We're watching something incredibly disturbing begin to rear its head in South Africa. A kind of politics that I and many others believed had been buried with apartheid. This is a politics of collective punishment, group suspicion and mob justice. What started out as anti-immigrant concerns around the country has transformed into a terrifying phenomenon, a vehicle for the expression of ethnic chauvinism, particularly Nguni chauvinism, politically.
The tragic and violent death of Nhlamulo Sambo and everything that transpired surrounding it should, frankly, tell us some uncomfortable things about where a part of our society is heading. What occurred in Mossel Bay was not simply an act of isolated violence; it was a product of a broader context of anti-foreigner violence and dispossession. Over fifty shacks were destroyed in the uprising, more than fifty homes reduced to rubble. Mozambican nationals had to be forcibly evacuated and repatriated; displaced and dispossessed Tsonga-speaking South Africans as well as migrant families alike remain in temporary shelters today, having lost everything they had.
These were not the actions of peaceful community protestors. These were the actions of a pogrom. A pogrom is not simply a mob outburst of anger, rather, it is the "attack on a group in an organized or semi-organized way for religious or ethnic reasons." When homes are burned down and families are forced to flee as a result of their identity and place of origin, we have no choice but to describe it precisely for what it is.
The circumstances surrounding Nhlamulo Sambo's death illuminate what has gone unspoken until now: while first claiming not to be related to the migrant crisis, subsequent accounts given by suspects in interviews have muddled the issue significantly and are at variance with each other. One version claims that Nhlamulo had been pursued by a mob through a shanty, the houses belonging to both Mozambicans and Tsonga-speaking persons being simultaneously destroyed and torched, before the deceased eventually succumbed to injuries. According to the suspect who was released due to a lack of evidence, he provided the dying Nhlamulo with a stick and that is how the scene transpired before death ensued.
Whether the courts of public opinion believe this story is secondary to the reality: Nhlamulo died amidst anti-foreigner violence and dispossession and this cannot be divorced from that larger reality. The central question then is not who administered the lethal blow. It is more critically about the nature of the society which allows a Tsonga-speaking man to be chased and beaten amidst an anti-foreign and ethnic cleansing violence.
And herein lies the importance of the Nguni chauvinism critique: When I speak of Nguni chauvinism it is not to implicate every single Nguni speaker, nor to denigrate the vibrant cultures of Zulu, Xhosa, Ndebele, Swati and other Nguni speakers; it is instead to highlight a particular mode of political expression, one that positions Nguni identity as the natural yardstick of who belongs in South Africa, one that sees the experiences of Nguni speakers as South African, while simultaneously viewing African identities outside of that group as subordinate, suspicious, foreign and even threatening.
It is this mode of thinking that places migrant workers at the center of our fear, today Mozambicans, tomorrow Tsonga-speakers, and the day after, possibly Venda-speakers, Basotho, or any other ethnic group that falls outside the definition of the present ethnic nationalist rhetoric. History tells us chauvinism cannot exist on a single object of hate, it always craves another to fuel itself. All the talk of and incitement to June 30 further exacerbated these concerns. The stated objective of stopping undocumented migration has morph into ethnic entitlement. Communities are pushed to 'identify enemies,' not by their criminal acts, but by their language, their accent, their features, and where they hail from, blurring the lines between illegality and identity such that entire groups of people become inherently suspect. It is in this manner that xenophobia gives birth to Afrophobia and thereafter Afrophobia gives birth to ethnic persecution.
Compounding these concerns is the unnerving silence or equivocating statements from institutions that hold significant moral authority, the traditional leaders, politicians, and cultural custodians of South Africa. While abstaining from strongly condemning the politicisation of identity and ethnic mobilization has often been taken to signal tacit consent, non-condemnation often serves to legitimize the actions taken, especially at times of socio-political flux.
Our struggle for liberation in South Africa was predicated on the need to unite, as oppressed people, regardless of ethnic background, language and nationality. The Johannesburg workers did not bother to ask each other if they were Zulu, Tsonga, Sotho or Shangaan before uniting in the workplace; the exiles that fled from across Africa were afforded sanctuary without being questioned about their nationality. Pan-Africanism itself is predicated on a political principle: the arbitrary borders imposed by colonialists must not dictate how humans express solidarity. Yet here we stand, being made to witness these same divides resurface.
These dozens of burnt houses, these thousands of displaced people, these terrorized immigrants pushed back to countries of origin, and the murder of Nhlamulo Sambo should all serve as a wake-up call: These are not merely individual incidents. These are manifestations of a much deeper malaise. This is a political malaise that says that some Africans, belong more than other Africans. This is chauvinism. And without confrontation, this politics of exclusion will continue to victimize untold numbers of people long after it leaves the front pages.
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