Raised by the Mines, Called by Justice
By Thabang Thembani
I was born on the 10th of July 1996 in a small mine-hosting township called Nyakallong, in South Africa’s Free State province. My grandmother always reminds me that it was a bitterly cold day snow blanketed the township. My late grandfather used to say, “Uzwalwe nge cabaka,” that I was born in the harshness of winter but brought a unique warmth to our family. There hadn’t been children in the household for a while, which is why they named me Thabang the one who brings joy.
Three years before I was born, my grandfather transitioned from informal work to becoming a mineworker through a cousin who helped him get a job in the mines. The day my father officially became a mine employee in 1993 was unforgettable. For Black families like ours, employment didn’t just bring income, it restored dignity. It meant pride, stability, and the ability to look to the future with hope.
Two years after I was born, my biological father also found work at a local mine. But in 2000, tragedy struck. He died underground in a gruesome mining accident. My younger brother was only three months old, and I was just four. Neither of us would be able to recognize him today. His face exists only in photos and stories.
Growing up, I admired the mining industry deeply. It seemed to carry our township on its back. Every second household had someone employed by the mines or engaged in mine-adjacent business. Mining appeared to build our roads, feed our families, and give us pride. At school, many children bragged about their parents working in the mines. It gave them a sense of status.
But over time, this fairytale unraveled.
One by one, the mines began to close. Jobs vanished. The land deteriorated. Health problems became widespread. And the pride once associated with the mines turned into despair. Nyakallong started to reek of unemployment, abandonment, and eroded futures. The warm language we used when speaking of the mining industry slowly shifted into silence, pain, and critique. That’s when I began to understand the importance of activism when I saw that the very system that gave us dignity could also strip it away so easily.
My journey into activism was nurtured by Sobantu Mzwakali, a mentor and brother. He shared books with me, guided my political thinking, and held long ideological conversations about life in post-apartheid South Africa and the plight of mine-hosting communities. His mentorship reminded me that history is not something we inherit passively; it’s something we must engage with critically.
I joined political parties at first, hoping they would be a platform to express my concerns. But soon I discovered that partisan politics can constrain one’s voice. My truths didn’t always fit neatly into party agendas. That’s why I chose activism not just as an identity, but as a tool for liberation.
I am the child of a mineworker. I am shaped by a family whose labor built this country, even as it left them behind. I am an activist because our skin color and class continue to remind us that justice is not freely given, it must be demanded. We are still struggling against the same forces that turned our land into profit and our pain into silence.
And I choose to be part of those who break that silence.
