On 30 June I can't control the people of South Africa
In the weeks before a self-imposed June 30 deadline, South Africa finds itself at a familiar and painful crossroads — where legitimate economic despair curdles into violence against the most vulnerable. Thousands of migrants, many from Malawi and other African nations, have fled their homes under threat of machetes and mob intimidation, gathering in open fields to await buses home. The country's staggering unemployment and a political season ripe for scapegoating have combined to resurrect the specter of 2008, when xenophobic riots claimed sixty-two lives. What unfolds now will say much about whether a nation can distinguish between the weight of its own suffering and the humanity of those who arrived seeking the same relief.
- Armed groups are moving door-to-door in informal settlements, wielding machetes and whips to drive out undocumented migrants before a June 30 deadline set not by government but by protest movements.
- At least five Mozambicans have reportedly been killed, a Burundian refugee with legal status is still being chased from her home, and a mother of triplets sits in a winter field after her husband was cut on the head and neck for refusing to leave.
- Ghana has summoned South Africa's ambassador, and Malawi, Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and Nigeria are all scrambling to evacuate their nationals by air and bus as border crossings back up with fleeing families.
- President Ramaphosa has announced a five-point immigration strategy and warned that no one has the right to demand nationality papers on the street — but protest organizers are openly saying they cannot control the crowds after June 30.
- The crisis is landing in a country that has been here before — 2008, 2015, 2019 — and the question now is whether the approaching deadline becomes a moment of restraint or a trigger for the worst violence in nearly two decades.
In an open field outside Durban, thousands of people are waiting to leave. Most are Malawian. Most are undocumented. They arrived with blankets and documents after armed men came to their homes — some carrying machetes and whips — and told them to go.
Estnat Joseph, thirty-six, sits among them trying to comfort her one-year-old triplets in the southern hemisphere winter cold. She came from Malawi three years ago to work as a domestic servant. In early June, ten men arrived at her home in an informal settlement. When her husband resisted, they cut him on the head and neck. He is now in hospital. She lost her passport years ago in a robbery. She is waiting for a bus arranged by the Malawian consulate.
The deadline is June 30 — set not by the government but by anti-migrant protesters, including the group March and March and the opposition party ActionSA. Their chant is "Mabahambe": They must go. Their anger draws from something real. South Africa's unemployment rate stands at 32.7 percent, one of the world's highest. In the first quarter of 2026 alone, 350,000 jobs disappeared. Public services are strained. The country's relative prosperity makes it a destination for migrants from across the continent, and the protesters argue the system is being exploited at citizens' expense.
But the protests have turned violent. The Mozambique government says five of its citizens were killed in xenophobic attacks in Western Cape province. Ghana summoned South Africa's ambassador. Videos circulating online show men approaching strangers, demanding to know their nationality, and telling them to leave immediately — not on June 30, but now. The fear is spreading and becoming ordinary.
The historical weight is heavy. In 2008, xenophobic riots killed sixty-two people and displaced thousands. Similar violence erupted in 2015, 2016, and 2019. One protest organizer has warned publicly that after June 30, he cannot control the people of South Africa.
President Ramaphosa has pushed back, calling out the scapegoating of vulnerable people and announcing a five-point strategy covering asylum rules, employer penalties, digital IDs for non-citizens, and immigration corruption. He has stated clearly that no one has the right to demand proof of nationality from people in public spaces.
Still, the departures continue. About 3,500 foreigners have already left through organized repatriations. In Johannesburg, excavators are demolishing informal shops as part of Operation New Broom. A Burundian woman with recognized refugee status told the BBC she is still being chased. A Malawian woman who has lived in South Africa for sixteen years pulled her nine-year-old daughter from school after a taxi driver demanded their papers. When the first evacuation bus arrived in Durban, the crowds chanted in Zulu: "Siyahamba" — We're leaving. The deadline is approaching, and the country is watching.
In an open field outside Durban, thousands of people are waiting to leave. They arrived two weeks ago with whatever they could carry—blankets, documents, the small accumulation of a life interrupted. Most are Malawian. Most are undocumented. They came because armed men showed up at their homes and told them to go, and some of those men were carrying machetes and whips.
Estnat Joseph, thirty-six years old, is one of them. She sits in that field trying to comfort her one-year-old triplets, who cry in the cold of the southern hemisphere winter. Three years ago she came to South Africa from Malawi to work as a domestic servant. She had her children. Then, in early June, a group of South African men arrived at her house in an informal settlement. There were ten of them. They told her family to leave. When her husband resisted, they cut him on the head and neck. He is in the hospital now. She lost her passport in a robbery years ago, so her legal status is unclear. She is waiting for a bus that the Malawian consulate has been arranging—one of thousands of migrants from across the continent who have decided, or been forced to decide, that staying is no longer possible.
The deadline is June 30. That is the date that protesters—led by the anti-migrant group March and March, the opposition party ActionSA, and others—have set for all undocumented migrants to leave South Africa. The marchers carry sticks. They chant "Mabahambe," a Zulu phrase meaning "They must go." Their anger is rooted in something real: South Africa's unemployment rate is 32.7 percent, one of the highest in the world. In the first quarter of 2026 alone, the country lost 350,000 jobs, most of them held by young people. Public services are strained. Schools are overcrowded. Hospital beds are scarce. The country's most developed economy on the continent is also a magnet for people from poorer nations who risk everything to get there, seeking work as security guards, domestic servants, shop workers. The protesters say the system is being abused. The government, they argue, should prioritize its own citizens.
But the protests have turned violent. In May, the Mozambique government said five of its citizens had been killed in xenophobic attacks in Western Cape province. South Africa's foreign minister disputed the number, saying two had died, but the pattern is unmistakable. Videos circulate on social media showing harassment and intimidation. In one, a prominent protester with 1.4 million Facebook followers approaches a man on the roadside, asks his nationality, learns he is Congolese, and tells him: "30 June is the deadline, but it's not that you have to leave on 30 June. Leave now." The videos fuel more hostility. Ghana summoned South Africa's ambassador to demand better protection for its nationals. The fear is palpable and spreading.
What makes this moment particularly dangerous is the historical precedent. In 2008, xenophobic riots killed sixty-two people, including twenty-one South Africans, and forced thousands from their homes. Similar violence erupted in 2015, 2016, and 2019. The warning from one of the main protest organizers—"On 30 June I can't control the people of South Africa"—hangs over the country like a threat.
President Cyril Ramaphosa has pushed back hard. He warned against the "scapegoating of vulnerable people" and announced a five-point strategy: refusing asylum claims from people who traveled through other safe countries, introducing quotas for citizenship naturalization, extending digital IDs to non-citizens, imposing jail terms on employers who hire undocumented migrants at below-minimum wages, and cracking down on corruption within the immigration system. He has also said that no individual or group has the right to demand proof of nationality from people in public spaces, and that the government will act against those who do. "There is no space for xenophobia, racism, sexism, Afrophobia or any other forms of intolerance in South Africa," he said.
Yet the crisis deepens. About 3,500 foreigners have already volunteered to leave through organized repatriations by air and bus. Ghana, Mozambique, Nigeria, and Zimbabwe have all been arranging evacuations. Lines of vehicles are backed up at Mozambique's border. In Johannesburg, excavators are demolishing informal shops on pavements as part of Operation New Broom, an effort to clear what officials call potential "hot spots" for criminals and illegal migrants. Ethiopian migrants watched in horror as their livelihoods were destroyed, though they had been warned.
The human cost is mounting. A Burundian woman with four children, who holds a document recognizing her refugee status, told the BBC she is still being chased away. "I am very afraid for my life," she said. "The children are afraid." A Malawian beauty therapist who has lived in South Africa for sixteen years without legal status pulled her nine-year-old daughter out of school because the family is terrified. A taxi driver asked them for their papers. They sounded different. The fear has become ordinary, woven into the texture of daily life. When the first evacuation bus arrived in Durban on Sunday, the crowds chanted in Zulu: "Siyahamba"—We're leaving. The deadline is approaching, and South Africa is watching to see what happens when it arrives.
Notable Quotes
The people came to my house and told me: 'You must leave.' There were 10 and they were carrying weapons. They cut my husband on his head and his neck.— Estnat Joseph, 36-year-old Malawian migrant
South Africans don't like foreigners, especially Nigerians. South Africa is not a place to be—it's a place you can lose your life at any time.— Benjamin, Nigerian returnee who spent nine years in South Africa
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does South Africa feel so different now than it did a few years ago? The xenophobia didn't start in June.
No, it didn't. But the deadline crystallized something. Before, it was ambient anger. Now it's a countdown. Politicians are using it ahead of elections in November. They're repeating a debunked claim that there are fifteen million undocumented migrants in the country—a lie that keeps resurfacing because it's useful.
Useful for what?
For winning votes. If you can convince people that migrants are the reason you can't find a job, can't get your kids into school, can't see a doctor—then you've got a simple enemy. The real problems are unemployment at 32.7 percent, inequality, failing public services. Those are hard to fix. Migrants are easier to blame.
But some of the anger seems genuine. People are really struggling.
It is genuine. That's what makes it dangerous. The economic pain is real. The resentment is real. What's not real is the idea that removing migrants will solve it. An analyst told the BBC that immigrants take jobs South Africans won't take, or jobs that pay less than the government requires. That's not the same as stealing jobs from citizens.
So what happens on June 30?
Nobody knows. The government is trying to manage it—Ramaphosa has laid out a strategy, the authorities are arresting people, organizing evacuations. But one of the main protest organizers said he can't control what people do that day. That's the terrifying part. The walls are closing in, and people are running.
Are the people in that field in Durban safe?
For now, aid groups are giving them blankets and food. But they're waiting for buses. They want out. When the first evacuation bus came on Sunday, they chanted "We're leaving" in Zulu. That tells you everything about how unsafe they feel.