will. There are many ways of reaching this point … by denying and distorting information … and by spreading in a myriad subtle ways nostalgia for a world where order reigned, and where the security of a privileged few depends on the forced labour and the forced silence of the many.
— Levi in Pugliese 2016
While South Africa is certainly not a fascist state, there are just as certainly enough warning signs that should arouse serious concern for all of those who have sacrificed and continue to struggle for a vibrant and healthy democracy. As Primo Levi notes in the epigraph above, it is particularly when concentrated power and the interests of the elite begin to consistently undermine the realm of free expression, will and information – all of which are indispensable to democratic action and voice – that we should be more than concerned.
Such undermining has been well entrenched within South Africa’s political, economic and social fabric for generations, including, even if differentially applied and experienced, in the post-1994 democratic era. This is nowhere more so than when it comes to the dominant media and the perspectives, experiences and voices of poor communities. Much like the country’s economy, the media sector is highly monopolised and, as such, exclusivist in its DNA. More specifically, at the core foundation of this exclusivity is class, buttressed by considerations of race, gender and sexuality.
Here is the class reality: South Africa has ‘world-class’ inequality where 75 per cent of the aggregate wealth is held by the top 10 per cent of the population, while the bottom 50 per cent hold a mere 2.5 per cent (Simkins 2014). Not surprisingly, the overall number of people living in poverty – measured as an ‘upper bound poverty line’ of R779 (in 2016 rand) per month, per person – stands at 54 per cent (StatsSA 2015).
In structural terms then, the dominant media largely speak for and to the dominant class. In practical terms, this translates into the perspectives, experiences and voices of the majority of people who live and work in South Africa, and who are poor, being treated as peripheral. There are few better examples of this than Jane Duncan’s exposé of the coverage of the Marikana massacre by the dominant media, which clearly reveals the consequent structural and practical class bias, as described in chapter 1 (Duncan 2013a). If only one side of the story is told or is so dominant as to effectively sideline and/or caricature any counter-narrative or competing story, then the conceptual frame and practical approach of the individual reader and societal consumer can only serve to reinforce ignorance, division and untruths.
That is why it is so crucial, not simply in respect of exposing and contesting the ‘storytelling’ of the dominant media but to defending and sustaining democracy itself, that the stories of the poor majority are listened to and communicated.
Herein lies the basis for the research that underpins this book. The three communities that provide the case studies – Glebelands, Xolobeni/Amadiba and Thembelihle – were chosen because they capture a representational cross section of struggle stories from poor communities in both rural and urban post-1994 South Africa. In other words, each of these case studies encompasses (‘represents’) differing but crucial historical, geographical and socio-political characteristics of the post-1994 period within a larger tableau of ongoing socio-political contestation and class (read: economic) conflict.
Taken together, these stories can therefore provide a critical counter-narrative to that of the dominant media (and oftentimes to that of government as well). They can also assist with revealing the ways in which the developmental experiences of the specific community, and the struggles in which it has engaged, have been shaped by the (macro) post-1994 political economy of South Africa, inclusive of the dominant media terrain. And further, they can go some way to help explain and understand the exigencies of power and inequality that have characterised South Africa’s broader democratic journey.
STORIES FROM THREE COMMUNITIES
In the following three chapters, we present stories from the communities of Glebelands, Xolobeni/Amadiba and Thembelihle as they were related to us by the people who live there. From the very beginning, we had to acknowledge our own role in ‘remaking’ these stories as they would eventually appear here in this book, where we have essentially acted as intermediaries for making meaning. This role of acting as an intermediary is one that is shared by social science researchers and journalists alike when we behave as the conduits for carrying meaning and messages from the ground to published content. The nuance, however, comes in how this work of intermediation is performed. What choices does the intermediate make, and what principle of intermediation is followed?
On a purely practical level, we knew we had to find a way to ‘retell’ the many narratives related to us in a manner that would give prominence to these voice(s) themselves, while also working as a coherent and easy-to-follow reportage of an incredibly complex set of interrelated narratives. As much as it is important to allow lateral space for people to practise voice and to relate their own stories, it is equally crucial for such voice(s) to be ‘packaged’ in such a way as to be easily understandable to the reader. The role of the intermediary here is tricky and imbued with heavy responsibility: ‘tricky’ because narrative material must be translated in its form (though not its content) to function as an easily accessible text, while remaining cognisant of a responsibility to the people whose voices are informing that text, and to retell their stories with respect, dignity and truth.
For us, it would have made little sense to simply provide hundreds of pages of interview transcripts from 22 different interviews across three separate communities, quoted here verbatim. While this would have been the most accurate reflection of all things that were said, it would not have accomplished a satisfactory retelling of voice(s) in terms of readability. Instead, we decided to arrange the different aspects of the narratives given to us thematically, extract corresponding parts of the interviews and then organise and integrate excerpts into the larger body of text that seeks to ‘tell’ the respective stories and enable the inclusion of associated voice(s). To fulfil this task, the stories of each community are ‘told’ by breaking them down into eight distinct focal areas or topics.
The eight focal areas we selected for use are particular to this project. They were selected for their relevance to the specific social, political and environmental contexts of the three communities. Suffice to say that other researchers and/or journalists following a similar model of listening may develop alternative or additional focal areas or topics specific to the contexts of the communities or peoples with whose voice(s) they engage. But we believe that the fundamental principles of this approach would remain the same, that is, that every voice has a value, that each voice is distinct, that voice is an ongoing process and that voice is socially grounded, being situated within a particular historical context. Below, each of the focal areas that we selected to employ is set out with a brief explanation and motivation.
One: The personal side
Rarely do the dominant media offer much more than, at best, a cursory glance at the personal lives and experiences of activists and residents in poor communities. Including these is essential because it humanises the individual, the associated events or struggles as well as the community itself and creates a bridge between the reader and the community/ residents to better locate and understand the subject matter and those involved.
Two: History and context of the area
It is crucially important to cover the overall frame of conditions of life, socio-political conflict as well as the organisations and/or individuals involved (whether internal or external). Without this, one’s view and understanding will have no historical background, no contextual foundation and no means of assessing and/or determining facts, interpretations and explanations of the hows and whys of what has happened. If we recognise voice as a socially grounded process, then voice(s) can only be properly understood by placing it within the associated history and context.
Three:
