Unhousing the Rainbow – South Africa’s Long Walk to Dignified Shelter

Submissions Editor

April 22, 2025

In 2022, I was a victim of a violent attack that left me disabled. The physical toll, and

adjustments to my new adaptive lifestyle, necessitated a period of healing and

reflection.

During this time, I reflected deeply on the systemic issues facing South Africa, and I

rediscovered the purpose that once ignited my passion for justice.

I Immersed myself in the very communities that first inspired my commitment to

human rights. By listening more than speaking, observing more than acting, I

witnessed firsthand the persistent struggles for equitable housing and land rights in

South Africa. These experiences reaffirmed my belief that the fight for dignity and

justice is far from over.

I have walked these streets. I have argued in the courts. I have buried the victims of

neglect. I never left the struggle – I simply needed time to find the right words. Now, I

have written them.

‘Unhousing the Rainbow’ is not just about land or laws. It is about dignity. It is about

who we become as a nation. This is my long-form piece on housing and hope in South

Africa.

From Land Act to Group Areas: A Legacy Written in Brick and Blood

South Africa’s housing crisis cannot be divorced from its history. In 1913, the colonial

regime passed the Natives Land Act, confining the Black majority to just 7% of the

country’s land – later expanded to 13% by 1936. This legislation marked the beginning of

systematic dispossession. Black families were uprooted from ancestral lands and herded

into “native reserves” and later, dusty townships on the fringes of cities.

The apartheid government doubled down with the Group Areas Act of 1950, which

enforced strict residential segregation. Over the next few decades an estimated 3.5

million Black South Africans were forcibly removed from so-called “white” areas in one

of history’s largest mass removals – a figure that does not include the thousands of

Indian and Coloured South Africans that were also uprooted from places like Cato

Manor and District Six under the same brutal laws.

Entire thriving neighbourhoods – like Magazine Barracks in Durban – were demolished,

these policies were not only about physical separation. They engineered apartheid’s

spatial economy.

Black, Indian and Coloured communities were deliberately placed far from city centers

and stripped of access to quality schools, hospitals, and employment. By design, they

endured disparate levels of service provision and opportunity. In these neglected

townships – roads went unpaved, water and electricity were afterthoughts, and

commuting to work meant long, costly journeys.

The scars of this spatial injustice remain deeply etched. Sober brick houses with neat

yards may stand in one area – while just across an invisible line – crowded informal

settlements sprawl without sewage, greenery or recreational space. The Group Areas Act

did not just segregate communities it entrenched a hierarchy of opportunity.

Generations grew up knowing that one’s address could determine one’s destiny.

In “have” enclaves, there were tree lined roads and playgrounds. In the “have-not”

townships, everyday life was a fight for basic dignity. Such was the pre-1994 housing

landscape – a landscape deliberately designed to deny Black, Indian and Coloured

people proper land ownership, and the simple human comfort of a secure home near

life-sustaining amenities.

As we examine housing needs in South Africa we must confront an often ignored reality

– chronic homelessness.

Chronic homelessness is not just, or only, or even about poverty or addiction – it is

deeply linked to mental health. In city centers, like Durban and Johannesburg, many of

those sleeping on sidewalks are not simply “vagrants” or “drug addicts”. Often, these are

individuals living with mental and psychosocial disabilities, for whom housing cannot be

addressed in isolation from healthcare and social support.

Even if provided accommodation, many would return to the streets, not out of choice,

but because of the lack of mental health interventions and inclusive care systems. South

Africa, despite its progressive Constitution, does not have a single truly free homeless

shelter. All require payment – often R30 to R40 – a fee which is inaccessible to those

with no income and no support.

In Durban, the Denis Hurley Centre on Cathedral Road, stands out as one of the few

places offering compassionate care, meals and dignity to the homeless without

judgment. But this is not enough. If we are serious about the right to housing, we must

© 2025 Vedan Consulting (Pty) Ltd . All rights reserved.expand the definition to include supportive housing solutions for people with mental disabilities, and begin treating chronic homelessness as a public health and human

rights issue, not just a social burden.

When apartheid formally ended in 1994, the walls of Group Areas were expected to

crumble. Legally, South Africans of any race could live wherever they pleased. Many

Black, Coloured and Indian families seized the chance to move into suburbs and city

centers from which they had long been barred. At the same time, formerly whites-only

neighborhoods witnessed an uncomfortable transition as the “Rainbow Nation” idea

was put to an early test.

In some cases, wealthier Black, Indian and Coloured professionals bought homes in

areas like Durban North or Johannesburg’s formerly exclusive enclaves, fulfilling the

legal right to relocate and integrate. Yet new tensions simmered in these integrated

spaces. Even a routine dispute over loud music or a property boundary could bare the

teeth of old bigotries.

Still, the overall arc bent toward progress. Slowly, South African cities began to

un-ghettoise, with an emerging middle class of all colours claiming their piece of the

urban mosaic.

But even as some escaped the townships, poverty itself remained largely unmoved. For

millions who could not afford suburban real estate, the end of racial zoning offered only

a symbolic freedom.

They remained trapped in squalid informal settlements or crowded government flats,

watching gleaming malls and office parks rise at a distance. The inequality in access to

land and housing persisted, now more clearly cut along economic lines even as overt

racial barriers fell.

Nowhere were these frictions more tragically evident than during the unrest of July

2021. What began as protests over the arrest of former President Jacob Zuma in

KwaZulu-Natal spiralled into looting and violent mayhem that exposed deep social rifts.

In many townships of Durban, residents formed armed vigilante groups to “guard”

against “looters” when police failed to respond. In the chaos, racial profiling and hatred

exploded. “Roadblocks” manned by community members were set up and some

vigilantes began targeting Black passersby solely for the color of their skin. Over thirty

people, mostly Black, were killed by these patrols and in brutal acts that authorities later

confirmed had a “partially racial nature”.

mistrust still smolder between communities living side by side. It was a painful

reminder that desegregation on paper does not automatically translate into social

cohesion on the ground. As one local columnist provocatively observed, the scenes felt

like KwaZulu-Natal was racing headlong back to 1949 – conjuring memories of the

anti-Indian pogroms that scarred a darker past.

The Rainbow Nation vision suffered in those dark days of 2021.

Yet, in the anguish, there were also voices of reflection. Many citizens recognised that

the true divide fueling the unrest was not simply race, but the shared desperation of

poverty. Black, Coloured, Indian and White small business owners alike, saw their shops

ransacked, by people of all races, who had been pushed to the margins economically.

Years of unaddressed inequality, unemployment above 30% and the pandemic’s

hardships fed the explosion.

South Africa learned that genuine reconciliation demands more than repealing racist

laws, it requires uprooting the structural inequities those laws left behind, especially in

housing and land. The promise of 1994 remains unfulfilled so long as a person’s

prospects in life are dictated by whether they grow up in a leafy suburb or a corrugated

iron shack.

And yet, even as unrest laid bare the fragility of our social fabric, South Africa’s

Constitution still stands as a beacon of hope – at least in principle.

The Constitution is one of the first in the world to enshrine socio-economic rights,

including housing.

Section 26 of the Bill of Rights proclaims: “Everyone has the right to have access to

adequate housing”. Importantly, it also obliges the state to take “reasonable legislative

and other measures, within its available resources, to achieve the progressive realisation

of this right”. In plain terms, housing is not just a policy goal but a constitutional duty,

and the government must show it is moving forward – step by step, year by year – to

extend housing to all. Furthermore, the Constitution protects against inhumane

evictions: “No one may be evicted from their home, or have their home demolished,

without an order of court… No legislation may permit arbitrary evictions”.

This elevated housing and secure tenure to fundamental rights, reflecting the nation’s

new commitment to dignity after so many had been deprived of a home.

Translating these lofty principles into reality however proved challenging and

South Africa v Grootboom (2000), grappled with what “adequate housing” and

“reasonable measures” really mean.

Mrs Irene Grootboom was one of hundreds of destitute people, including many children,

who had built shacks on private land after being evicted from an informal settlement.

Their plight forced the Court to confront the chasm between abstract rights and on the

ground suffering. In a landmark judgment, the Court affirmed that socio-economic

rights are justiciable and intertwined with human dignity. It held that the state’s

housing program fell short of its constitutional obligations, notably because it lacked

provision for those in urgent crisis, in other words – people with “nowhere else to go”

like the Grootboom community .

The government’s housing plan was deemed unreasonable to the extent it did not

provide at least temporary relief for those in desperate need. Yet, tellingly, the Court

stopped short of declaring an individual right to immediate housing on demand,

instead, it assessed whether the state’s overall program was reasonable.

This approach created a nuanced legal standard – progressive realisation. The state must

show steady progress and cannot neglect the most vulnerable, but courts will generally

not order it to hand over keys to a new house for each claimant.

In practice, the constitutional right to housing has been a powerful tool for advocacy and

litigation. It has led to important precedents refining how evictions are handled.

Under laws like the Prevention of Illegal Eviction (PIE) Act 19 of 1998, no eviction can

occur without a court considering whether it is just and equitable, taking into account

the needs of vulnerable groups (such as children, elderly, female-headed households)

and whether alternative accommodation is available.

Courts have repeatedly emphasised that evictions should not render people homeless.

In one notable case, the Constitutional Court blocked the eviction of hundreds of poor

residents from inner city Johannesburg buildings until the city provided them with a

viable alternative, so-called “meaningful engagement” and interim housing. This

jurisprudence tries to balance property rights with human rights in a society marked by

extreme inequality.

South African law now arguably gives stronger protection to unlawful occupiers than

many other countries, precisely because it recognises the historical context of land

dispossession and the constitutional mandate to care for the poor. As Justice Albie

case, “we are not dealing with antagonistic sovereignties… but with a single society” –

suggesting that evictions must be handled not as mere legal disputes but as social justice

problems requiring compassion and consensus.

Still, there is an undeniable tension between ideals and implementation. Declaring the

right to housing was the easy part. Delivering on it? That has been painfully slow. Even

the Grootboom victory was bittersweet – Irene Grootboom died in 2008, still in a shack

home, and waiting for a proper home – years after winning her case.

The Constitution’s promise remains a distant dream for those millions in informal

settlements. A right on paper means little when children are still born and raised in

mud, mold, and shack fires. The lofty language of the law must contend daily with the

grit and grind of poverty.

To meet its constitutional obligations, the post-apartheid state launched one of the

world’s most ambitious public housing programs. In 1994, the new government unveiled

the Reconstruction and Development Programme (RDP), which included a plan to build

millions of houses for the poor, subsidised by the state. These homes, often simply

called “RDP houses”, typically are modest 40m² structures with two bedrooms, a living

area, and basic services to qualifying low income families.

In the first decade after apartheid, delivery was rapid in numerical terms, by 2001 about

5 million people had received formal houses through government efforts and by 2014,

roughly 2.9 million houses had been built – the government prefers the term “housing

opportunities” which includes not just newly built houses but also serviced sites and

rental units. As of 2022, over 4.8 million housing units or subsidies had been delivered

since 1994 – an impressive output by any measure, one that has given concrete meaning

to the idea of a “roof over one’s head” for a significant share of the population.

Indeed, about 12 million citizens, which is nearly one-fifth of South Africa’s population,

now live in state subsidised homes.

Yet, numbers tell only part of the story. Early housing policy was not without flaws.

In the rush to address the backlog, many RDP houses were built on cheap land far from

city centers – essentially continuing apartheid’s peripheral spatial planning – and were

often of poor quality due to shoddy contractors. Rows of identical, hastily built boxes

sprang up on the urban periphery – barren, desolate developments that critics said

echoed the spatial logic of apartheid both in style and in isolation. Moreover, the

allocation of these houses quickly became a contentious issue.

beneficiaries would apply and wait their turn. This system soon grew unwieldy and

mistrusted. Scarce housing stock and ever lengthening lists were a recipe for frustration.

Accusations mounted that local officials were taking bribes to push certain names to the

top of the lists, or that politically connected individuals were “jumping the queue” ahead

of those who had waited patiently for years. In some small towns, the housing officer –

the clerk who kept the list – wielded inordinate power and sometimes succumbed to

corruption or nepotism.

Communities frequently protested, believing that outsiders or latecomers were being

given homes ahead of them by dishonest means. The very phrase “waiting list” became

synonymous with broken promises as people found themselves waiting not months but

decades. By the early 2000s, the government acknowledged the system was failing.

In 2004, a new comprehensive plan called “Breaking New Ground” (BNG) was adopted.

It aimed to create more integrated, sustainable human settlements, rather than just

mass brick and mortar units. Along with this shift, the administration moved to phase

out the old waiting lists in favor of a more dynamic Housing Demand Database.

Provinces like Gauteng and Limpopo led pilot projects in 2008-2009 to register all

housing applicants into a centralised database that could track needs more

systematically. The idea was to update and verify applications regularly, incorporate

people seeking not only free RDP houses but also those needing rental accommodation

or serviced land, and to make sure no beneficiary could get a second subsidy.

The new demand database was intended to improve fairness and transparency.

Provincial housing departments would select approved beneficiaries for each project

from this database according to clear criteria (such as oldest application date, priority

categories) rather than a simple linear queue. It also sought to prioritise the most

vulnerable, for example it explicitly flagged people with disabilities, the elderly or those

in emergency need, so they could be fast tracked under certain housing programs.

However, re-engineering a bureaucratic system did not overnight dispel the public

distrust. To this day, many South Africans speak of “the list” as something

quasi-mythical, suspecting that it is manipulated behind closed doors.

A 2013 research report, by the Community Law Centre (CLC) and Socio-Economic

Rights Institute (SERI) , aptly titled ‘Jumping the Queue’ found that the terrain of

housing allocation is riddled with myths and misinformation, fueling community anger.

The notion of a neat, first-come-first-serve queue, the report argued, was in fact a myth

that obscures a much messier reality of fragmented databases, policy changes, and

ad-hoc adjustments. For example, when a housing project is completed in one area, the

such as how long they have waited; their income; whether the project is for a particular

category of people like military veterans or disaster victims; and also local community

inputs. Perceptions of unfairness nevertheless remain high. The report noted that

confusion over who gets houses and when has even led to protests, “illegal” land

occupations and xenophobic violence in some cases.

In poorer neighbourhoods it is not uncommon to hear allegations that foreigners are

stealing RDP houses or that one must grease the palm of an official to ever see a house

key. These beliefs are often not grounded in fact but powerful enough to stoke

resentment. Government has tried various measures to improve integrity in housing

allocation. These measures include external audits of beneficiary lists; public

verification exercises – where preliminary beneficiary names are posted in communities

for objections before final allocation; and digital systems to eliminate duplicate or

fraudulent entries. There have been crackdowns on what are euphemistically called

“ghost beneficiaries” non-existent people or those who did not qualify but somehow got

approved.

Despite these efforts, corruption and clientelism persist.

In her 2022 budget speech, the then National Minister of Human Settlements

acknowledged “decades of complaints about manipulation and corruption” in the

beneficiary process. It is a bitter pill – while the state has built nearly 5 million homes,

millions more of South Africans still languish in poor housing conditions, and they know

that if funds and houses had not been siphoned off through graft, many of them could

have been living under better roofs by now. In 2023, a Mail & Guardian analysis

concluded that the National Department of Human Settlements had uplifted millions of

lives, with 4.8 million housing units delivered since 1994, but went on to state that

“millions more could have been uplifted” had it not been for “the immense theft and

wastage”.

To understand these housing policies in practice, one must walk the footpaths of the

communities they intend to serve. In my own journey across South Africa, I have visited

countless neighborhoods where the grand promises of the Constitution meet the grit of

everyday survival. One such place is the Bottlebrush Community in KwaZulu-Natal, an

informal settlement tucked behind Crossmoor and Shallcross in Durban’s Chatsworth

area.

Bottlebrush sprang up in the 1980s, when floods displaced people, mainly Indian, in

nearby formal townships, and desperate families grabbed a patch of vacant land rather

than be shunted to distant government camps.

drawn from rural South Africa and even neighboring countries by the magnetic hope of

the city. The settlement sits cheek-by-jowl with the formerly established Indian suburbs,

a poignant symbol of apartheid’s fading geography and with an invisible line separating

formal homes from informal homes. As you step off a paved road in Crossmoor onto the

dirt road of Bottlebrush, the world changes, you enter a maze of RDP homes, shacks

assembled from plastic and election boards, timber off cuts, iron sheets, anything that

can keep out the rain. Narrow pathways wind through this hill of humanity, some live

electrical wires – some illegally connected – dangle perilously overhead and the smell of

wood smoke mixes with refuse in the air.

Nearby, in the Crossmoor Transit Camp, one of the most ethnically diverse spaces you

will find in South Africa, I saw true leadership in a Mozambican national named Paul

Manhica. A community once rocked by xenophobic violence, Paul, married a South

African woman and was elected unanimously as the Camp’s chairperson. This was not

just an act of tolerance, it was a triumph of Ubuntu. His leadership helped bridge

divides and reminded me that belonging is about contribution, not birthplace.

Walking through Bottlebrush on an early morning, I witness scenes of resilience

regardless of hardship. Women walk long distances balancing buckets of water on their

heads, collected from communal Jojo tanks located on roadsides, since many shack

homes lack running water. Children in crisp school uniforms pick their way around mud

puddles, determined to get an education that might one day allow them to move out of

here. One young man, Phineas, tells me he came from the Eastern Cape in 2007, lured

by relatives who said jobs were plentiful in Durban. Within two weeks, he did find a job

at a local mall. This is proof that opportunities do exist in urban hubs. “I’m happy living

here,” he insists, “My shack is not a palace, but good enough for my needs. Work is

nearby, my family back home depends on my earnings”. His words echo a sentiment I

hear often, location can matter more than housing quality.

Many Bottlebrush residents value being close to jobs and transport over having a larger

house in a far off settlement.

The once vacant land was invaded under the tenure of a politician who served as the

Councillor for the area initially as a member of the Minority Front and later under the

Democratic Alliance. He said the pursuit of a “better life” into this land of milk and

honey had enticed many to make Bottlebrush home.

Paradoxically, even though living conditions are harsh – shack homes get flooded in

heavy rains and electricity theft causes frequent fires – people see it as a place of hope, a

foothold in the city economy.

challenges basic services are a constant struggle; illegal electricity connections – as

mentioned – weave a dangerous web, electrocutions and shack fires have occurred and

neighbors in formal houses also suffer outages from the now overloaded grid; water

tankers service Jojo daily to supplement the trickling standpipes; there is no formal

sewage system for part of the settlement, many rely on pit latrines or makeshift toilets;

waste removal is infrequent, trash accumulates in piles, attracting rats. These are not

just inconveniences, they are daily indignities that erode health and morale. Service

delivery protests erupt with depressing frequency, as residents barricade roads and burn

tires to demand the basics of modern life. Often the response from government is a mix

of promises and temporary fixes, but the underlying issue is that the hundreds of

informal settlements throughout South Africa are still considered “temporary”, even

though they are decades old.

Government hesitates to fully install infrastructure on land that was originally invaded,

fearing it might encourage further land grabs. And indeed, land invasion is part of the

DNA of South Africa.

Bottlebrush expanded over the years through new waves of occupations. The settlement

now covers over 250000 square metres and has offshoot settlements like the nearby

Ekupholeni – which was born when shack dwellers became aware of a government

housing development and decided to invade the development site, in the desperate hope

of being given preference to the “to-be-built” homes.

Many believe informal settlements are occupied by the destitute and unemployed. My

work, particularly during the COVID-19 vaccine outreach, shattered that illusion. I

struggled to find people over 60 years old in these communities because most residents

are working age economic migrants.

Informal settlements are hubs of mobility, people rent close to industrial areas, stay

during the working periods and return home during festive or year end holidays.

Poverty, here, is not always about laziness, it is about proximity to opportunity – And

this particular point requires an investigation into wage payments from employers, if

this investigation is overcome then we must turn to the discussions of a minimum wage

versus a living wage.

The phenomenon of the “shack lord” deserves mention. In many informal areas, a few

enterprising (or rather exploitative) individuals stake claim to sections of land and then

rent out shack homes to others, effectively becoming slumlords in an extra legal

property market. In the Lusaka settlement, which is also located in Chatsworth, for

example, some who were allocated formal RDP houses in a nearby project simply moved

often provide illegal electricity as part of the deal, which makes their shack homes

attractive to desperate tenants. While this rental housing fills a need, the working poor

who cannot get an RDP house or afford formal rent, it also concentrates power and

wealth in the hands of a few in the community and can lead to intimidation and

violence.

I am one of those that has had a shack lord threaten me when I took the issue up directly

with the shack lock and the authorities.

It is a feudal dynamic playing out in the ashes of apartheid planning, land that was

initially seized by the poor to meet their housing needs ends up commodified again,

albeit informally, perpetuating inequality even within these settlements.

At 26 years old, I was elected as a Councillor, and to the area which encompassed the

Bottlebrush community. I recall the disastrous April 2019 mass floodings in

KwaZulu-Natal. The night before the floods, I had to make a choice – go to bed or stay up

to follow the warning updates and reports. At the time, the extent of the damage we

would experience and loss of life was not expected, predicted or foreseen. The next

morning, I joined volunteers in assessing damages and in digging through mudslides

which had destroyed and covered homes. Unfortunately, I was the first person to surface

bodies – that of a mother and her child. They had passed away, the mother had a tight

grip on her child and a cemented look of horror on her face. The image has never left

me, and has permanently changed my sleep patterns.

In the aftermath, 195 people had lost their homes and all of their belongings. To provide

for the victims and as is ‘the burden of command’, I had the duty of overseeing the

development of the Crossmoor Transit Camp, an emergency housing initiative.

Although unplanned, it was symbolically built on the very site first dedicated to the M

Padavatan brothers, who had decades earlier risked their lives to rescue flood victims by

boat. It felt almost poetic that a piece of land, once a symbol of rescue, would again be

used to give shelter to the vulnerable. The transit camp today stands strong, despite

initial reservations by a very few, it is built next to an informal settlement on one side,

ownership housing on the other side and directly across government flats. This shows

how disaster can birth dignity when met with purpose and planning and could be an

example that through guided, and extremely extensive and continuous engagement,

people can find each other, communicate and live together in peace – regardless of the

‘home’ that they come from.

And then there are the xenophobic undercurrents. Bottlebrush has a significant

African countries. Many run small businesses such as spaza shops, barber stalls and

taverns. While they contribute to the local economy, they also become scapegoats when

frustrations boil over.

In 2008, Bottlebrush experienced a flare of xenophobic violence, part of the nationwide

attacks on foreign nationals that year. Several shack homes of Malawian and

Zimbabwean families were torched by locals who blamed them for “taking jobs” and

housing opportunities. The irony is cruel, a community born from the solidarity of the

working class battling apartheid’s property laws turned inward on itself, targeting even

poorer outsiders. Researchers who later studied the incident noted how competition

over scarce jobs and houses, combined with misinformation like claims that foreigners

jump the housing queue, fueled the violence. As one resident told me, “When you’re

hungry and your name isn’t coming up for a house, you look for someone to blame. The

easiest target is the guy who speaks Xitsonga or Shona next door.” Such tensions

underscore that housing scarcity is not just a technical problem, it can become a spark

in the tinder of communal relations. Yet, in these same places of poverty and insecurity,

I have also witnessed remarkable community initiatives. I have seen residents tired of

waiting for the municipality, form a cooperative to start a waste collection system; I have

seen people establish an NGO to work with youth and turn a dumping ground into a

tennis court – a small patch of hope and normalcy amid chaos.

Across KwaZulu-Natal, I have met dedicated housing activists, such as Thabiso Mbensa,

an attorney who works with community organisations to educate people on their rights

under the Constitution and laws like the PIE Act. I have seen civil society help people fill

out housing subsidy forms, lodge complaints about corruption and even take the

government to court when necessary. Through such civic action, the powerless strive to

hold the powerful accountable. Each little victory – a corrupt official suspended here; a

batch of title deeds issued there; an illegal eviction stopped by a court interdict; adds to

the slow bending of the arc toward justice.

Informal settlements are evolving – doubling upward in height, stretching outward in

density. But how much more can they take? I fear we are nearing a tipping point.

Families are growing, needs are multiplying, and we risk implosion unless bold

interventions come soon. What happens when there is simply no more space? What

happens when an economic migrant becomes a generational resident in a structure

never meant to last?

One often overlooked aspect of housing is its intimate connection to mental health and

social well-being.

amenities but also of beauty, leisure, and calm. In the townships and settlements, every

square meter is fought over for housing, often leaving no room for parks, sports

facilities, or community centers. Today, South Africa’s poorer areas are notably starved

of green spaces. This exacts a psychological toll – children grow up on cramped plots

with little room to play or dream; adults return from grinding jobs to monotonous rows

of houses or the relentless density of shacks, with hardly a tree or field in sight. Studies

in urban planning note that access to green spaces is linked to lower stress and better

mental health outcomes. But in many RDP developments, the only greenery is an

occasional scrubby field or a few weeds along the roadside.

Overcrowding is another stress amplifier. In old township two-room government flats,

like those in Shallcross, Durban, it is not uncommon to find three generations of eight

or ten people crammed together – because the housing backlog forces extended families

to consolidate. Privacy is nonexistent – a quarrel between spouses in one flat can

become the whole flat blocks entertainment, and a baby’s midnight cries ensure

everyone else is awake too. This constant lack of privacy or respite can breed conflict

and despair. People cannot easily find peace in such environments, and minor disputes

can quickly escalate. Indeed, many social ills – from domestic violence to substance

abuse – have environmental stressors as contributing factors. The architecture of

apartheid created pressure-cooker communities and we are still living with the results.

In some notorious instances in townships (as seen in Phoenix, Durban) parks or sports

grounds have been sacrificed to make way for more housing.

While the need for homes is acute, the loss of communal space further chips away at

quality of life.

I visited a government subsidised flat complex in central Durban – a refurbished

building meant to provide decent affordable rentals. It was safe and clean, yet many

residents complained of loneliness and anxiety. One woman, a single mother, pointed

out that unlike in the government flat that she had lived in, here nobody knew their

neighbor. Doors stayed shut, people feared each other or had nothing to do with each

other. This was an interesting contrast – in a dense area such as a government flat or

informal settlement, people might have too little personal space yet a strong sense of

community interdependence, whereas in a formal but impersonal housing block, people

had walls between them and their neighbors, sometimes leading to isolation.

Housing is about community, not just units.

A truly holistic housing policy must think beyond the physical structure – it must ask:

hall? Are we building not just houses, but homes in the richer sense of the word?

Urban planners and housing officials are slowly recognising these qualitative aspects.

The latest thinking in human settlements emphasises integrated development –

combining housing with parks, clinics, schools, and economic opportunities nearby. But

implementation is uneven. The pressure to meet numerical targets (how many houses

built) often overshadows the softer objectives. As a result, we risk creating new ghettos

of poverty, which are government built enclaves that check the box of shelter but

reproduce the social isolation and monotony that apartheid’s planners perfected.

The challenge now is to retrofit and invest in these areas – plant trees, build sports

grounds, support community-led beautification projects – to foster an environment

where the human spirit can thrive, not just survive.

As South Africa’s democracy matures, a subtle but profound shift is occurring in the

nature of its societal divides. The rigid racial categories that defined the 20th century are

softening around the edges, giving way to an emergent stratification by “class” and

income.

None can deny that race and economic status are still tightly wound together in our

country – the black majority remains disproportionately poor – but we are seeing spaces

where poverty is increasingly multiracial.

In truth, shared suffering is forging a new solidarity, even if it often goes

unacknowledged in our national discourse.

Consider the growing phenomenon of poor white communities. In the Crossmoor

Transit Camp, one now finds a white South African family living in informal conditions,

something virtually unheard of during apartheid. The family of three live alongside

black and Indian poor, sometimes forming joint survival strategies.

In inner-city Johannesburg, mixed groups squat in abandoned buildings – a far cry from

the days when pass laws would have segregated them. These instances force us to

confront poverty unmediated by race, the sight of an Afrikaner grandmother queuing for

a social grant in the same line as Zulu gogos is jarring to old assumptions, but it is real.

An aging white brick layer in Malvern, Durban now finds himself just as housing

insecure as his black neighbours. The existence of such multiracial poor communities

raises uncomfortable questions about privilege and identity. It also presents an

opportunity to build cross-racial alliances focused on economic justice rather than

perpetuating racial mistrust.

grant. They live in a large house in Seaview, Durban. After paying for their monthly

rates, electricity and water charges – they are unable to afford anything to eat except for

soup made from cabbage, meat bones and water. It was humbling, despite everything,

they insisted that I sit down and share their meal. That moment reminded me – poverty

does not wear a single face.

If we continue to racialise hardship, we miss the new growing divide that is quietly

reshaping South Africa.

On the flip side, a multiracial middle and upper income class has also emerged and

retreated behind gates and security walls, in many ways insulating themselves from the

daily realities of the poor.

In wealthy suburbs and fashionable mixed neighborhoods, South Africans of all hues

share the comforts of luxury apartments, suburban golf estates, and trendy cafes – a

world apart from both the townships and the transit camps. Thus the “Two Nations”

thesis once articulated by former President Thabo Mbeki – one rich and one poor – is

increasingly visible. The rich enclaves are no longer exclusively white. The poor zones

are no longer exclusively black. This complicates the simple narrative of race, forcing us

to confront economic class apartheid as the next frontier.

Is South Africa drifting into a Brazil-like scenario, where favelas and penthouses coexist

within blocks of each other, with race a secondary factor?

In some respects, economic class is a more hidden divider than race. Race you can see;

economic class you often infer.

Post-apartheid rhetoric sometimes glosses over economic class, focusing on racial

redress, which is of course necessary, but not grappling fully with the widening gap

between haves and have-nots, regardless of color.

The rise of gated communities and private security – a booming industry – means that

the prosperous (black, white alike) can sever their daily interactions with the poor. This

feeds a kind of social detachment or even indifference.

Meanwhile, among the poor on the ground, there is a slow recognition: “We are all in

the same boat.” I often sit in shack dwellers meetings where Indian and African

residents of a settlement strategise together on how to demand toilet blocks from the

government . I have seen coloured and black backyard dwellers from Cape Town unite

to occupy unused land to build themselves shack homes. These are small harbingers of a

potential new national identity, one that transcends race and is rooted in shared

material conditions.

A poor coloured family in a Cape Flats council flat might still harbor stereotypes about

their black counterparts in a nearby informal camp, and vice versa. Mutual mistrust can

sabotage collective action.

Moreover, the political system often reinforces racial lenses – parties and leaders

frequently mobilise support by tapping into racial grievance or loyalty. We see it when

service delivery protests in a township devolve into blaming the Indian home owners or

the immigrant shopkeeper instead of the policies and politicians truly responsible.

So the question stands – can South Africa forge a new sense of “us” that is not defined by

racial categories but by common humanity and citizenship?

If our identities remain locked in apartheid-era thinking, we may fail to recognise who

our real allies are in the quest for a more just society.

I have seen the extremes. In India, I walked past entire families sleeping under plastic

sheets beside storm drains, rebuilding their homes each morning after monsoon rains.

In the United States, I felt the cold stares in sanitised streets where greeting strangers

felt taboo. Despite our challenges, South Africa remains a place where human

connection still lives. Where you can still pass someone your phone and say, “Can you

take my picture?” That is something worth preserving.

South Africa’s housing challenges, while immense, are far from unique. Across the

globe, nations grapple with providing shelter for growing populations with limited

urban land and resources.

Looking outward offers both humbling and heartening perspectives. For instance, in

India, a country with a population twenty times larger and urban slums on a scale that

dwarfs ours. The infamous Dharavi slum in Mumbai houses perhaps a million people in

two congested square kilometres.

India’s constitution does not explicitly guarantee a right to housing, but its Supreme

Court has interpreted the right to life to include a “right to shelter”. Decades ago, Indian

courts began insisting that evictions of long-settled slum dwellers without rehabilitation

violate fundamental rights. This judicial philosophy mirrors South Africa’s in spirit –

acknowledging that people need a roof over their head to live a life of dignity. In

practice, Indian cities have tried various approaches – in-situ slum upgrading, where

slums are provided infrastructure and residents given some form of tenure, and

resettlement schemes where slum households are moved to new flats, often in high-rise

buildings on city peripheries.

whereas many resettlement colonies suffer from isolation and lack of jobs, causing

people to drift back to the city.

One striking contrast is that India seldom gives housing away for free as South Africa

does – even subsidised units usually require some payment or sweat equity. Thus,

despite our problems, South Africa’s state delivery of fully-subsidized houses to millions

is virtually unparalleled.

A common refrain in international housing circles is that South Africa’s housing

program is the largest of its kind in the world in proportion to population. Few countries

have attempted to build this many homes for free distribution.

In the United States, the housing question takes a different form. There is no right to

housing in the U.S. Constitution, and housing is largely treated as a market commodity.

The world’s richest nation has millions of homeless or precariously housed people, a fact

that shocks many South Africans who assume wealth translates to social welfare.

In American cities, one finds families living in cars or crowded motels, and sprawling

tent encampments of the homeless under freeway bridges – visible reminders that

extreme inequality can exist in a developed economy.

The U.S. government does have housing programs, but they reach a limited portion of

those in need. Public housing projects built in the mid-20th century provided some

relief but gained notoriety for concentrating poverty and crime (the “ghettos” of New

York, Chicago, etc.). Many of those high-rises were eventually demolished.

Today the emphasis is on housing vouchers, so that low-income tenants can rent from

private landlords and subsidised mixed-income developments. Yet, only about one in

four eligible low-income households in the U.S. actually receives any housing assistance.

The rest languish on interminable waitlists or fend for themselves in an unforgiving

market. The affordable housing shortage in the U.S. is estimated at over 7 million units,

and over 30% of American renters pay more than half their income on rent – a level of

rent burden that inevitably forces trade-offs with food, healthcare, and education.

These comparisons are sobering, while South Africa’s housing backlog, officially around

2.2 million units, is daunting, the U.S. and others also struggle despite far greater

resources. However, one might argue that poverty in wealthy countries is at least

cushioned by stronger safety nets in other areas (like education, healthcare).

In South Africa, the home is often the only stable asset a family has – hence the intense

focus and pressure on housing delivery.

“City Statute” that recognises the social function of land, legalising long-occupied

informal settlements and giving communities collective tenure. Ethiopia experimented

with condominium apartments for low-income residents in Addis Ababa, essentially

vertical mass housing. China managed to eliminate its urban slums via massive public

housing construction, but of course under an undemocratic system with forced

relocations and strict population control – methods no free society would accept. The

United Kingdom and Canada include housing as part of their welfare states to varying

degrees, yet still face homelessness issues and long waits for public housing.

What stands out in the global context is that South Africa’s constitutionally guaranteed

right and its extensive state-subsidised housing program are quite extraordinary.

International observers have lauded South Africa for its progressive vision, even as they

(and we) lament the gaps in execution. It is a poignant fact that some of the poorest

squatter communities in places like Nairobi or Karachi would consider an RDP house –

however small – a dream come true.

We have at least built millions of such dreams; our task is to build millions more, and

faster, and build them better.

No discussion of housing is complete without addressing the flip side – evictions and

security of tenure. Owning or legally occupying a home is supposed to provide security,

yet many South Africans live in constant fear of eviction. This affects not only those in

informal settlements or inner-city squats, but even tenants in formal rental housing, and

families in rural areas under traditional authorities. The Prevention of Illegal Eviction

Act (PIE) and the constitutional clause against arbitrary evictions are crucial safeguards.

They have prevented countless forced removals that would echo apartheid-style

injustices. For instance, when a private developer or municipality seeks to clear an

informal settlement for a new project, PIE forces them into court where judges often

demand that alternative accommodation be provided. This has given leverage to

communities to negotiate better outcomes – like relocation to land nearby or being first

in line for new housing.

The law, however, is frequently flouted. Illegal evictions – either without court orders or

in abuse of court orders – happen with disturbing regularity. We have seen “red ants”

(security teams) tearing down shack dweller homes at dawn, sometimes in defiance of

pending legal proceedings. Each such incident is a human tragedy, a family’s belongings

strewn in the street, a tenuous life shattered. While NGOs and legal clinics try to

intervene, the wheels of justice can turn slowly. It is a cat-and-mouse game; by the time

an urgent court interdict is obtained, the settlement may already be ashes.

emerges – ownership and its burdens. Beneficiaries receive title deeds- eventually,

though delays of many years are common, hence the backlog of 439,000 title deeds

mentioned by the Minister.

That title is both treasure and temptation. Officially, an RDP house or government flat

cannot be sold for a prescribed period (initially 8 years, now often 5 years) to prevent

instant cashing-out. Unofficially, many do sell informally or rent them out immediately.

Drive around any township and you see RDP houses converted into spaza shops or

barber salons, or hear of people who “sold backroom space” on their plot to a tenant.

This low-income housing market is largely unregulated but thriving. There are also

instances of fraudulent sales: scammers “sell” an RDP house or government flat that

they do not own to an unsuspecting buyer using forged papers. Later, when the state

tries to hand over the real title to the rightful beneficiary, they find someone else in

occupation, and a legal mess ensues.

Inheritance is another thorny area. Many original RDP or flat owners have died – given

the program is nearly 30 years old. Without a will, their homes fall into intestate

succession which can be complicated in polygamous or extended families. Siblings,

spouses, children may quarrel over who has the right to the house. In some cases,

“informal wills” or family agreements are made, but if a dispute arises, it can lock the

house into limbo for years. Meanwhile, properties can deteriorate or be taken over by

opportunists. There is growing awareness that housing delivery must be paired with

education on estate planning – encouraging beneficiaries to write wills and register

them, so that the asset they struggled to get does not become a source of conflict or get

lost after their death.

The nature of “home” itself is diversifying.

Not everyone wants or can maintain a standalone house. Backyard dwellings, for

instance, have proliferated. In many townships, almost every yard has one or several

shack homes or Wendy houses rented out to individuals or families. This is a massive,

grassroots response to housing needs that is seldom acknowledged in official stats. It

provides income to the homeowner and shelter to the tenant, but often in overcrowded

conditions without proper amenities. Local governments sometimes try to upgrade

backyard rentals by providing separate connections for water and electricity,

recognising they are a permanent feature.

Social housing (government-subsidised rental flats for low-moderate income) is another

model that has grown in cities like Durban. These usually take the form of renovated

buildings or new medium-rise apartments run by Social Housing Institutions. They help

contribute to inner-city renewal. Yet demand far exceeds supply.

In South Africa’s rural heartlands, the question of land ownership remains both complex

and urgent.

Much of the land in KwaZulu-Natal falls under the custodianship of the Ingonyama

Trust, a body established in 1994 to hold land for the benefit of Zulu communities. For

years, rural residents lived on this land under Permission to Occupy (PTO)

arrangements, informal, often unwritten acknowledgments of occupation issued by

traditional leaders. But in practice, these PTOs conferred no real legal security. People

could be evicted, their land reallocated, and their rights trampled without formal

recourse.

This precarious arrangement came under scrutiny in 2021, when the Legal Resources

Centre, on behalf of rural women and community organisations, challenged the

Ingonyama Trust Board’s practice of converting PTOs into lease agreements – forcing

residents to pay rent for land they had long regarded as their own. In a landmark ruling,

the Pietermaritzburg High Court declared the practice unlawful and unconstitutional,

affirming that the Trust had no right to impose leases or collect rent from occupiers. The

court emphasised that these residents were de facto owners, and their security of tenure

is protected under Section 25(6) of the Constitution, which guarantees legally secure

tenure to those whose rights to land were previously insecure due to racially

discriminatory laws and practices.

The ruling underscored a profound truth – that customary land rights are not inferior to

formally registered ownership. It also exposed the need to overhaul land administration

in communal areas. While the Ingonyama Trust was originally intended to protect

traditional landholdings, it became a mechanism through which rural people,

particularly women, were disenfranchised, excluded from decision-making, and

extorted for living on ancestral ground.

While we have seen strides like the Ingonyama judgment, much of land restitution in

South Africa remains mired in bureaucracy. Claims that were filed decades ago still wait.

The backlog is staggering. Although a Land Claims Court and a Legal Aid land division

exist, few lawyers are adequately trained in this complex terrain. I was fortunate to have

worked at a NGO law firm that focused largely on land matters and I learned that justice

is not just about court victories – it is about getting people their land while they are still

alive to use it.

In my work on land matters, I have seen firsthand how rural communities were coerced

into signing leases they could not read or understand, often without legal advice. I have

the very communities they were meant to serve. Now, with this judgment, we have an

opportunity to create a more just and transparent rural land tenure system, one that

recognises customary rights, facilitates legal title where appropriate, and protects

vulnerable occupiers, especially women and the elderly, from exploitation.

There are innovative and progressive human settlement experts in our mist that

understand both the task of housing and the duty to people, such as former KwaZulu

Natal MEC for Human Settlements and Public Works, Ravi Pillay, who spearheaded a

program to upgrade the Shallcross Flats and simultaneously provide ownership of these

homes to people.

The Shallcross Flats were government housing blocks which were originally built as

temporary accommodation. Through sheer persistence by Pillay and the tireless

advocacy of local leaders like the late Bob Abhrams, Mogie Naidoo, Ronnie Pillay, Olean

Naidoo, Picky Naidoo, the flats transformed from temporary occupancy into permanent

ownership and people were given a flat upgrade and their very first title deeds. This was

not just a housing upgrade – it was a dignity upgrade. It showed what is possible when

the government and community work as partners. I am glad that I also had the

opportunity to play a part in this process.

Sadly though, that momentum has since stalled under new Councillor leadership. The

community’s hope now sits in limbo, a reminder of how easily progress can be lost

without accountable and visionary local government.

In African philosophy, Ubuntu – often translated as “I am because we are” – encapsulates

a spirit of community, mutual care, and humaneness. South African communities,

especially under hardship, have long embodied this ethos. Neighbors look after each

other’s children; strangers share water from a common tap; a family is hungry and the

whole community pitches in to help.

This spirit was a key survival strategy through apartheid and remains so in

impoverished areas today. There is a certain beauty of neighborliness one witnesses in

places like Bottlebrush or the Shallcross Flats, a social fabric that can be torn but not

easily destroyed. People know each other by name, they celebrate and mourn together,

they develop informal systems of exchange -borrowing sugar, lending tools – and conflict

resolution. In some areas, I found that residents had created committees to mediate

disputes, essentially a form of local self-governance born of necessity.

However, as South Africa modernises and urbanises, there is a risk of losing this

communal spirit, especially in more formal or economically mobile settings. In affluent

suburbs and even many middle economic class areas, the way of life is more

‘each family unto itself, guarded against the world’.

People commute by car from the secured home to the guarded office park or mall, often

not knowing the name of the person living next door. Ironically, sometimes material

progress seems inversely proportional to social cohesion – the more comfortable we

become, the less we rely on our neighbors. It is a pattern seen worldwide but in South

Africa it is especially poignant given our history, the apartheid regime intentionally tried

to break Ubuntu by sowing distrust and division, yet Ubuntu survived in the townships,

now consumerist culture and fear of crime might succeed where oppression failed, by

boxing us into private enclaves.

That said, Ubuntu is far from dead. We see it in the spontaneous solidarity of

communities facing disaster – like the previously mentioned flooding in KwaZulu-Natal

in 2019 – Families, NGO’s and people from all backgrounds mobilised to feed and care

for the displaced. We see it when middle-income communities step up to enhance

efforts against crime and join movements like CPF’s (community policing forums that

are all inclusive), or lawyers provide pro bono legal help to those facing evictions. South

Africans have a complicated relationship with one another, but time and again we prove

that empathy runs deep. There is an innate recognition that in a nation with our

interwoven destiny, “your pain is my pain.”

Housing, in particular, can be a site for rebuilding trust and community. Initiatives

where people collectively contribute labour to build one another’s homes (a bit akin to

the barn-raisings of old) have been tried in programs like People’s Housing Process. In

some cases it has been empowering, in others, disagreements derailed the process. The

concept though, that a neighborhood could come together and physically create its own

improved living environment, is powerful. It turns housing into a community project,

not an individualised chase for a commodity.

Similarly, co-housing models or cooperative housing, common in places like

Scandinavia, could be adapted to our context, fostering closer bonds among residents

who share common facilities and management of their housing complex.

A philosophical reflection emerges – what is the meaning of “home” in South Africa? Is it

merely an address or shelter, or is it the nucleus of community life?

In many traditional cultures here, a home was not isolated – it was part of a umzi

(homestead) or a broader village. Modern housing, especially Western-style suburban

living, is more atomised.

Some lament that we are moving from “batho pele” (people first) to “each one for

traditional values of community. Simple design considerations can help include a stoep

or veranda for socialising, design houses facing each other around a courtyard, ensure

there are communal spaces to meet. Encouraging resident WhatsApp groups not merely

to complain about service delivery, but to organise social events, neighborhood watch in

a positive sense, support networks – all these can regenerate Ubuntu. In the end, cement

and mortar build a house, but people build a home. If we forget that, we may achieve the

former and lose the latter.

Housing and urban form have direct implications for crime and safety, two persistent

concerns for South Africans.

The layouts of our cities and neighborhoods can either mitigate conflict or aggravate it.

Consider the notorious case of the Cape Flats in Cape Town – a vast expanse of

townships and tenements where apartheid dumped removed non-white communities.

Decades later, the Cape Flats have become synonymous with gang violence, drugs, and

social despair. Is this a coincidence of culture or was it partly architectural fate? Many

experts point to how rows of monotonous “barracks-style” flats and paucity of economic

opportunities created fertile ground for gangs. Youth growing up in crowded

two-bedroom apartments, with unemployment rife and schools under-resourced, found

belonging and identity in gang culture. Turf wars turned courtyards and public spaces

into battlefields. Two people are killed in gang violence in the Western Cape every day,

according to recent statistics, and a large share of that is concentrated in certain Cape

Flats neighborhoods.

The design of those environments – alienating high-density blocks with little

recreational space and poor surveillance – likely contributed to the social breakdown.

In contrast, research suggests that “eyes on the street” deter crime. A well-lit, busy street

with active storefronts and residents who know each other can naturally keep a lid on

illicit activity.

Sadly, apartheid designs often did the opposite: curved culs-de-sac that isolate, or

towering flats that turn their backs to the street. In some newer low-cost housing

projects, the lessons have been taken to heart – for example, breaking up long rows of

houses with through-streets and mixed uses. But many existing areas remain

problematic.

Furthermore, the proximity of extreme wealth and poverty in our cities also fuels crime.

Gated communities adjacent to shantytowns almost invite criminal exploitation, it is a

daily temptation for a hungry have-not to breach the border of the have-everything next

areas, could ultimately reduce crime born of desperation and resentment.

Housing arrangements can also be the stage for neighborly conflicts. Anyone who has

lived in dense housing knows that small issues (noise, parking, cultural practices) can

escalate.

In the Raffia Road municipal flats in Durban, I found a microcosm of the Rainbow

Nation under one roof – Zulu, Tamil, Xhosa, English speakers all in a single block. It was

heartening, but it also led to comical and tense misunderstandings, one resident

complained that another was performing slaughter rituals of goats in the common yard

(a sacred custom for the one, a horrifying sight for the other), while another quarrel was

over someone braaiing on a balcony and smoking out the upstairs neighbors.

Intercultural friction is perhaps inevitable as previously separated groups now share

walls. But over time, these interactions can breed tolerance.

I met a young man of Indian descent living in the Shallcross flats in KwaZulu-Natal that

had recently seen a black family move in. He admitted initial apprehension, fearing

crime or feeling soon being outnumbered, but now he laughed, saying, “My baby’s

nanny is a Zulu lady next door; we teach each other recipes.” In some respects, these

close proximities are accomplishing what broad social engineering could not, genuine

integration in daily life.

Intermarriages across racial and ethnic lines are on the rise and many began as

next-door neighbors or classmates. A new South Africa is being built in these seemingly

mundane interactions, an unsung benefit of the housing shuffle that has taken place

post-apartheid.

Yet, we must acknowledge darker episodes too.

Close proximity without trust can erupt badly, as we saw in 2021’s unrest or prior

flashes of communal violence. Building safer, cohesive communities is not just about

bricks, it’s about facilitating understanding. Urban design can assist, by creating shared

communal spaces where residents mingle rather than hide in their units. Social

programs in housing complexes, like youth clubs, cultural exchanges, can actively break

down prejudices. In the Shallcross Flats, some former gang members have started

community gardening projects, turning disused land into vegetable gardens that bring

former rival families to cultivate side by side. Such efforts seem almost too simple to

dent the enormity of crime, but they do have an effect – they humanise neighbors to each

other.

Finally, it is worth considering how fear shapes our urban landscape. Wealthier South

boom-gates closing off public streets, CCTV cameras on every corner of the road. This

creates an atmosphere of siege and further separates people. If instead, resources were

invested in inclusive safety measures – like improving street lighting in townships,

supporting community policing forums, and fundamentally addressing the social causes

of crime (through jobs and education) – the city as a whole would be safer for all. No

amount of electric fencing can bring the comfort that a more equal, caring society would,

where the gulf between rich and poor is not so stark as to breed endless criminal

opportunity.

South Africa stands at a crossroads on the journey to housing justice. We have traversed

a brutal past where land was the currency of oppression, to an era of rights and

possibilities where a house can be the foundation of a new life. Yet, as this exploration

has laid bare, great challenges remain. How do we ensure that the right to housing is

more than an empty slogan for those still waiting in shack homes? How do we heal the

spatial wounds that make our cities patchworks of privilege and peril? These questions

demand answers not just from the government, but from every sector of society – private

business, civil organisations and communities themselves.

Policy reform is crucial. We need a bold, new social compact on housing. Firstly, the

government must recommit resources – housing cannot slip down the priority list.

Creative financing – leveraging private capital without sacrificing affordability – can

augment the state’s capacity. Public-private partnerships might build more rental stock,

and inclusionary housing policies can ensure that new private developments allocate a

share to low-income units. Secondly, we should pursue urban land reform. This means

freeing up well-located urban land for affordable housing. The expropriation of idle land

should be on the table to prevent speculators from holding cities hostage while the poor

are relegated to far peripheries. The law now allows expropriation in the public interest,

using it to create integrated communities would fulfill the Constitution’s transformative

intent.

Thirdly, the housing allocation system must be overhauled for transparency and

fairness. One option is a clear-point scoring system for housing beneficiaries – balancing

waiting time with vulnerability (disability, age, emergency need) – that is publicly known

and applied uniformly.

Publish the lists – let communities witness who is being approved and why. Sunlight is

the best disinfectant for corruption.

Where fraud or “queue-jumping” is uncovered, there must be consequences and

wrongly allocated houses returned to rightful claimants. The current Ministerial review

Corruption Watch or the Legal Resources Centre to lend credibility.

Community-based housing ethics should guide implementation. This means involving

residents in decisions from the start. Instead of parachuting in a project and deciding

beneficiaries from afar, adopt a participatory approach, let local forums help map out

who needs housing most, let future residents contribute to design elements, even to

construction – sweat equity.

When people feel ownership of the process, they are more likely to guard the outcome of

their new homes – jealousy and responsibly. It also builds community cohesion, as

people literally build together.

Balancing rights with inclusion is a delicate art.

The rights of existing residents in an area, who fear influx when new low-cost housing is

proposed nearby, must be weighed against the rights of those who need a place to live.

This calls for enlightened leadership – leaders who can mediate dialogues between

groups and dispel myths. Often, when middle-class communities oppose a social

housing project, it is due to fear of crime or falling property values. Empirical evidence

can help here, show that well-managed affordable housing does not cause crime waves,

and integration can even boost local economies. South Africa will need a spirit of

generosity from those who “have” – a willingness to accept a more mixed

neighbourhood, a more diverse school for their children, a more egalitarian city. In

return, the “have-nots” must commit to being stewards of the opportunities given –

maintaining their homes, respecting community rules and striving to uplift themselves.

On land restitution, we should expedite remaining claims and also consider innovative

approaches like urban land restitution. The fact that 92% of land claims have been

settled through cash compensation rather than actual land points to the need to give

land back where it can truly empower communities – not just cut a check that is soon

spent. Where claimants prefer money, fine, but where they want land, bureaucracy or

budget limits should not stall them for another decade.

South Africa needs to ask itself hard questions.

We now offer free higher education through the National Student Financial Aid Scheme

(NSFAS) – a groundbreaking shift in human capital investment. But if the government

equips you with knowledge, must it also build you a house?

As I have often said, “If we are giving you free education, maybe it is time to expect that

you will now uplift yourself.” This does not mean we abandon the poor. It means we

launchpad, not a lifestyle.

I believe South Africa stands at a policy crossroads. When we committed to free higher

education, that should have been the moment we put a stake in the ground and said:

“This is it. We are investing in your mind so you can invest in your future.” It was (and

maybe still is) an opportunity to shift from a dependency model to one of mutual

accountability. If you have a degree, access to opportunity, and a network built through

education – should the state still carry you all the way into a free home?

We need to start differentiating between generational need and generational potential.

That is not cruelty – it is strategy.

In the end, housing is not just about houses. It is about the kind of society we want. As I

have learnt through my work, we cannot escape our history and we cannot run from

each other. We must look hard in the mirror and be honest about the injustices that

persist, be critical, honest, and bold in confronting them. Indeed, we must call out

incompetence and prejudice wherever they impede the goal of a home for every family. I

have also learnt to recognise human capacity for change – just as individuals can

transcend their past, so can a society.

As the famous quote goes “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward

justice”. Provided we pull it with all our might. We, the people of South Africa, are the

ones to bend that arc. Together, we can redefine our national identity from the ashes of

division to the dawn of unity.

Picture a South Africa where a child’s future is no longer predestined by the GPS

coordinates of their birth, but by their talent and effort, where the suburb, the township,

and the settlement are all part of one continuous, vibrant cityscape, where a house is not

a status symbol allocated by race or party patronage, but a sanctuary earned by one’s

citizenship and need.

To get there, we must each play our part.

Government must lead with vision and integrity, yes – building more and building

smarter. But communities must also lead from below, proving that Ubuntu is alive by

how we treat our neighbors and welcome newcomers. The private sector must innovate

to deliver affordable housing at scale and universities can help with research and new

models (like environmentally sustainable building for low cost). If we all commit to the

principle that everyone deserves a dignified home, then arguments over budgets and

bylaws become opportunities for problem-solving, not grounds for cynicism.

security and comfort!” It was a dream then, it need not be a dream deferred now. In the

richness of our land and the resilience of our people lies the capacity to make it real. Let

us summon the courage of critique and the compassion of appeal. Let us confront our

failings without fear, and then join hands across old divides to fix them.

We have come a long way, but the journey is not over until the day every South African

can say, “I have a place where I belong, a place of my own, and it is home”.

With unity of purpose, with policies grounded in justice and hearts grounded in Ubuntu,

we will build that day – brick by brick, community by community – and ensure that the

long walk to freedom finds its culmination in the warmth of a lighted window, in a

house that truly becomes a home for all.

About the Author:

Previn Vedan is a South African lawyer, political activist, and advocate for social justice.

Known for his ability to connect with individuals across racial, social, economic, and

international divides, his work is shaped by a blend of legal expertise and deep-rooted

activism, guided by principles of integrity, equity and justice.

Vedan’s perspective draws on his personal experiences – from the unique real-world

engagements of his youth activism to travelling the length and breadth of South Africa as a

human rights lawyer, to being elected as one of South Africa’s youngest ward councillors. He

has navigated international platforms, won awards, negotiated peace in times of conflict, and

recently faced violent crime that has altered his life and left him disabled.

Through it all, he has remained committed to bridging societal divides, amplifying

marginalised voices, and offering innovative solutions to some of society’s most complex

issues.

Vedan’s aim is to champion justice for all – particularly those whose voices have long been

silenced.

Contact Information:

Email: previn@jdvedan.co.za

Contact Number: +27 79 460 9702

Facebook Page: @ActivistPrevinVedan

Instagram: @previn

vedan

LinkedIn: @previn

vedan

This article is the intellectual property of the author. No part may be reproduced, quoted, or adapted without written permission,

except for fair academic use or citation.

By: Previn Vedan

Lawyer | Human Rights Advocate

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