We're just living like somebody who is already dead
In South Africa, an arbitrary deadline set not by law but by protest organizers became the fulcrum around which tens of thousands of lives were upended. Across Durban and beyond, immigrants—documented and undocumented alike—fled homes they had built over years and decades, driven out by marching crowds, landlord evictions, and the quiet complicity of institutions that demanded papers before offering protection. This is not a new story for South Africa, where waves of xenophobic violence have recurred since 2008, but it is a story that grows heavier each time it repeats: a nation's unresolved grief over unemployment and inequality redirected, with devastating precision, onto those least able to defend themselves.
- An arbitrary June 30th deadline, declared by protest organizers rather than any court or legislature, transformed fear into a countdown—and the countdown into violence that killed at least four people and sent more than 25,000 fleeing.
- Families who had lived legally in South Africa for years found themselves evicted by landlords, fired from jobs, and threatened with death, as the campaign's logic of collective punishment erased any distinction between documented and undocumented migrants.
- At departure points across the country, people queued with two bags and a decade of memories, while some left children behind—born on South African soil—because bureaucracy moved too slowly for love to follow.
- The state's response has been to intensify arrests of undocumented migrants and hold meetings with protest leaders, but human rights organizations warn that not a single perpetrator of violence has been held accountable, leaving the next wave not a question of if, but when.
Tuesday arrived in South Africa carrying the weight of a deadline no law had written. Thousands of protesters, many in traditional Zulu dress and carrying sticks, moved through Durban's quieted streets chanting "Abahambe"—"They must go." Shops were shuttered. Helicopters circled. The campaign had already killed at least four people and pushed tens of thousands toward departure points where families queued outside abandoned buildings, loading entire lives into vehicles headed for the northern border.
The deadline—June 30th—had been set by protest organizers, not legislators, yet it carried the force of a verdict. Jackson Makungwa, 29, from Malawi, stood in one of those queues with two small bags representing ten years of life in South Africa. His work permit had lapsed through bureaucratic failure, not bad faith, but when a friend was attacked by seven men, his resistance to leaving collapsed. On his phone was a photograph of his two-month-old son, born to a South African mother, whom he could not bring because travel documents arrived too late.
Nearby, Lydia Mpingashato had just been fired from her cleaning job after seventeen years in the township. Her 17-year-old son, who had never known another home, watched the camp form around him and told her simply: "They never loved us." Landlords across the country were evicting tenants to avoid retaliation for housing foreigners, extending the campaign's reach far beyond those without papers.
The violence was not without precedent. A 2008 pogrom killed 62 and displaced 150,000. Another wave struck in 2015. Each time, the underlying grievances—unemployment, inequality—went unaddressed, and immigrants became the available target. The government has arrested more than 50,000 undocumented migrants since January and President Ramaphosa met with protest leaders to caution against vigilantism, but human rights groups note that perpetrators of violence face no legal consequences. "When you try to open a case with the police, they will first ask for your papers," said one refugee advocate.
From a safe house, Leon, a Congolese asylum seeker who arrived in 2014 seeking a country that honored human rights, described watching his shop attacked and going into hiding. Police, he said, had told him openly to leave. He had come looking for peace and found instead a life lived, as he put it, "like somebody who is already dead." The deadline passed. The marches concluded. What remained was the harder question of what a state permits when it mistakes the management of public anger for the pursuit of justice.
Tuesday arrived in South Africa with the weight of an arbitrary deadline hanging over the country. More than two thousand protesters, many dressed in traditional Zulu attire and carrying sticks and clubs, moved through the streets of Durban chanting "Abahambe"—"They must go"—in isiZulu. The phrase had become the rallying cry of a weeks-long campaign against immigrants that had already claimed at least four lives and sent tens of thousands fleeing in fear. In the coastal city where violence had been anticipated, shop shutters were drawn and the streets lay unusually still, tension settling over everything like fog.
The deadline itself was arbitrary—June 30th, set not by law but by protest organizers who had given undocumented migrants this date to leave or face consequences. In the days before it arrived, thousands of people abandoned their homes and possessions, sleeping on pavements and in makeshift camps, hoping to secure repatriation to countries they had left years or decades before. Police reported that more than 25,000 had already been sent home, with several African governments organizing buses and planes to retrieve their citizens. The scenes at departure points were scenes of loss: families queuing outside abandoned buildings, mothers and children sitting by campfires, people loading their entire lives into vehicles bound for South Africa's northern border.
Jackson Makungwa, 29, from Malawi, stood in one of these queues with two small bags containing everything he could carry from ten years of building a life in South Africa. He had once seen the country as a place of hope and had lived there legally, but his work permit had not been renewed in two years—a bureaucratic trap that left him undocumented despite his desire to remain lawful. His resistance to leaving crumbled when a friend was attacked by seven men. "They said the deadline is the 30th, so they will attack me if I stay," he explained. On his phone he showed a photograph of his son, born to a South African mother, whom he had been forced to abandon because he could not secure travel documents in time. The child was turning two months old that day.
Down the road, in a camp of families from Zimbabwe, Lydia Mpingashato had just learned she had been fired from her job as a cleaner. She had lived in the township for seventeen years, but on June 27th a man had threatened to burn her house and kill her family. Her 17-year-old son, who had never known any home but South Africa, watched the camp materialize around him and told his mother: "Actually, they never loved us." Many immigrants with legal documentation were being evicted by landlords terrified of retaliation for housing foreigners. The campaign had created a logic of collective punishment that extended far beyond those without papers.
The roots of this violence ran deep. South Africa's 2.4 million foreign residents—documented and undocumented combined—had long been blamed for unemployment and crime, despite evidence pointing elsewhere. A xenophobic riot in 2008 had killed 62 people and displaced more than 150,000. Another wave of attacks in 2015 had left at least five dead. This latest surge was being met with a government strategy of intensification: police had arrested more than 50,000 undocumented migrants since January, and President Cyril Ramaphosa had met with protest leaders to warn against vigilantism. Yet accountability for perpetrators of violence remained absent, according to human rights organizations. "When you try to open a case with the police, they will first ask for your papers," said Mukandjwa Shomri of the Southern Africa Refugee Organisations Forum. "We are being attacked in the streets, in the community and administratively."
As the marches proceeded on June 30th, helicopters circled overhead and police watched from armoured vehicles. Some protesters pointed at families visible in apartment windows and made throat-slitting gestures. "I can smell the foreigners," one man said. Nkosi Ndlovu, a 48-year-old pastor, accused immigrants of selling drugs and said that after the deadline, "we're not going to talk. We take action." Others framed the campaign in economic terms: Mfundo Zulu said immigrants were taking jobs by accepting lower wages, and that with thousands now gone, positions were suddenly opening up. "We don't hate them," she said, "but they overstayed."
From a safe house, Leon, an asylum seeker from the Democratic Republic of the Congo who had been in South Africa since 2014, spoke by phone about what he feared would come next. His shop had been attacked on June 19th and he had gone into hiding. "Even the police are telling us openly that we are tired of you, you must leave our country," he said, his voice trembling. Harassment had been commonplace for years, but now it had become official. "After 30 June, it will be even worse." He had come to South Africa seeking peace in a country he believed upheld human rights and democracy. Instead, he said, "we're just living like somebody who is already dead."
The deadline had passed. The marches had occurred. The question now was not whether violence would come, but when, and how much the state would tolerate in the name of managing public anger about unemployment and inequality that immigrants had not created.
Citas Notables
It's not like I want to be illegally in the country, but the system doesn't allow me to be here legally.— Jackson Makungwa, 29-year-old from Malawi
Even the police are telling us openly that we are tired of you, you must leave our country.— Leon, asylum seeker from the Democratic Republic of the Congo
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did organizers choose June 30th specifically? Was there something about that date?
It wasn't tied to any law or official process. It was simply the date the protest organizers announced—a way to create urgency and pressure. The arbitrariness was almost the point. It forced people to make impossible decisions in an impossibly short time.
And the government went along with it?
Not officially, but effectively yes. They intensified deportations and arrests to ease public anger. They met with protest leaders. They deployed heavy security. In a way, they legitimized the deadline by treating it as real.
What strikes you most about the people fleeing?
That so many had legal status or had lived there for years or decades. Jackson Makungwa had a work permit once. Lydia Mpingashato had been in her township for seventeen years. The violence wasn't really about undocumented people—it was about foreignness itself. The deadline just gave permission to act on that.
Leon said the police themselves were telling migrants to leave. How does that change things?
It collapses the distinction between mob violence and state violence. When police won't protect you and instead tell you to go, you have no recourse. You're not just unsafe—you're officially unwelcome everywhere.
Is there any sense in the reporting of what comes after June 30th?
Only fear. Leon said it would get worse. The organizers made veiled threats about moving from talking to action. The deadline wasn't an endpoint—it was a permission structure for what comes next.