The brutal assassination of Babita Deokaran was not an isolated crime. It was a symptom. A loud alarm in a system where corruption is not criminal aberration but an ecosystem
Over the first three quarters alone, South Africa lost on average 63 people a day to murder.
At the same time, women’s unemployment remains at 35.9%, compared with 31.0% for men even as labour-market statistics show modest gains later in the year. These are not distant headlines; they are households lives cut short, dreams deferred, dignity under assault.
And yet, some of the loudest voices arguing over violence are fixated on rural tragedies and sensational farm murders. Those are real. They must be heard. But they are only a fraction of a far larger crisis ravaging the urban townships, informal settlements, the overlooked neighbourhoods and everyday communities.
That imbalance in public attention, what gets airtime, what draws outrage, what yields policy reaction, is not harmless. It distorts our sense of urgency. It misdirects empathy. It shapes our responses to violence and inequality as selectively as those who perpetuate it.
So if we are serious about safety, justice, inclusion we must shift the frame.
Because the puzzle of 2025 isn’t just about what broke, but what quietly held on. What didn’t make the evening news. What didn’t draw hashtags. What didn’t make front-page-dominating shock.
It was the teachers who kept classrooms open when budgets threatened to shutter opportunity. Not because of grants, or headlines, or political theatre. Because of something deeper: dignity, solidarity, common humanity. And that, I believe, is the backbone of real resilience.
This point was at the heart of my address at the recent Babita Deokaran Annual Lecture under the sobering theme “From Silence to Justice.”
The brutal assassination of Babita Deokaran was not an isolated crime. It was a symptom. A loud alarm in a system where corruption is not criminal aberration, but an ecosystem.
Yes, corruption kills. But it survives and thrives because both public and private actors collude.
When corrupt tenders are awarded, someone on the private side signs them off. When Personal Protective Equipment (PPE) fraud flourished, it was companies that opened the door and asked: “What can we get away with?” When whistle-blowers are silenced, it is often because state and private greed fused into a force more dangerous than any single wrongdoer.
Business cannot posture as a victim. Too often it has been the author, architect, and amplifier of corruption.
Policies, hotlines, compliance statements, they are not shields. Not when whistle-blowers are protected only by paperwork and not conviction.
So, I pose this question to all business schools, as I often speak of leadership not as title, but as moral imagination: If we graduate leaders fluent in justifying unethical decisions, aren’t we part of the problem?
If you say you honour Babita, then honour her with more than applause. Let the next whistleblower know that doing what is right will be rewarded, not punished. Let justice be more than a word, let it be practice.
To business, to civil society, to every person with influence: this is not time for rhetoric.
Back informal traders, township economies, the invisible small businesses powering communities often ignored.Embrace inclusive hiring. Offer real opportunity to women, youth, people with disability, those marginalised by history and by neglect.
Support access to education, skills, social infrastructure, not as charity, but as investment in dignity, stability and nation-building.
Use networks, capital, voice, influence, to uplift, not exploit.
Because justice isn’t sentimental. It’s structural. And bravery isn’t a moment. It’s a habit.
The headlines will forget the nurse who treated an overdose in an under-resourced township clinic.They’ll forget the spaza shop owner who kept the lights on even as theft rose. They’ll forget the parent who worked two jobs to afford school fees. They’ll forget the neighbour who lent their car to fetch groceries for an elderly villager because taxis had no fuel.
But that is the heartbeat of this country. Leadership doesn’t live only in government. It lives in classrooms. Clinics.
Minibus taxis. Informal shops. Living rooms where people decide to stand, speak up, help someone, demand dignity, not for themselves alone, but for all.
In 2026, let’s be that heartbeat. Let’s prove that collective courage, everyday courage, can outlast cynicism, corruption, and complacency.
Hope isn’t naive. Hope is a strategy. And ordinary citizens are not footnotes in history. We are the plot twist.Armand Bam
Over the first three quarters alone, South Africa lost on average 63 people a day to murder.
At the same time, women’s unemployment remains at 35.9%, compared with 31.0% for men even as labour-market statistics show modest gains later in the year. These are not distant headlines; they are households lives cut short, dreams deferred, dignity under assault.
And yet, some of the loudest voices arguing over violence are fixated on rural tragedies and sensational farm murders. Those are real. They must be heard. But they are only a fraction of a far larger crisis ravaging the urban townships, informal settlements, the overlooked neighbourhoods and everyday communities.
That imbalance in public attention, what gets airtime, what draws outrage, what yields policy reaction, is not harmless. It distorts our sense of urgency. It misdirects empathy. It shapes our responses to violence and inequality as selectively as those who perpetuate it.
So if we are serious about safety, justice, inclusion we must shift the frame.
Because the puzzle of 2025 isn’t just about what broke, but what quietly held on. What didn’t make the evening news. What didn’t draw hashtags. What didn’t make front-page-dominating shock.
It was the teachers who kept classrooms open when budgets threatened to shutter opportunity. Not because of grants, or headlines, or political theatre. Because of something deeper: dignity, solidarity, common humanity. And that, I believe, is the backbone of real resilience.
This point was at the heart of my address at the recent Babita Deokaran Annual Lecture under the sobering theme “From Silence to Justice.”
The brutal assassination of Babita Deokaran was not an isolated crime. It was a symptom. A loud alarm in a system where corruption is not criminal aberration, but an ecosystem.
Yes, corruption kills. But it survives and thrives because both public and private actors collude.
When corrupt tenders are awarded, someone on the private side signs them off. When Personal Protective Equipment (PPE) fraud flourished, it was companies that opened the door and asked: “What can we get away with?” When whistle-blowers are silenced, it is often because state and private greed fused into a force more dangerous than any single wrongdoer.
Business cannot posture as a victim. Too often it has been the author, architect, and amplifier of corruption.
Policies, hotlines, compliance statements, they are not shields. Not when whistle-blowers are protected only by paperwork and not conviction.
So, I pose this question to all business schools, as I often speak of leadership not as title, but as moral imagination: If we graduate leaders fluent in justifying unethical decisions, aren’t we part of the problem?
If you say you honour Babita, then honour her with more than applause. Let the next whistleblower know that doing what is right will be rewarded, not punished. Let justice be more than a word, let it be practice.
To business, to civil society, to every person with influence: this is not time for rhetoric.
Back informal traders, township economies, the invisible small businesses powering communities often ignored.Embrace inclusive hiring. Offer real opportunity to women, youth, people with disability, those marginalised by history and by neglect.
Support access to education, skills, social infrastructure, not as charity, but as investment in dignity, stability and nation-building.
Use networks, capital, voice, influence, to uplift, not exploit.
Because justice isn’t sentimental. It’s structural. And bravery isn’t a moment. It’s a habit.
The headlines will forget the nurse who treated an overdose in an under-resourced township clinic.They’ll forget the spaza shop owner who kept the lights on even as theft rose. They’ll forget the parent who worked two jobs to afford school fees. They’ll forget the neighbour who lent their car to fetch groceries for an elderly villager because taxis had no fuel.
But that is the heartbeat of this country. Leadership doesn’t live only in government. It lives in classrooms. Clinics.
Minibus taxis. Informal shops. Living rooms where people decide to stand, speak up, help someone, demand dignity, not for themselves alone, but for all.
In 2026, let’s be that heartbeat. Let’s prove that collective courage, everyday courage, can outlast cynicism, corruption, and complacency.
Hope isn’t naive. Hope is a strategy. And ordinary citizens are not footnotes in history. We are the plot twist.
Prof Armand Bam is the head of social impact and PGDip NPO Leadership Development at Stellenbosch Business School