From golden dreams to harsh realities: A village girl’s awakening to environmental injustice
Olebogeng Motene
There’s a moment every village child remembers that first time you leave home to chase a dream bigger than your world has ever shown you. For me, it was the taxi ride that carried me out of Chaneng, the village where I was born, nestled in the platinum-rich lands of South Africa’s North West province. That journey wasn’t just about reaching university, it was about stepping into independence, carrying the hopes of my family, and leaving behind the soil that had shaped me.
I remember that morning vividly. I was filled with excitement, but beneath it all was a thick layer of fear. I had never traveled alone before, let alone to a place as fast-paced and unfamiliar as the Vaal Triangle. My mother accompanied me to the Rustenburg taxi rank, where we met a fellow Vaal University student. He promised to ensure my safe arrival, giving both of us some peace of mind.
As we drove out of the familiar North West terrain, my emotions were mixed between anxiety and anticipation. I was leaving behind my comfort zone and stepping into a world of Independence. Passing through Johannesburg was overwhelming. The hustle, the pace, the energy, it was all too much for someone used to the calm rhythm of village life. Somewhere in the southern parts of the city, a familiar theme park caught my eye, stirring nostalgic memories of my early school days.
But what struck me most were the majestic golden hills that appeared through the taxi window. I was mesmerized. To my young and naive eyes, they were natural wonders, beautiful and surreal. I had no idea that what I was admiring were mining tailings: toxic remnants of gold extraction, remnants of industrial exploitation.
Many would say, “Olebogeng, you’re from Rustenburg, the platinum-rich city,” and they’d be right. I’ve been exposed to mining all my life, as mining in Rustenburg dates back to the 1960s. It has long been at the core of our local economy, shaping not only our infrastructure but also our education system. As a learner, I remember we were often conditioned to pursue careers aligned with the mining industry’s needs, and we were trained to become employees rather than question the mining impact. Conversations around the environmental and social consequences of mining were completely absent.
During my university years, while visiting home, I witnessed a mining operation being established right in the area where I used to play with my friends and collect wild fruits as a child. By 2011, I had returned home some days, moving with the sun, other days dropping off my CVs in search of work. It was around this time that I encountered a group of passionate young leaders who were raising awareness in our community about the deeper realities of mining. During a community meeting, I met members of the Chaneng Youth Organization. That moment sparked a shift in my mindset. I was inspired by these incredible individuals who were empowering the community to make conscious decisions and stand against injustice.
This group collaborated with other like-minded organizations across Rustenburg. In partnership with the Bench Marks Foundation, they produced the Rustenburg Report , a document detailing the lived experiences and impacts of platinum mining across Bojanala. Through the Community Monitoring School, I’ve had the profound honor of working alongside change-makers and human rights defenders from across the continent and beyond. It has been a journey of growth, truth, and deep commitment to justice.
And years later, the Bench Marks Foundation launched the “Waiting to inhale” Policy Gap 12 Report , which detailed what those golden hills perceived as nature’s art as toxic waste from gold mining. The report detailed the environmental degradation, health impacts, and social injustices tied to the mining industry, particularly in historically marginalized communities like Snake Park. And I continue to wonder how many others, like my younger self, view these hazardous dumps as something beautiful?
In the past year, I had the privilege of working on a community project in Snake Park, Soweto. The initiative focused on supporting caregivers of children living with cerebral palsy and other disabilities. This work was inspired by findings from Policy Gap 12. We partnered with the Snake Park Cerebral Palsy Forum, an organization founded by dedicated caregivers advocating for better healthcare, education access, and environmental accountability.
The project addressed the psychosocial needs of caregivers and provided education on physiotherapy, occupational therapy, and specialized diets tailored to each child’s needs. We also held practical workshops on income generating activities, equipping participants with skills to support both their families and the Forum’s sustainability.
Spending time in Snake Park made me see those golden hills in a different light. What I once admired as natural beauty is, in fact, a legacy of corporate neglect and weak policy enforcement. And the most vulnerable women, children, and people with disabilities continue to pay the highest price. The caregivers I worked with carry the burden of this legacy every day. Their stories are a testament to resilience, but also a glaring reminder of how systems continue to fail those who need them most.
This journey from naive admiration to informed activism has taught me that access to information is not a luxury but a right. Communities must be empowered to ask questions, demand transparency, and participate meaningfully in decisions that affect their lives and environments. We must be vigilant, informed, and united in our efforts to hold power to account. Only then can we begin to prevent the slow-moving disasters that have already harmed so many and create a future where golden hills no longer hide toxic truths.
