This isn’t a political analysis of what unfolded at the University of Fort Hare in the past few weeks. It’s a reflection from a PhD student navigating the quiet chaos of research, waiting for ethics renewal, for a bursary to clear, and for one last stretch of data collection before the year ends.
In early October, the University of Fort Hare (UFH) suspended operations across its campuses after a wave of violent protests and arson attacks.
Reports estimate the damage at between R250m and R500m.
University management described this as “reckless and dangerous actions” after Student Representative Council (SRC) election disputes and governance tensions.
Vice-chancellor Prof Sakhela Buhlungu reaffirmed: “We will finish the academic year, we will do it for all our students.”
The destruction is sobering: a brand-new student clinic, R20m in upgraded laboratories, the staff centre and large sections of the main administration building reduced to ashes.
Final-year students were identified as high-risk of not graduating if recovery efforts lag.
But as I followed these developments, I couldn’t help but think about another group; those of us completing postgraduate research.
When universities go up in smoke, it’s not just infrastructure that burns; it’s time, opportunity and momentum.
Most postgraduate students, those pursuing NQF Level 9 and 10 qualifications are mostly working moms and dads, industry professionals, or academics balancing multiple worlds.
We chose one of the most demanding intellectual journeys possible, but it runs parallel to the journey of life: jobs, children, dependants, grief, mortgages and deadlines.
When a university crisis like Fort Hare’s happens, it doesn’t just delay classes.
It derails carefully-timed research plans, freezes access to data, halts ethics renewals and suspends bursary disbursements. The ripple effect is enormous.
For those who rely on these funds for survival and for whom a single semester’s delay can mean losing employment opportunities or family stability, the cost is not merely academic; it’s existential.
We have postgraduate students in the natural sciences, in agriculture, physics, chemistry and environmental studies whose work depended on comparative studies, soil samples and laboratory experiments now reduced to ash.
Months of research meticulously logged, data carefully collected and experiments calibrated for continuity have been wiped out.
For many, it is not just a thesis that’s been lost, but the momentum of years of sacrifice.
Then there are undergraduate students who had hoped to transition into postgraduate studies next year, funded by NSFAS, only to find that their progress has been delayed and their funding clocks will not pause in sympathy.
NSFAS will not reset its timelines because a campus burned.
A year of sweat and tears has been suspended, students waiting for senate approval to graduate at NQF Level 10, the culmination of long and lonely doctoral journeys, now face another indefinite wait.
And much of this loss, tragically, stems from student leadership that seems to have shifted its focus from serving its constituents to pursuing the politics of self-preservation.
As an former SRC member myself (University of the Free State, 2012), I deeply understand the frustrations student leaders face.
Student leaders often find themselves caught between the legitimate needs of their constituencies and the slow, bureaucratic machinery of institutional governance.
They deal with angry peers, disillusioned workers and administrative opacity, often with little real authority to change things immediately.
I empathise with that; I’ve lived that tension between advocacy and realism, the sleepless nights before meetings, the pressure to perform diplomacy without power, and the heartbreak of knowing that progress often moves slower than protest.
True leadership in that space demands maturity, negotiation and a willingness to serve beyond applause, even when one’s own community misunderstands the quiet work of bridge-building.
However, I also find myself questioning how feasible some of the University of Fort Hare student leaders' demands are, especially in a university already stretched thin by recurring violence, infrastructure decay and funding pressures.
The demand for senior-management resignations, for instance, may not solve systemic governance issues.
Calls for immediate housing expansion or blanket fee cancellations must be weighed against national budget allocations and the already precarious financial state of historically disadvantaged universities.
And yet, the student leaders know these dynamics. They understand the constraints of higher education financing and the fragility of institutional recovery.
Which then begs the question, why this response? Why the resort to strategies that risk eroding what little stability remains?
Why the apparent blindness to the broader student body whose futures depend on the very systems now being burned to the ground?
The tragedy is not in their anger, it is in the misdirection of it. Leadership, especially student leadership, should illuminate pathways forward, not extinguish them in the fire of reaction.
Student leaders, like management, are part of the same ecosystem and when the institution burns, everyone loses.
Leadership collapse benefits no-one, least of all the students. What’s needed is not just protest but strategic advocacy, pressure that translates into structural reform, not destruction.
When I look around, I ask: what support do postgraduate students receive?
Institutions speak about “research excellence” and “academic support”, but too often these remain slogans.
Consider the 2024 case at North-West University, where master’s student Dibona Peggy Matladi was told she had passed, only to have her result reversed after a third examiner was added.
The emotional toll must have been devastating and the trust in the system eroded.
Research has long confirmed that the struggles faced by postgraduate students in SA are neither isolated nor new.
A 2024 study by Oratilwe Penwell Mokoena and Solly Matshonisa Seeletse, titled Supervisors do not Supervise: Cases of Some Frustrated Postgraduate Students in Higher Education Institutions, exposes the reality of neglected supervision, delayed feedback and power imbalances that drive many students to the brink of dropout.
The tragedy is not in their [students] anger, it is in the misdirection of it. Leadership, especially student leadership, should illuminate pathways forward, not extinguish them in the fire of reaction
Similarly, Sibonelo Mbanjwa (2025) in his article titled: Policy gaps in postgraduate supervision: An evaluation of university guidelines and enforcement using a single case study design, highlights how most universities have robust supervision policies on paper, but enforcement remains inconsistent, leaving students without real recourse when supervision breaks down.
At the University of Fort Hare, postgraduate communication during this crisis, I feel has been generic: “all students” are covered under recovery plans, but there is little mention of specific continuity measures, ethics committee responsiveness, data collection continuity or research funding assurances.
The assumption seems to be that we will simply wait, as though our timelines are elastic and our dependants imaginary.
It’s time universities recognise that postgraduate students are not afterthoughts.
We are already contributing to the South African economy as professionals, as lecturers, as innovators.
Our postgraduate degrees are not just academic exercises; they are economic catalysts.
A delayed PhD completion means delayed promotions, delayed professional registration, delayed publications and ultimately, delayed economic output.
Each postponed thesis represents stalled knowledge production. In a country fighting unemployment and economic stagnation, this is not trivial.
So, when institutions rebuild after crises, their first instinct is to prioritise undergraduates.
That’s understandable but postgraduate students cannot continue being invisible collateral.
We deserve explicit inclusion in recovery frameworks and emergency planning.
If the University of Fort Hare or any institution facing disruption wants to truly preserve academic continuity, it must:
- Fast-track postgraduate ethics renewals through emergency online committees;
- Guarantee bursary payment continuity, even when offices are closed;
- Communicate transparently about data collection, supervision and submission timelines;
- Maintain supervisor-student engagement through digital channels; and
- Track and publish postgraduate impact data, proving that “we will finish for all our students” truly includes us.
I write this not as a detached observer but as someone who knows what waiting feels like, waiting for ethics clearance, for funding transfers, for a supervisor’s feedback, for access to research sites.
Each week of waiting compounds anxiety. Each silence stretches the mental toll.
We often romanticise research, but for many of us it is survival work tied to contracts, families, rent and reputation. When the university stalls, so does life.
As a former SRC member, I stand by the belief that student activism is vital, it keeps universities accountable.
But I also believe that destruction should never be the language of transformation.
When we burn institutions, we burn futures, not management’s future, but our own.
Universities must rise above crisis management and move towards compassionate planning. Planning that includes the postgraduate researcher in the recovery blueprint.
Because when postgraduate students falter, SA loses intellectual capital, economic energy and intergenerational progress.
So, yes, Buhlungu; finish the academic year for all your students.
But in that “all”, don’t forget us: the invisible scholars waiting for clearance, for funding, for one last interview. We are part of that “all”.
And without us, the recovery is incomplete.
Busisiwe Madikizela-Theu is a PhD scholar at the University of Fort Hare. She previously served on the SRC at the University of the Free State (2012). Her research explores participatory approaches to community engagement, social justice, and inclusive frameworks for rural development.
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