After Women's Month concluded, when public discourse focused on women's liberation and gender-based violence (GBV) through rallies, speeches, hashtags, and talk shows, the conversations quiet down. There is a feeling that society is waiting for the next calendar cycle—the 16 days of activism against violence against women and children, which will take place from November 25 to December 10.
Recent reports of a possible serial killer in Kempton Park shocked the nation, exposing a chronic problem: South Africa remains one of the most dangerous countries for women. Furthermore, women adhering to personal safety measures alone is not enough for complete protection.
The author points out the problem where attention to the safety of women and children is conditioned only by the cycle of campaigns. This concern is often fleeting, activating on specific dates rather than being a constant commitment. When microphones fall silent, panels end, and hashtags disappear, the discourse sinks into silence. The real work lies in confronting the realities that exist outside public attention.
For many women in South Africa, daily life proceeds anxiously: a hand reaches for a switched-off mobile phone awaiting threats, and keys are tightly gripped. Every step is accompanied by a pre-planned mental map of the route home. Questions like 'Which path is safer?' or 'Should I wait for someone to walk me to the car?' are not the language of freedom, but the language of fear, a daily mantra for survival.
Seventy years ago, Black women fought against a state that sought to control their movement through pass laws during apartheid. Today, the pass book is absent, but the question of whether a woman can move freely and safely in society remains relevant. The author emphasizes that apartheid pass laws and modern gender-based violence are not equivalent: the former was an explicit tool of state power, whereas the latter takes the form of threats, coercion, persecution, partner violence, assaults, and murders.
The essence of the issue is not comparison, but power. Who decides where a woman can go? Who makes her feel that certain streets, places, times, or relationships are too dangerous? Who determines the conditions under which she can realize the freedom that should belong to her as a person and a citizen? These questions cannot be limited to Women's Month.
Handing over the case is not equivalent to justice; successful prosecution makes accountability real. Investigation and prosecution contribute to accountability, but justice depends on what happens after a woman reports violence.
Effective investigations, competent prosecution, and appropriate consequences for offenders are part of deterrence. A hashtag cannot stop a man who expects not to be caught, charged, or convicted. A functioning justice system can do so.
Behind the numbers are women and girls whose lives have been disrupted by violence, intimidation, fear, and death. Violence is often underestimated. Some women never report to the police, never file a complaint, and never appear in statistics.
In intimate relationships, control manifests in multiple forms even before physical violence becomes apparent: isolation, work restrictions, phone monitoring, location tracking demands, financial dependence, threats, and humiliation. By the time violence becomes visible, the woman may have adapted her movements to another person's dictates for months or years.
The notion that women's safety is solely their responsibility raises serious concerns: 'Don't go there,' 'Don't travel alone,' 'Don't come back late,' 'Don't anger him.' Although some of these measures might save a woman's life, it is fundamentally wrong for society to teach women how to anticipate violence better than how to prevent it.
Why should a woman have to calculate risk when exercising ordinary freedom? Why does visiting work, attending a public event, traveling home, leaving an abusive relationship, or walking in public space require a personal safety strategy? We have replaced the bureaucratic checkpoint with an internal one. The state no longer needs to impose restrictions on a document if fear has taught a woman to regulate her movements.
The assertion of constitutional equality for women is insufficient. Freedom is felt by whether a woman can return home without fear, leave a relationship without fearing retaliation, travel without checking who is following her, or occupy public space without calculating whether she will get home safely.
Race, class, geography, and economic power shape vulnerability differently, but fear transcends these differences. Responsibility cannot rest on individual women. Families, communities, schools, institutions, the state, and men must acknowledge their share of responsibility. Men must participate in solving the problem to challenge behaviors and cultures that normalize control, humiliation, and violence. Institutions must stop viewing women's safety as something they should manage individually. Safe public transport, responsive police, accessible support services, effective investigations, and consequences for criminals—these are the conditions for freedom.
If we mark women's struggle for only one month and allow the conversation to fade, we risk turning an ongoing struggle into a calendar event. Memory has value, but memory without accountability becomes a ceremony without transformation. Women who challenged apartheid did not march so that future generations would exchange one form of restriction for another or remain socially conditioned to fear where they go, when they leave, and whether they will return intact.
In a few months, the country will enter the 16 days of activism period. We will hear statistics, promises, and calls to action. But before and after this period ends, women still have to live. This uncomfortable space that we rarely discuss is the ordinary days between campaigns—when there is no microphone, TV panel, or hashtag. This is a conversation we must have now, before the next round of speeches begins. Not just: how do women protect themselves? But why do women still need such strong protection in the first place? The test of freedom is not simply whether the law allows a woman to go somewhere, but whether she can go there without fear. August is over. The conversation must continue.