By Rabbie Serumula
In South Africa, the fight for cultural survival is often painted in oppositional tones. On one side, Afrikaans-speaking communities fiercely resist any perceived threat to their schools, language, and traditions, as demonstrated by the protests against the BELA Bill.
On the other, African entrepreneurs—many of whom are migrants—battle a maze of bureaucracy and xenophobic hostility to secure a foothold in the economy. Both fights are about survival, yet the cost and recognition of these struggles vary greatly.
When Afrikaner communities rally against the BELA Bill, they speak with the conviction of those who’ve tasted systemic power. Their protest at the Voortrekker Monument wasn’t just about education policy; it was a call to preserve a cultural identity tied to privilege. AfriForum CEO Kallie Kriel framed the bill as an existential threat to Afrikaans schools, equating it to a broader attack on the Afrikaner community. The movement, buoyed by resources and political allies, is emblematic of a group that knows how to make its grievances heard and its demands met.
Contrast this with the plight of spaza shop owners—many of whom are migrants—facing the Gauteng government’s sudden mandate to re-register within 21 days. The bureaucratic hurdles include R5-million investment requirements and work permits, demands so onerous they border on exclusionary. Here, the cost of survival is literal and immediate: financial ruin, police raids, or community violence. Unlike the Afrikaans schools’ movement, spaza shop owners lack institutional support or the luxury of protests framed as cultural preservation. Their struggle is often dismissed as a law-and-order issue, feeding into narratives that dehumanise them further.
What makes these two fights for survival so unequal? Part of the answer lies in history. Afrikaners have spent decades refining their collective voice, leveraging institutions and legal frameworks to protect their interests. Meanwhile, African migrants and black South Africans in townships operate in a system that still bears the scars of apartheid—where compliance often feels like a punishment, and regulation rarely serves as empowerment.
There’s also the question of whose survival the state prioritises. President Ramaphosa’s decision to delay parts of the BELA Bill suggests an acknowledgment of Afrikaner concerns. Yet the same government imposes stringent deadlines on spaza shop owners, with little regard for their capacity to comply. It’s a double standard that reveals how cultural preservation is valued differently depending on who’s fighting for it.
The irony is that both groups, in their own way, are grappling with the same fears: displacement and erasure. Afrikaner communities fear losing their language and identity in a changing South Africa. Migrants and township entrepreneurs fear being erased by a system that marginalises them through exclusionary policies and societal hostility. Yet the cost of survival is disproportionately higher for those who have never been in power.