Pretoria woke up late last month to yet another tragedy. The killing of two women whose lives were cut short because of violence perpetuated by a man.
Their names now join the endless roll call of victims whose blood stains our conscience. The public outrage will, predictably, flare and fade.
Hashtags will trend, vigils will be held, and then the country moves on silently, until the next woman’s name trends for the same reason.
But beneath that silence lies a deeper sickness, one that our universities, communities and institutions quietly reproduce every day. When such tragedies become predictable, it’s a sign that the problem is no longer episodic. It’s systemic.
SA is not merely facing incidents of violence. We are living through a pandemic of femicide and sexual victimization.
In research we have conducted in KwaZulu-Natal’s universities, we found that between 20% and 25% of female students experience sexual assault during their studies, yet most never report it.
The perpetrators are not strangers lurking in dark alleys — they are classmates, lecturers, boyfriends and supervisors. In other words, they are us.
What happens on campuses mirrors what happens in our neighborhoods and homes.
As we have found, universities are microcosms of the larger community, carrying with them the patriarchy, alcohol culture and moral indifference that encourage gender-based violence (GBV).
Therefore, what transpired in Pretoria is not a mere outcome of a momentary rage, but a result of decades of socialisation that normalises male dominance and female submission.
One of the most disturbing findings from recent South African research we have conducted is not only the prevalence of violence, but the silence that follows it.
Our research describes what we have called “suffering in silence”. This is a rational choice made by victims who have lost faith in the justice system and their institutions.
Women choose not to report abuse for multiple, painful reasons. These include fear of retaliation, shame, stigma, disbelief and the perception that reporting will change nothing.
In universities some perpetrators are members of student leadership structures or academic staff. Reporting them may mean failing a course, losing accommodation or being ostracised.
In society women fear that police will laugh at them, force them to relive the victimisation by asking invasive questions or demand proof of violence impossible to produce.
This silence is not cowardice. It is learnt despair. Each unpunished case teaches the next woman that speaking out is futile.
The result is what scholars call a culture of impunity, where perpetrators act with the confidence of men who know they will never face consequences.
It is easy to treat GBV as a law-and-order issue. It is not. It is a systemic moral failure. Universities, churches, workplaces and government departments all function as patriarchal spaces that excuse, minimise or bureaucratise abuse.
In one KwaZulu-Natal study, we found campus protective units meant to report GBV to be inoperative, understaffed and often intimidating to the victims. Security guards had no training to handle sexual-assault cases.
Senior officials feared negative publicity more than they feared the harm done to their students.
This mirrors the national picture — from police stations that dismiss rape complaints to court rooms where survivors are cross-examined as if they were the accused.
As long as institutions prioritise reputation management over justice, they remain complicit.
The same social structures that protect a powerful lecturer accused of harassment also protect a violent partner in a Pretoria suburb.
The tragedy is not that violence happens, it is that our systems keep allowing it. If violence is learnt, it can also be unlearnt.
Our ongoing research argues for integrating sex and consent education into all first-year university curricula as a national imperative. This is not about teaching biology; it is about teaching boundaries, respect and empathy.
Many perpetrators and victims appear not to understand what constitutes consent or violation.
Such education must go beyond lecture halls. It should be woven into community policing, church youth programmes and workplace induction sessions.
Every young man must learn that masculinity is not entitlement. Every young woman must learn that her “no” requires no explanation.
Declaring GBV a national emergency is not just a symbolic act; it is a call to mobilise every level of society.
It means treating gendered violence with the same seriousness as any other public crisis that threatens the nation’s stability and security.
Pretoria’s recent killings reveal the need for safety measures that cannot be outsourced to police alone. It is a shared civic duty.
Local councils, universities and residents’ associations should treat urban design, lighting, transport and patrols as part of gender justice.
To end the scourge of GBV South Africa needs less rhetoric. There is an urgent emergency for more infrastructure and resources of care.
As a country we must invest in a co-ordinated, evidence-based response to GBV. This begins with the establishment of survivor-centred reporting units at every university and municipality, staffed by trained counsellors and legal officers operating around the clock to provide immediate, sensitive support.
Equally vital is the integration of compulsory consent and gender-rights education into all tertiary curricula and civic programmes, ensuring that young people understand respect, boundaries and equality from the outset.
Urban and campus spaces must also be reimagined through safe-campus and safe-city designs that improve lighting, transport security and surveillance in high-risk zones, creating environments where women can move without fear.
To prevent re-traumatisation, the state and private sector should fund psychosocial and legal aid services that accompany survivors throughout the reporting and recovery process.
Finally, real accountability must follow. Institutions should be required to publish annual public audits of GBV cases, disciplinary outcomes and prevention budgets, making transparency a cornerstone of justice.
GBV is not an inevitable feature of our culture; it is a learnt behaviour sustained by silence and impunity.
Breaking that cycle begins when we name the problem not as “women’s issues” but as a national emergency, requiring political will, educational reform and moral courage.
Until then the streets of Pretoria and every city in South Africa will continue to echo with the unheeded cries of women who die waiting for us to care and act.
Dr Mandisa Makhaye is a senior lecturer in the department of criminal justice at the University of Zululand. She reflects on her ongoing research on gender-based violence.
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