Africa can't be Africa without South Africa
On the eve of an unofficial deadline set by anti-migrant groups, South Africa finds itself at a familiar crossroads — one where economic anxiety, cultural identity, and the memory of past violence converge. President Ramaphosa has urged restraint, reminding citizens that the Constitution protects all who reside lawfully within the country's borders, even as thousands of migrants from across the continent have already departed in fear. The marches scheduled for Tuesday in Durban, Johannesburg, and other cities will test whether a nation that has walked this painful road before can choose a different path.
- An unofficial Tuesday deadline issued by anti-migrant groups has sent thousands of African migrants fleeing South Africa, many boarding repatriation buses before any violence could find them.
- At least two people have already been killed in xenophobic incidents this year, and the memory of 2008 — when more than 60 died in anti-foreigner riots — hangs over every gathering.
- President Ramaphosa is threading a narrow needle: validating calls for immigration reform while drawing a firm constitutional line against threats, intimidation, and violence.
- A potential flashpoint is building over police restrictions on traditional Zulu weapons — shields, whips, and sticks — that marching protesters consider a matter of cultural practice, not provocation.
- More than 12,000 migrants have been deported or repatriated since protests began, yet the departures themselves have sparked diplomatic friction, with Nigeria disputing South African claims about undocumented returnees.
On the eve of an unofficial deadline that anti-migrant groups had set for undocumented foreigners to leave South Africa, President Cyril Ramaphosa issued a measured warning: protest is a right, but threats, intimidation, and ultimatums are not. The message came as thousands of migrants from across the continent had already chosen departure over the risk of staying.
In Durban, temporary camps of white tents were being dismantled as Malawians sat atop their belongings, queuing for buses home. Among them was Nelson Mbewe, who had come to South Africa to support his family and now found himself pushed out by a relentless message — that he did not belong, that his documents were wrong, that the slur Makwerekwere applied to him. "It's their country, so what can we do?" he said. Another man still waiting to be processed, Hassan Phiri, offered a quieter appeal: "Africa can't be Africa without South Africa. We must love each other and stick together."
The scale of the exodus was significant. More than 12,000 migrants had been deported or repatriated since the protests began, with roughly 3,500 volunteering to leave in recent weeks alone. Ghana, Malawi, Mozambique, Nigeria, and Zimbabwe had all organized repatriations. South Africa officially hosts more than three million documented foreign nationals — people who, Ramaphosa wrote in his weekly newsletter, work, study, raise families, and contribute to the economy. They deserve the protection of the Constitution, he insisted, even as he acknowledged that immigration reform was overdue.
Authorized marches were set for Tuesday in Durban, Johannesburg, and other cities. Police promised they were prepared, but a specific tension had already emerged: many protesters were ethnic Zulus whose tradition calls for carrying shields, whips, and sticks in public demonstrations. Authorities had banned traditional weapons from the march — a prohibition that risked becoming its own confrontation.
The fear driving migrants away was not abstract. In 2008, more than 60 people died in xenophobic riots. This year, two had already been killed. As Tuesday approached, the question was whether Ramaphosa's warnings would hold, or whether South Africa would add another chapter to a history it has never fully escaped.
On the eve of an unofficial deadline that anti-migrant groups had set for undocumented foreigners to leave South Africa, President Cyril Ramaphosa issued a careful warning: those who wished to protest could do so, but only without threats, intimidation, or ultimatums. The message was directed at demonstrators who had grown increasingly vocal in recent months, but it was also a plea for restraint in a country where xenophobic tensions had already driven thousands of people to flee.
Thousands of migrants from other African nations had already left South Africa in recent weeks, many of them terrified of what might happen if they stayed. In Durban, one of the cities that had seen the largest and most aggressive protests, temporary camps filled with white tents were being dismantled as authorities worked to clear them out before the deadline arrived. Most of those waiting in the camps were Malawians, sitting atop their belongings in colorful clothing, queuing to board buses that would take them home. The scene was one of orderly departure, but the circumstances behind it were anything but orderly.
Nelson Mbewe, a Malawian who had come to South Africa seeking work to support his family back home, explained the pressure that had forced his decision to leave. He and others like him had faced a relentless message: go back, because you do not belong here, because you lack the proper documents. The word used against them—Makwerekwere—was a xenophobic slur that had become all too familiar. "It's their country, so what can we do?" Mbewe said, his resignation evident. "That's why we have accepted that we just have to go back home." Yet even as he prepared to leave, another Malawian still waiting to be processed, Hassan Phiri, offered a different perspective. He appealed to South Africans to remember their shared humanity and continental identity. "Africa can't be Africa without South Africa," he said. "We must love each other and stick together as Africa."
The numbers told part of the story. South Africa was home to more than three million documented foreign nationals, according to official government figures. Since the wave of anti-migrant protests had begun earlier in the year, more than 12,000 immigrants had been deported or repatriated. In recent weeks alone, about 3,500 foreigners had volunteered to leave, with Ghana, Malawi, Mozambique, Nigeria, and Zimbabwe organizing repatriations by air and bus. But the departures had not been without controversy—South African authorities claimed that more than 500 Nigerians who had been repatriated lacked proper documentation, a claim Nigeria had disputed.
Ramaphosa, in his weekly newsletter, had sought to remind citizens that many foreign nationals in South Africa were there lawfully. They worked, studied, raised families, invested in the economy, and contributed positively to society. They deserved the protection of the law and the Constitution, he wrote. "The right to protest and freedom of expression does not allow people to threaten or intimidate others, or to engage in acts of vandalism or violence," he stated plainly. Yet even as he made this case, he acknowledged that immigration reform was necessary—a concession that seemed designed to validate some of the protesters' underlying concerns while drawing a firm line at violence.
The deadline itself was set for Tuesday, and authorities had authorized anti-migrant marches in Durban, Johannesburg, and other major cities. Police had warned organizers that violence would not be tolerated, and they said they were prepared for any disruption. But there was a particular tension lurking beneath the surface. Many of the protesters were ethnic Zulus, and Zulu tradition called for them to carry shields, whips, and sticks when they marched. Police had announced that traditional weapons would not be allowed. This prohibition could easily become a flashpoint—a collision between cultural practice and law enforcement authority.
Xenophobia in South Africa had a long and violent history. In 2008, more than 60 people had died during a wave of rioting against non-South Africans. This year, according to the African Centre for Migration and Society's xenophobic violence tracker, two people had already been killed. The fear that had driven thousands to flee was not irrational; it was rooted in precedent. As Tuesday approached, the question was whether Ramaphosa's warnings would be heeded, or whether the marches would become another chapter in that violent history.
Citações Notáveis
It's their country, so what can we do? That's why we have accepted that we just have to go back home.— Nelson Mbewe, undocumented Malawian migrant
The right to protest and freedom of expression does not allow people to threaten or intimidate others, or to engage in acts of vandalism or violence.— President Cyril Ramaphosa
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why did the government set a deadline at all? Couldn't that just make things worse?
The deadline wasn't set by the government—it came from the anti-migrant groups themselves. But by acknowledging it, authorities essentially legitimized it, which is part of what makes Ramaphosa's position so delicate. He's trying to say the deadline doesn't have legal force while also preparing for the reality that thousands of people believe it does.
The Zulu shields and sticks—why is that such a big deal?
Because it's not just about weapons. Those items are part of Zulu cultural identity and ceremony. Banning them is telling a group of people that their traditions are incompatible with public order. That creates a different kind of tension than just saying "no violence." It's a cultural confrontation dressed up as a safety measure.
What about the migrants who are lawfully there? Are they leaving too?
The source doesn't say they're fleeing in large numbers. The panic seems concentrated among the undocumented. But the broader message—that you're not wanted—affects everyone. Even people with papers are watching what's happening and making calculations about their safety.
Hassan Phiri's quote about Africa needing Africa—did that resonate with anyone?
The source doesn't tell us. But the fact that the BBC included it suggests it stood out as a counterpoint to the xenophobic rhetoric. It's the voice of someone about to be forced out, still trying to appeal to shared identity rather than anger.
How many people are we actually talking about here?
Thousands have already left. About 3,500 volunteered to go in recent weeks. But there are over three million documented foreigners in South Africa, so this is still a fraction. The real number that matters is how many undocumented people there are—that's harder to pin down, and it's the uncertainty that feeds the fear.