with accusations that shop owners deliberately poisoned the children as part of a sinister plot against South Africans. President Cyril Ramaphosa, whose ruling party relies on the support of the anti-immigration Patriotic Alliance, has called for all spaza shop owners to register with authorities. However, vigilante groups have already permanently closed many of these shops. Pauline, the Congolese fruit vendor, became a target simply for having a vegetable stall. ”I don’t understand why they had to overturn the table,” she laments. ”I could have shown all the documentation. I’m here legally and I do everything right.” She sighs, adding, ”Ubuntu is what they always say, but what is this then?” Ubuntu, a word frequently invoked in South Africa, translates roughly to ”I am because we are,” symbolizing a collective sense of belonging and the ideal of a tolerant ”rainbow nation.” However, the recent events reveal that this ideal does not extend to everyone.
The wave of xenophobia is not confined to Germiston. A few miles south, in Sharpeville, a township etched in history for the 1960 massacre of at least 69 anti-apartheid protesters, xenophobic demonstrations have become commonplace. Situated in the heart of the Vaal Triangle, a heavily industrialized and polluted area, Sharpeville has witnessed numerous anti-immigrant protests in recent weeks. Abera Jawore, an Ethiopian refugee, lost his shop in Sharpeville a month ago to vandals. This was his second shop in a year. He now spends his days among other displaced Ethiopian shop owners in a restaurant in Vereeniging. Some are even forced to sleep on the streets due to lost income. An estimated 320 shops in and around Sharpeville have been shut down by rioters in the past year, each supporting up to five families. Dudula gangs have acted preemptively, even before the deadline for shop registration, and those attempting to comply are being harassed at the city office.
Tensions flare at the registration queue as Dudula-affiliated demonstrators loudly demand that all jobs be reserved for South Africans. A government official reads from the constitution, emphasizing the rights of refugees to economic and social justice, but is met with boos from the crowd. A South African man shouts a chilling threat at the Ethiopian shop owners: ”It doesn’t matter if you get any permits, we will take care of you in Sharpeville.” This aggression, which six years ago culminated in the deaths of twelve immigrants during a week of xenophobic looting, stems from economic desperation. Black South Africans, historically exploited as laborers in mines and other industries during apartheid, now lack the skills and networks necessary for small-scale businesses. A landlord in Sharpeville explains that shops taken over by South Africans often fail because they lack the connections and experience of immigrant business owners. Back in Vereeniging, Abera emphasizes his positive relationship with his Sharpeville neighbors, noting that the threats often come from outsiders. Tsaga Abose, now working as a cook after her shop was violently taken over last year, worries about her children’s future in this hostile climate. Her eldest son, born in South Africa, faces bureaucratic hurdles in obtaining an ID card, vital for his final exams next year. His younger brother, Gersome, tearfully recounts the relentless bullying he endures at school from both teachers and students, highlighting the daily struggle of immigrant families in a nation grappling with deep-seated xenophobia.
