Since the coronavirus came to SA shores, the greatest fear has always been for the poorest of the poor.
Access to quality health care remains one of the biggest challenges for those eking out a living in the rural areas and, with Covid-19 nowhere near its peak, government with good reason is worried about the impact it will have on those living on the breadline.
The problem is compounded by poverty-stricken communities not having access to clean water or being able to draw power from a stable electricity supply.
Our role as journalists does allow us to give a voice to this section of society, though very often the message is conveyed through self-appointed community activists, traditional authorities and wannabe politicians.
Perhaps these people are better equipped to deal with the media, but you frequently sense you are not being told the real story as the “plight of our people” rhetoric overshadows almost everything in its path.
But ordinary people do have stories to tell.
No sooner had President Cyril Ramaphosa announced the national lockdown to help “flatten the curve” than the phones at the Dispatch’s Mthatha bureau began to ring.
The complaints were endless, ranging from harsh treatment at the hands of policing authorities to people openly flouting lockdown regulations.
The ones we paid the closest attention to were those born out of sheer desperation.
For the rest of my days, I will never forget the call I received from 33-year-old mother Mbali Mafunda, who together with husband, Monawabisi, was turned back by SAPS members while rushing their seriously ill infant to a doctor in Matatiele.
Initially, I thought it was one of those situations where people seek out the media before going through the right channels, which happens often in our profession. But I could not have been more wrong.
The couple had been instructed to drive another 20km back home to get a permit or call an ambulance and wait for it by the roadside. They took the ambulance route, but it never arrived.
Mbali could not hold back her tears as she told her story.
Our role is to be objective as possible, as ultimately it is up to the reader how they wish to interpret a story, but on this occasion I felt my blood rising.
A great injustice was playing out, and worse still, the victim of that injustice was a small child.
The baby had been born prematurely and had difficulty breathing. It was a story the public had to know.
Only a few days later, I received another call from a Ntabankulu resident who told me that his and five other villages had been without power since before the lockdown took effect.
Thugs had cut down an Eskom tower and the utility giant had disconnected them from the power grid.
I gave the situation some thought, asking myself who would be most affected by the power crisis in Ntabankulu.
Even in so-called ‘normal’ times, many rural schoolchildren are forced to study by candlelight due to the erratic electricity supply. With the lockdown in place, their school year has already been severely disrupted, so what hope when there is no chance of power at all?
This was how I arrived at a decision to interview Phindile Tshaka, a 17-year-old matric pupil.
The provincial education has done wonderful work in terms of partnering with cellphone networks to roll out free e-learning SIM cards and study programmes broadcast on community radio stations and television, but that means nothing if there is no electricity available to operate cellphones, radios and TVs.
This was Phindile’s tragic story, but it is not hers alone. It is the same one you will hear in many parts of the rural Eastern Cape.
By telling these stories, we hope that we can shine a light on what poor people in the rural areas have to endure and perhaps encourage authorities to assist where possible.
Were the coronavirus to infiltrate these outposts on a massive scale, government’s worst fear will have been realised.
Were that to happen, the focus, for once, will be on those who live in impoverished villages, but it may be too late to do anything about it.
The poorest of the poor and why their experiences matter
Image: REUTERS/ ROGAN WARD
Since the coronavirus came to SA shores, the greatest fear has always been for the poorest of the poor.
Access to quality health care remains one of the biggest challenges for those eking out a living in the rural areas and, with Covid-19 nowhere near its peak, government with good reason is worried about the impact it will have on those living on the breadline.
The problem is compounded by poverty-stricken communities not having access to clean water or being able to draw power from a stable electricity supply.
Our role as journalists does allow us to give a voice to this section of society, though very often the message is conveyed through self-appointed community activists, traditional authorities and wannabe politicians.
Perhaps these people are better equipped to deal with the media, but you frequently sense you are not being told the real story as the “plight of our people” rhetoric overshadows almost everything in its path.
But ordinary people do have stories to tell.
No sooner had President Cyril Ramaphosa announced the national lockdown to help “flatten the curve” than the phones at the Dispatch’s Mthatha bureau began to ring.
The complaints were endless, ranging from harsh treatment at the hands of policing authorities to people openly flouting lockdown regulations.
The ones we paid the closest attention to were those born out of sheer desperation.
For the rest of my days, I will never forget the call I received from 33-year-old mother Mbali Mafunda, who together with husband, Monawabisi, was turned back by SAPS members while rushing their seriously ill infant to a doctor in Matatiele.
Initially, I thought it was one of those situations where people seek out the media before going through the right channels, which happens often in our profession. But I could not have been more wrong.
The couple had been instructed to drive another 20km back home to get a permit or call an ambulance and wait for it by the roadside. They took the ambulance route, but it never arrived.
Mbali could not hold back her tears as she told her story.
Our role is to be objective as possible, as ultimately it is up to the reader how they wish to interpret a story, but on this occasion I felt my blood rising.
A great injustice was playing out, and worse still, the victim of that injustice was a small child.
The baby had been born prematurely and had difficulty breathing. It was a story the public had to know.
Only a few days later, I received another call from a Ntabankulu resident who told me that his and five other villages had been without power since before the lockdown took effect.
Thugs had cut down an Eskom tower and the utility giant had disconnected them from the power grid.
I gave the situation some thought, asking myself who would be most affected by the power crisis in Ntabankulu.
Even in so-called ‘normal’ times, many rural schoolchildren are forced to study by candlelight due to the erratic electricity supply. With the lockdown in place, their school year has already been severely disrupted, so what hope when there is no chance of power at all?
This was how I arrived at a decision to interview Phindile Tshaka, a 17-year-old matric pupil.
The provincial education has done wonderful work in terms of partnering with cellphone networks to roll out free e-learning SIM cards and study programmes broadcast on community radio stations and television, but that means nothing if there is no electricity available to operate cellphones, radios and TVs.
This was Phindile’s tragic story, but it is not hers alone. It is the same one you will hear in many parts of the rural Eastern Cape.
By telling these stories, we hope that we can shine a light on what poor people in the rural areas have to endure and perhaps encourage authorities to assist where possible.
Were the coronavirus to infiltrate these outposts on a massive scale, government’s worst fear will have been realised.
Were that to happen, the focus, for once, will be on those who live in impoverished villages, but it may be too late to do anything about it.
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