This is not a story about how I met feminism. This is a story of naming the fire in my belly. The story of naming the ripples in my chest.
This is not a story about how I met feminism. This is a story of naming the fire in my belly. The story of naming the ripples in my chest.
As a young woman growing up under the most progressive constitution on the continent and where the majority of the people drown due to systematic inequality, I often wonder how the women of 1956 organised themselves without social media.
“We, the people of South Africa, recognise the injustices of our past; honour those who suffered for justice and freedom in our land; respect those who have worked to build and develop our country; and believe that South Africa belongs to all who live in it, united in our diversity.
Internet access has been declared as a basic human right by the United Nations in 2016. Two years later, in South Africa despite all the promises made about the “New Dawn” and the righteous “Thuma Mina” chants, we are yet to have a real conversation around the #DataMustFall campaign.
Imagine living in a world where you ask yourself on a daily basis why your existence is significantly harder and more challenging purely based on your sex. Do not get me wrong, my level of peace about being blessed with womanhood far outweighs the amount of anxiety a person should have living and protecting this gift.
The bottom line is: decriminalisation of sex work and the violation of sex workers is not an issue for us self-proclaimed feminists. No matter how you spin shit and whatever beautiful form it takes after, it will still be and smell like shit.