My mom has always worked. I saw her work hard to get me my first Nokia phone, our first microwave (a Defy, of course), and our DVD player – which was the definitive highlight of that year. As I reflect on the history of the workers struggle I envision my domestic worker mother, my aunt who runs a crèche out of our backyard, my other aunt who runs a small tuck-shop out of our dining room and the countless mothers and aunts who earn less than what I spend on rent monthly, and yet every single day they have made sure that there was always enough.
Growing up our morning routines were quite simple: I would wake up at 4:30 am, turn the kettle on, and rush quickly back to bed to steal a few more minutes of sleep before the alarm went off at 5 am signaling the official start of the day. My mom would yell for me to wake up and I would wash in the grey plastic basin while she made isidudu. My homework was often finished in the mad rush of getting dressed and packed for a hasty 6:30 am exit to catch the 6:40 am Golden Arrow bus to Wynberg. I would stand for an hour on the bus as we commuted to Wynberg for school and work, packed tightly and very much in each other’s personal space. As we drove past Lansdowne Road someone would stand up and start iculolase Wesileand the morning bus service would start with prayer, then more singing and a short word of encouragement for the day.
My mom would often leave for work shortly after I’d left for school and make her way to the local garage where she worked as a cashier and would be on her feet for 10 hours a day, with just a 30-minute lunch break. I recently found out that my mom earned around R500 a week as a cashier, yet she made that stretch to afford my uniform, my weekly bus ticket, food, lunch money and everything in between.
I remember at one point when we still lived in Gugulethu, there were 3 adults and 4 children living in a 2-bedroom house in NY 72. On one night my mom’s older sister said we only had rice and salt for supper and she sent the three older kids out to the neighbours; one to borrow some potatoes, another an onion and another some beef stock so she could make umqa rice- a mash of rice and potato with minimal seasoning. This was the meal that signified that things were bad badin the house. On a “good” bad day my mom would buy some soy mince that she would add to the rice. This was long before soy mince was a hipster vegan staple that one incorporated into their meal prep; it was a sign of poverty that was ‘not too bad’, and to this day I cannot bring myself to buy or eat soy mince, for the associations I have made with it. But despite everything, I never once went to bed hungry and never once left the house looking dirty or uncared for.
My mom was incredibly pedantic about how I looked and dressed, she would say “abantu funeka bangayazi ukuba siyasokola”. This statement was a mixture of shame for being poor but also a desire to be proud of one’s body and how I presented myself. When my mom was a cashier at the local garage in Khayelitsha I would sometimes go a whole week without seeing her. These were the nights that she was working the night shift and would leave home before I got back from school and get back in the morning after I had already left. Being alone in our two-room shack at night was scary and lonely, but I acknowledge now that she had no choice in the matter. When she was able, she would come home and sit and do my homework with me, but the shifts that she worked allowed her to be able to afford the school I went to and prepare me for the life I am able to live now.
Today, I am a Master of Arts candidate in History, a Teaching Assistant, and a Tutor at the University of Cape Town. Every time I see black students on campus graduating and celebrating their mothers and parents I am reminded afresh that South Africa’s public and private sectors are full of people who are raised on umqa riceand raised by domestic-worker-mothers, aunts and grandmothers. My mind continuously wonders why when many of us were at some stage raised by men and women who are at the bottom of the privilege ladder, we still collectively fail to treat them with the dignity they deserve?
Pain and poverty and the workers’ struggle are so deeply interlocked. While South Africa’s economy continues to grow and develop in strength and status, our bottom of the barrel workers are still unionizing and battling for fair wages and a dignified standard of living. The exploitation of workers was intricately woven into the fabric of our economy and has remained a feature in South Africa for decades. The apartheid system thrived on cheap labour and disenfranchisement, and workers had to consistently contend with the migration labour system, pass laws, influx control and numerous other oppressive laws designed to maintain inequality as the status quo. Workers were central in the struggle against apartheid, with trade unions galvanizing support for the anti-apartheid struggle across industries.
As I reflect on this year’s Worker’s Day I cannot help but reflect on the upcoming national elections. I called my mom this morning to ask what she thinks about Worker’s Day and she just laughed and said “haibo ntombi, akhonto wethu, zolala ndiphumle”, I pressed on to ask her if she knows the meaning of the holiday, and once again she laughingly responded “ndizophumla ebukobokeni”. My mom sees this day as a day for her to rest from working long hours on her feet cleaning a house in Constantia, and for her that’s enough; that this day is a government sanctioned day for her to rest and sleep-in as a worker. When I asked her about next week’s holiday – the National Elections on the 8thof May – and who she will be voting for, she laughed and said “hayi wethu maAyi, ngawuyeke”, we said our goodbyes and dropped the phone.
Many people today will not reflect deeply on workers’ rights or the role that trade unions played in the fight against apartheid, or the long road towards fair employment standards for allwork; but we know that the working class were the most oppressed under Apartheid and that struggle for better working conditions and the struggle to overthrow Apartheid will forever be linked. And so even today, as we reflect on the long road we have walked as a democratic country, we cannot forget that the fight for economic freedom is closely linked to the workers’ struggle for fair and equitable employment standards. Even our present battle for free education and the decommodification of knowledge is closely linked to the workers’ struggle and cannot be separated or severed.
On this Worker’s Day I hope we bring to mind the countless men and women who worked to carve our democracy. May we remember those who wake up early in the early mornings to do strenuous work to put food on our plates; those who continue to work and grow this country of ours; those who remain disenfranchised because their work is still not seen as realwork; those who continue to face discrimination in the work place; and those who remain without work and have their dignity stripped continuously. May we bring them to the forefront of our minds and may our hearts propel us to work hard in the pursuit of justice and dignity for them all.
