PASSOP, Part I - The Context: Zimbabwean Migration to South Africa

Zimbabwean man crossing into South Africa naked

It’s been over three months since I started working at the human rights and refugee advocacy non-profit organisation PASSOP (People Against Suffering, Oppression and Poverty) and it’s about time I write down some of my impressions. It’s been a fascinating and challenging experience so far and one from which I am continuously learning. This post is the first of three about PASSOP. This first one sets the context to the work that PASSOP does by outlining Zimbabwean migration to South Africa and the xenophobic tensions that are pervasive here. 

PASSOP’s constituency is primarily the many Zimbabweans currently living in South Africa (although we often work with Congolese, Somalis, Mozambicans etc. too). Many of them are undocumented, or in the country ‘illegally’.  This makes them one of the most marginalised groups in South Africa and makes them particularly vulnerable to exploitation and discrimination, which they are often subjected to in the form of being forced to accept lower wages or paying higher rent, for example.  Sometimes, however, they also become the victims of xenophobic abuse and violence.  PASSOP actively engages both Zimbabwean and South African communities in various townships to resolve labour disputes and documentation issues and to try to pre-empt xenophobia tensions.

At a PASSOP protest: speaking out against injustice

My colleagues at PASSOP are mostly from Zimbabwe.  Just like all the people PASSOP works for, they too have fled the disastrous economy and hostile political environment in their home country (more about my colleagues in Part III). Zimbabwe used to be known as the bread basket of Africa; President Robert Mugabe was once respected as one of the most progressive African independence leaders as high school enrollment rates increased from just 2%  to 70% in his first ten years in office from 1980 to 1990.  At the time Zimbabweans were the most educated, productive and independent populace in Southern Africa.  All of that is no more.

Sign at South African border post

A steady and painful decline that began in the mid-1990s has left Zimbabwe today as a crippled and weak shadow of its former self.  The decline was accelerated in 2000 when Mugabe’s party started forcefully redistributing commercial agricultural land owned by white farmers.  As more and more white farmers were forced to flee, most of the country’s farms became unproductive and the country’s agricultural production, which had made up over half of the country’s foreign income, plummeted. This precipitated the collapse of the economy. Inflation reached historically unprecedented levels to such an extent that a one billion Zimbabwean dollar bill was not enough to buy a roll of toilet paper. Only 10 % of the population was formally employed and the life expectancy dropped from 61 years in 1991 to only 34 years fifteen years later in 2006.  To add to the misery, the political situation turned violent in 2008, when after contested elections hundreds of opposition supporters were killed and thousands detained.

The result was that many ordinary Zimbabweans had no other chance but to emigrate.  Most fled to South Africa, where it is estimated that around 1.5 million (or 25% of Zimbabwe’s labour force) currently live and work to be able to earn a livelihood for their families at home.  A migration on such a scale is unprecedented in a country that is not at war. Having such large numbers of Zimbabweans living and working in South Africa aggravates many South Africans who blame them for taking their jobs. There is some truth to this, since unemployment in South Africa is at an impressive 25% and because Zimbabweans are not only usually better educated than South Africans, but also extremely hard-working, they often manage to find jobs more easily.

Angry mob of South Africans chasing foreigners out of township

The lack of employment, as well as the generally low quality of services available to poor South Africans, coupled with a long-standing and widespread belief amongst South Africans that South Africa is somehow  superior to other African countries, xenophobia often rears its ugly head. In 2008, xenophobic violence erupted in townships all across the country that left dozens dead and tens of thousands displaced. Despite leading to heavy national and international condemnation, xenophobic violence has since broken out a handful of times more, albeit on a smaller scale.

Burning down the shacks of foreigners

How can a people that only 16 years ago freed itself from the oppressive shackles of the appalling Apartheid system have turned so quickly into the oppressors? Where does the hatred towards their African brothers and sisters come from? Is it because the wounds of decades of Apartheid have not yet healed properly? Probably... but it is also largely because South Africans too often forget that their Zimbabwean, and Congolese, and Somali brothers and sisters are not in South Africa out of choice, but out of necessity. Most simply cannot find a means to feed their children unless they migrate south of the border. They love their home countries just as much as anyone, but in most cases, they have no choice but to leave. Failing to understand this, many bigoted South Africans are quick to blame their own woes on others and point the finger at the ‘foreigners’. This must end - there must be more empathy, more humility and more love. 

PASSOP works towards achieving this goal. Beyond fighting against xenophobia, we are also lobbying strongly against the South African government’s plan to begin deporting Zimbabweans again later this year. Although the record-breaking inflation rates have normalised since the Zimbabwean currency was scrapped last year and there is some sense of calm following a power-sharing agreement between the two main political parties, ZANU-PF and MDC, unemployment is still at over 80% and many opposition supporters still fear for their lives. With elections looming in a few months, the intimidation tactics have already begun as Mugabe and his ruling ZANU-PF party are looking more defiant than ever. This will surely bring a swift end to the current calm.  Deporting Zimbabweans back to a place where they face starvation, fear and violence is foolhardy and irresponsible, at best.

A look back at 2010 – Part 2: The Fairytale Wedding

Growing up my parents often moved from one country to another – by the time I was 9 I was living in my fifth country, which inevitably meant that friends came and went into my life. My 11-month older brother and my one year younger sister therefore naturally became my closest friends. The only other two kids that also played a constant role in my life growing up were my two cousins, Jan and Lea. The five of us became very close and they have always been more like siblings to me than cousins. 

The good old days

So when, at the tender age of 25, my cousin Jan got married this summer to beautiful Khairin in an unbelievable four-day fairytale wedding in Malaysia, the first of the five made a huge step towards becoming an adult. Growing up, Jan was a year older, always at least one head taller and a considerable amount more level-headed than the rest of us, so it was always going to be him who tied the knot first. But no matter how long you anticipate something happening, when it eventually does, you can still be taken by surprise and wonder where all the years since your childhood have gone.

The bride

Seeing how close we were growing up, it was two of life’s coincidences that brought Khairin and Jan together, and I am happy to have been a part of both.  The first time they met was at our house in Cuba in 2004. Khairin and her family were our neighbours in Havana and Jan was visiting us for Christmas. The second time was two years later in Belgium.  Khairin and her family were again living in the same city and Jan was again visiting us, when he heard that she was also in Brussels at the time. He followed his gut feeling and decided that he had to see Khairin again and so he called her up and we all went out for a drink. That’s how their love story began. 

The young couple

The wedding this summer was surreal. Following the customs of a Malaysian Muslim wedding, there were four different nights of celebrations, each with a different purpose. The first was for the bride’s female family members to bid her ‘farewell’ through prayer and singing. The bride’s and groom’s hands are decorated with henna. The second was the signing of the marriage contract, or Akad Nikah, which was presided over by a Kadhi, or religious official. The night following the Akad Nikah was the Bersanding, or enthronement ceremony. The bride and groom are treated like royalty: the groom was led in by a procession of us family and friends, alongside musicians and traditional Malaysian warriors. The main part of the third night was the bridal couple sitting together and relatives, friends and guests coming and sprinkling them with yellow rice and scented water as a sign of blessing. The fourth and last night was a dinner, reception and celebration.  

Bersanding ceremony

Each night Jan and Khairin wore different clothes. Khairin wore beautiful dresses and jewellery worth a small car while Jan wore silk robes, a Sultan-like headdress and a dagger, of course. With each consecutive night, the number of guests increased. From 100 to 300, to 600, to 1000 on the last night. That’s not an exaggeration...one thousand people actually attended the dinner and celebrations on the last night in one of Kuala Lumpur’s finest hotels. Among them was the country’s Sultan, Foreign Minister and a host of other celebrities, dignitaries and ambassadors. In other words, the who’s who of Malaysia was at this wedding while Jan and Khairin sat on a throne in the midst of it all. The 25 or so German family and friends that travelled to Malaysia were driven to each evening’s celebration in a bus that was escorted by police officers on motorbikes. Their job was to wave and guide us through Kuala Lumpur’s rush hour traffic. We all felt a bit like celebrities. 

There were countless customs that made the wedding so magical, especially to my inexperienced eyes.  It was all new to us – like Jan having to wash his hands, feet and neck right before going to be married by the Imam, to enter into the new bond cleansed of his past. Or each family presenting a number of gifts to the other family, as a sign of respect and strengthening the new ties. Or even that each guest received a decorated hard-boiled egg, as a sign of future fertility.

All Ze Germans with the couple

So the wedding between Jan and Khairin was very special in that it didn’t just bring together two people, or two families, but two different cultures... and my family is much richer now because of it.  The integrating of two cultures is what a family friend of Khairin, and guest of honour at the wedding, the famous Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf (the Imam who was at the centre of the plans for the Mosque close to Ground Zero in NYC), who works tirelessly to build bridges between the West and the Muslim world, spoke of so eloquently at the wedding. Bridging the divide between these two cultures is undoubtedly one of the most important challenges of the 21^st century. The world needs more love stories like that of Jan and Khairin.

A look back at 2010 – Part 1: The Snakebite

2010 was a memorable year, to say the least. I spent it living in Cape Town, in my parent’s beautiful house by the beach, together with my brother Yanis, my sister Stella, and three of my best friends, Simon, Robin and Brandon. All the while, we had a steady stream of our closest friends from around the world come visit and stay with us. I know it sounds like the dream set-up... and it was.



Our local beach in Noordhoek.

All the ‘family dinners’, the countless surf sessions, the memorable adventures and trips, the month-long World Cup craziness, and everything in between; it’s no surprise Cape Town is my favourite place in the world. (I will write more about my life in Cape Town in a post soon). In 2010 I also finished a Masters degree in Applied Development Economics and started working at a human rights non-profit organisation. To top it all off, I went off on a two-month trip to South East Asia and Hawaii in the middle of the year.

In many ways, 2010 was also year in which I took big steps towards growing up. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still the same impatient, adrenaline-driven and surf-obsessed guy I was 12 months ago. But a few significant things happened this year that have pushed me forwards. Watching my cousin, who’s like a brother to me, getting married in a surreal wedding in Malaysia was one. Another was to finally make the move from being a student to the working world. I’ll write about those in the next post – in this one I want to write about one thing in particular.  

The most intense thing to happen in 2010 was undoubtedly when my girlfriend Kelsi got bitten by a poisonous snake whilst on a hike with me close to my house. It happened in early February, when she was living with me in Cape Town for three months doing an internship at an NGO.

Chapman's Peak - the mountain where Kelsi got bitten.

The fat puff adder was so well camouflaged that neither of us saw it until it was too late. It bit Kelsi in the ankle, blood immediately started trickling down from the two small fang marks and she went into shock. I rushed her to the emergency room – I knew it was serious because snakes in Africa are no joke, but I had no idea just how serious. Puff adders are responsible for the most fatalities out of any snake in Africa and the anti-venom is not readily administered because it often leads to very serious allergic reactions. Hence, after at first being cautious and opposed to injecting her with the necessary anti-venom, the doctors revised their decision after watching her leg swell up to twice its size in a few hours.

Swelling after 24 hours.

Her swelling was so significant that it was blocking the blood flow to her calves and feet and amputation was becoming a realistic threat.  Luckily the anti-venom worked immediately, first slowing and then stopping the swelling, without any serious side-effects. Despite that, the leg was already so big that for the next three days a vascular surgeon kept visiting her in the ICU to see whether surgery would be needed. All in all she spent 8 days in hospital, 6 of which in the intensive care unit.

Chilling in the ICU - Day 5

Then began a long and arduous recovery process. The snake’s so-called cytotoxic venom works by breaking down muscle tissue and cells, and so Kelsi had lost a good part of her leg’s muscle tissue.  It was only after a month and lots of hours of physiotherapy later before she was able to take her first step again.

Bruising - 1 week after bite.

The experience was tough for me in many ways... The helplessness I felt when we got to the hospital and the doctors explained how serious the situation was. The pressure that first day and night of being all alone while she was in and out of consciousness and her parents were on the other side of the world. Having to explain to her parents on the phone what had happened and telling them they needed to fly down right away because the doctors said that her leg might be amputated. Yet all of that was fleeting...what lasted and what I still have to confront sometimes now are my feelings of guilt...why did I take her up that path, why did the snake bite her and not me, and how did I fail to protect her?

I guess the reason why I am able to write about it so openly now is because the story is one with a happy ending. Although the leg still swells up and sometimes hurts when on her feet all day, she was recently able to go on her first run again.

Back out and about.

So above all, this is a story of Kelsi’s remarkable resilience and positive attitude throughout the whole ordeal. Not once did she show fear or doubt that she would make a full recovery even while the doctors were piling on the scary news. Not once did she complain of having to sleep with leg suspended up at 45 degrees for six weeks after leaving the hospital; or about having to lay in bed for weeks while sun was shining outside, or about the painful physiotherapy she needed to be able to retrain her leg muscles to stand straight and walk. Quite the opposite, she was positive and smiling the whole time.

It is her attitude that not only got her healthy again and helped me to overcome many of my feelings of guilt, but also allowed us to grow and learn from this whole experience. It taught us to not to let the little things in life worry or stress us out.

Swimming with whales in Noordhoek

The Southern Right Whale can grow up to 17 metres long, weigh 80 tonnes and is believed to have the largest testicles of any animal, each weighing up to 500 kg! It got its name during the time when they were hunted...they were referred to as the ‘right’ whales to kill because they would float when dead (which made it easy for the whalers to transport them back).

Why the random facts about these whales?  Last week my sister Stella, my good friend Simon and I swam with three Southern Right Whales down at the beach by my house! I saw them from my bedroom when I woke up and was surprised at how close to the shore they were, just about 100 metres.  After doing some work for a few hours I noticed they were still there, just chilling and playing around. So I convinced Stella and Simon to go down to the beach with me and paddle out to them on our surfboards.

They agreed, but were a bit apprehensive when we got down there, arguing that even though the whales were probably peaceful they could easily unintentionally crush us jumping and rolling around like they were. But I told them about this amazing story about the rescue of a female humpback whale that I had read a few days earlier:

“She had become entangled in a spider web of crab traps and lines and was weighted down by hundreds of pounds of traps that caused her to struggle to stay afloat.  She also had hundreds of metres of line rope wrapped around her body, her tail, her torso, a line tugging in her mouth.  A fisherman spotted her just east of the Farralone Islands (northern California) and radioed an environmental group for help.  Within a few hours, the rescue team arrived and determined that she was so bad off, the only way to save her was to dive in and untangle her... They worked for hours with curved knives and eventually freed her. When she was free, the divers say she swam in what seemed like joyous circles. She then came back to each and every diver, one at a time, and nudged them, pushed them gently around - she thanked them. Some said it was the most incredibly beautiful experience of their lives. The guy who cut the rope out of her mouth says her eye was following him the whole time, and that he will never be the same.”

So, I managed to convince them that whales are gentle giants and we paddled out there. We kept our distance at first, staying about 40 metres away. Even from that distance it was obvious how enormous they were - I mean, one of their testicles weighs more than twice as much as the three of us weighed together... But we started drifting closer and closer. Because of the story of the whale that was tangled, I somehow wasn’t worried at all that they would harm us.



They must have noticed us and got curious because they suddenly started swimming around us. Out of nowhere the head of one of them (which was the size of my queen-size bed) popped up in touching distance from us. It was full of barnacles and shot out a fountain of water 5 metres high and the noise it made was so deep and loud. My sister’s face betrayed her pure horror and we started paddling towards the beach. But we quickly realised that they were actually just being curious and friendly. One swam directly at us, dove under the water, and when we opened our eyes underwater we saw it swim half a meter underneath us.  



Another curious Southern Right Whale

We didn’t want to push our luck, so after a few minutes we started paddling back to shore.  We thought we were close enough to shore and took a breather when out of nowhere, one of whales popped up behind me, rolled on his side and extended his 3-meter side flipper right above me. I had my back turned so I didn’t see him coming, I just noticed that I was suddenly in the shade and saw Simon and Stella’s jaws drop. I turned around and when I saw his massive flipper right above me, I thought for a second that he wanted to squat me like a little fly. But he didn’t move, he just stayed there with his flipper towering right above me - it was like he wanted a high-five; or to wave good-bye!

When we got back to the beach a rush of adrenaline washed over us of what had just happened. My sister said that that was both the most terrifying and elating experience of her life. It was unreal how they interacted with us – they really are gentle giants. I cannot believe that commercial whaling is still allowed in parts of the world. (Check out a documentary called “The Cove” – it’s a shocking story of the slaughter of thousands of dolphins that happens in Japan every year.)

Adventure in the Kingdom of Marrakech

(A big part of my life is travelling, and since I just started this blog, I need to play catch-up now in writing about some of my most memorable adventures over the last few years..)



Valley of the Roses



About two years ago, I travelled to Morocco with my brother and five of our friends. Although our intention was to go for a month-long surf safari, what we ended up experiencing was a lot more than just waves. From the medieval medinas, to goats climbing around trees, getting conned by a rug salesman, losing ourselves in the Sahara, getting out of the way of knife fights, and waking up with a scorpion in our tent, this is a trip I remember vividly.

If I had to describe Morocco in a word, that word would be: intense. The people, the nature, the culture, the feel of the place...it is a country full of colour, full of contrasts. When you are there, you feel transported back to a different, long-forgotten time.

We took the ferry from Tarifa in Spain to Tangiers, the port city in Morocco. After we managed to bribe our way through customs we were in the midst of some of the most insane driving I’ve seen. The most important (and perhaps the only) rule when driving in Morocco is that the bigger vehicle has the right of way. In fact, this is a rule that applies to driving in most developing countries.

There were seven of us squeezed into my parents’ jeep that they had generously agreed to lend us. We had fourteen boards stacked on the roof of the car. Because the job of climbing around on the roof every day trying to tie them all down fell to me, the others quickly only referred to me as ‘Abu’, after the monkey from Aladdin.

Our first stop en route south was Fes, Morocco’s former capital and second largest city. It hosts the world’s oldest, continuously-running University. At its heart is a huge Medina (the old, walled city) with its incomprehensible maze of tiny alleys that goes on for kilometres. There are no cars, because the alleys are at most two metres wide. Walking around the little streets we had to jump out of the way of overloaded running donkeys every few minutes that were being chased through the streets. They were the ‘medina taxis’, loaded up with goods or rubbish. We had to hire a guide to lead us through the endless web of alleys. He took us to artisan stores, hidden cafes, roof-top look outs, and to a museum-like rug store.

"Medina Taxi" taking a break

Maybe it was because we were overwhelmed by the place; maybe it was because it was because the salesman secretly spiked our mint tea with something; or maybe it was because we were just plain stupid, but five of us decided to buy a rug for over 2000 Euros, as an ‘investment’. (It still hurts my ego to write about it now).  Mohammed, the eccentric and brilliant salesman ("I will blow your mind with this rug”) convinced us that the international market price was ‘guaranteed’ four times higher because you cannot commercially export Moroccan rugs. I still don’t know how, but within two hours of Mohammed talking incessantly, we all went from ‘There is no f**ing way we are buying a rug’, to... ‘Hmm, maybe we should, because we could pay for our whole trip if we sell it in the U.S.’ to... ‘Well, let’s flip a coin and let fate decide.’ Which is what we did and ‘fate’ decided we should buy it. My friend Eric tried to sell it in California, but the best offer he got was only 50% of what we bought it for. What a surprise, right? So now the rug is in my living room in Cape Town, and it will always be there as a humbling reminder to make decisions with moderation and not greediness. Plus, if my brother or I ever get cocky with my sister, all she has to do is point at the rug and she wins the argument. One thing is for sure, that’s the last time I let fate decide for me!

(Moving on...) Morocco is known for its world-class quality waves, but the surf breaks are not yet as overrun as they are in most other parts of the world. We surfed incredible waves all along the coast. At times we got into arguments with the locals. In one dispute over a wave, a guy threatened my friend Brandon in broken English that he would ride over him and “put three fins in his ass” if he got in his way again.

Searching for waves.

The Moroccan coast is vast, but no matter how secluded we thought we were, a gang of kids would inevitably appear out of nowhere and ask for candy and money in exchange for ‘guarding’ the car. We soon found out that this was more of a demand than an offer. We didn’t really have a choice in the matter... if the kids were not satisfied with how much we gave them, they would throw rocks at our car when we tried to drive away. So we gave them more (and took notes on how to run a business).

Next we headed to Marrakech, the ancient desert capital of the nomads at the foothill of the Atlas Mountains. Until a few decades ago, Morocco was known simply as ‘The Kingdom of Marrakech’. Throughout the centuries it was a trading place of goods from all over Africa. With its maze of streets, beautiful 1000 year old mosques, colourful inhabitants and the famous huge central souk (market square) it buzzes with that same mystical feeling of long ago.

The streets are empty during the day because of the oppressive heat. As the sun gets lower, the city starts coming alive.  The streets fill up with acrobats, fortune tellers, snake charmers, monkey handlers, story tellers, dancers, musicians, old veiled women, beggars and street kids. You feel like you are transported back in time to a medieval city. There is even a 'dentist' offering his services at a little table where he displays a big pair of pliers next to all the teeth he has pulled. The markets keep going for kilometres in little side streets where you can buy anything from leather shoes, to goat heads, spices, silver jewellery, freshly squeezed orange juice and delicious food.





It was Ramadan the entire month we were there, so most of the Muslims didn’t eat, drink or smoke from sunrise to sunset. After not eating or drinking the entire day, tempers were often a bit short in the hours before the sunset. In Fes we saw a knife fight in the middle of the street and in Marrakech’s central square we saw two guys with machetes chasing each other in the central market as we and a few hundred other people scrambled to get out of the way.  I would get grumpy too if I wasn’t aloud to drink water all day in 45 degree heat; although I would probably leave my machete out of the equation. 

For the last part of our trip, we set out over the Atlas mountain range and into the fringes of the Sahara desert. After driving for a few days, we were in the middle of nowhere, no roads, nothing but desert around us. Just as one is humbled by the ocean and mountains because their immense size makes you feel so insignificant, so too does the desert leave you in that kind of state of awe. We climbed to the highest dune and looking around saw nothing but sand in all directions. No noise, no lights, no movement. I remember how peaceful it felt. Being surrounded by such complete nothingness is a powerful source of energy. After dinner the seven of us friends climbed to the top of a dune, and with a million stars in the sky, lit a joint and told stories.

On the last night in the desert the wind picked up suddenly and we heard thunder in the distance. Within minutes dark clouds rolled in, the stars disappeared and the night sky became alight with lightning all around us, striking every few seconds. It was unlike we had ever experienced. It only rains in that part of the Sahara a couple of days every year, but suddenly it was pouring down. We just laid there. It was the perfect end to one of my favourite trips.

Between a rock and a hard place: Zimbabwean refugees in South Africa

The smell of the homemade paraffin lamp and cooker made my eyes burn. When he saw me rubbing them, Stalin laughed and said, “You don’t get used to it”. We were sitting inside his big white UNHCR tent while he was cooking us a traditional Zimbabwean dinner of beef, tomatoes and pap. From the inside, the tent didn’t seem so big anymore. Every last bit of space was being used. Thin mattresses, blankets, some clothes, pots and pans, onions and potatoes, a cooker, a few bowls for doing the dishes, a broken chair. And Stalin had to share with just one person; most tents had at least six people in them.

In one corner stood five old 20L paint buckets, now filled with the local brew – a mixture of some sugar, water and a powder that contained alcohol and yeast. This made up a potent and cheap alternative to escape the sombreness of life in a refugee camp. Stalin was one of the camp’s brew producers. He hadn’t found work for a month, and was forced to be innovative and resourceful to get by - it’s what Africans know how to do better than anyone else. Desperation breeds ingenuity. “Three cups and you will be dancing” he told me. “It tastes good. Here, try it.” He used a stick to stir the brown and milky looking concoction around in the bucket before scooping it up in a cup and handing it to me.  It tasted like it looked: a mixture of gasoline, porridge and mud.  I guess it’s an acquired taste - or one borne out of a lack of other choices. Either way, every five minutes someone would knock on the side of the tent and come with an empty 2L plastic bottle to be re-filled for R10. Business was good for Stalin’s tent micro-brewery.

I was in a refugee camp in De Doorns, an otherwise scenic little town in one of South Africa’s wine-growing areas just two hours north of Cape Town.  There is a township on the outskirts of town where a few thousand people live that work in the vineyards picking grapes, for 60 rand a day, or about $75 cents an hour. Among them are many Zimbabwean migrants that have left their country and families behind in search for work. There are close to two million Zimbabwean migrants working in South Africa, and the vast majority of them send money home to support their families. This money is one of the pillars currently supporting the otherwise failing Zimbabwean economy.

The little grape-growing community in De Doorns made international headlines last year November when an outburst of xenophobic violence from the South African workers in the township against the Zimbabwean migrants forced almost 3000 of them to flee.  Accusing them of taking their jobs, Zimbabweans were attacked and their shacks looted and burnt down, while the police turned a blind eye.  Many gathered on the town’s rugby field, and within a few days the refugee camp was set up. Eleven months later, they were still living in the tents on the rugby field.

Now the government had decided, after many previous threats, to finally shut the camp down.  I was working with PASSOP, a small refugee rights and advocacy NGO that had been heavily involved in this community over the past year.  After a long struggle, including threatening to take the government to court if they evicted the refugees, PASSOP had managed to negotiate a R1200 ($180) compensation pay-out to the remaining camp residents with the government. I had gotten to know Braam, the charismatic head of PASSOP, five months earlier while I was doing research on Zimbabwean migration to South Africa for my dissertation.  Now he asked me to stay in De Doorns for a week to monitor and document the camp closure process.  

Braam calming the nerves

I drove around until past midnight on Friday night picking up Zimbabweans who called when they had been kicked out onto the street with all their belongings, just hours after they had moved out of the camp and into their rented shacks. Their landlords were fearful of threats circulating that any shacks housing Zimbabweans would be burnt down. So we drove them to a farmer’s warehouse for the night before they had to try to find a place again the next day. They had no other option but to try to live in this unwelcoming place. They had nowhere else to go. 



Belongings outside the camp

There were still no jobs in Zimbabwe, and with elections coming up, all were fearful of the violence that would surely break out there again. Many I talked to didn’t have the money to go back to Zimbabwe; some didn’t even have the R30 ($5) needed to pay one week’s rent in advance to secure a place in a shack. So they sat on the side of the street in their dozens outside the now-closed camp with their belongings, having literally nowhere to go. And yet, they accepted their fate with such patience and calm. No one showed anger, or aggression; no one fought against the closing of the camp.  They had argued all year - now they felt defeated and exhausted.  The dignity and humility they showed in this situation touched me. I ran around all day, negotiating with landlords, calming fears, dispelling rumours. Somewhat miraculously, by the end of the day, all those sitting outside the camp on the side of the street had found somewhere to go. Who knows how long it is before the next wave of abuse and aggression unsettles them again.



I called my sister in Cape Town to let her know I was going to come back to town that evening. She said she was at a spa at the moment, and asked whether I would be back in time to join them for cocktails at a beach bar in Camps Bay for sunset. I wasn’t in the mood - the injustice in the contrast of the life of Stalin, Darlington and all the other Zimbabweans I met in the camp to that of my privileged life in Cape Town tied a knot in my stomach. I went home and fell asleep in my big bed in my warm room with a distinct feeling of sadness and guilt. 

Life in the camp was hard for the Zimbabweans. The days were boiling hot and the stuffy tents became impossible to rest in.  The nights were freezing cold. I would wear five layers and would still be shivering from the arctic wind whipping through the valley. When it rained the field would be turned into ankle-deep mud.

 

The many Zimbabweans I met in the time I spent there struck me for their resilience to the predicament they were in.  The camp was being shut and they were being forced to leave.  A young guy called Darlington told me “although it’s miserable living in these tents, at least here we are safe, protected by security guards and a fence; in the township we will not be”. Nothing had changed over the past 11 months in the township they were expected to move back to. There was still the same unfriendly tension and pervasive under-currents of xenophobia.