Love must be practised, not preached

There are conversations that end when the words run out and then there are those that linger longer, echoing in your spirit, unsettling your certainty and calling you to account. My recent conversation with Giuliana Masini and Maetsane Otilda Mamogale was the latter. I walked into the meeting expecting inspiration; I walked out with questions — deep, uncomfortable, necessary questions — about what it truly means to contribute to a better society from whatever station we occupy.

Perhaps it was the timing. Our meeting coincided with the Easter season, a period that invites reflection on sacrifice, service and renewal. It also marked a significant milestone: 40 years since Ms Masini, then a 33-year-old woman and already a member of the Community of Jesus Lay Missionaries, arrived in South Africa in March 1986, at the height of the state of emergency. Both she, now 73, and Mamogale, now 79, have walked a path of service that quietly challenges the noise of our modern lives.

Their story begins not in comfort but in conviction. They arrived in Oukasie township during one of the most turbulent periods in our country’s history. There was no promise of safety, no guarantee of success, only a calling. Listening to them, I was struck not by grand claims or heroic language but by a simple, unwavering posture: they came to serve. And they stayed.

One line by Ms Masini has not left me since: “Love must be practised, not preached.” It sounds simple, almost obvious but in their lives it is anything but. It is a daily discipline, a conscious choice, a quiet rebellion against indifference. It is love that wakes up early, that shows up when it is inconvenient, that stays when it would be easier to leave. It reminded me of a recent conversation with Professor Bonang Mohale, who said: “You have to love your people to lead them.” And perhaps that is the deeper truth: leadership without love becomes control but leadership rooted in love becomes service, dignity and transformation.

As I listened, I found myself reflecting on Easter, not as a holiday but as a living message. The story of Christ is one of emptying oneself, of choosing service over status, of embracing suffering with purpose. Easter reminds us that sacrifice is not the end but the passage to renewal; that what is broken can be restored; that what seems final is often only the beginning. It is also a profound call to solidarity: to stand with others in their pain, to carry one another through suffering and to recognise that no one rises alone. Mamogale spoke of this with a calm clarity: she sees herself as part of the suffering of the people — not above it, not observing it but within it. That, perhaps, is the most radical form of leadership.

“We often speak about changing the world,” I found myself thinking, “but the real question is whether we are willing to be changed by the world we encounter.”

Their work is not built on scale but on significance. They spoke of orphanages, sewing projects and their work in different communities. They also shared a project they are funding for the first time, Phetolo ya Botshelo, focused on supporting learners with academic comprehension difficulties. They spoke of dignity not as an abstract ideal but as a daily practice: a meal that nourishes, a skill that restores pride, a moment of care that reminds a child that they matter.

“We don’t do big things,” they said. And yet, everything about their work feels immense.

There were threads everywhere in our conversation — threads that could be pulled into policy debates, economic strategies or social programmes. The question of sustainability, for instance, emerged sharply. Social grants, while necessary, cannot be the only answer. “We must meet families halfway,” they said. There must be an expectation of participation, contribution and shared responsibility. Even in poverty, there must be pathways to dignity.

Another thread was the role of grandmothers — those quiet pillars of our communities who carry the burden of raising grandchildren, often with little support. “Give more to the grandmothers,” they suggested. It was not said as a complaint but as a practical insight rooted in lived experience.

And then there was the matter of poverty itself. They spoke of it not only as a material condition but as a spiritual one: a poverty of hope, belief and possibility. Easter, in this context, becomes more than a theological concept; it becomes a lived reality. Resurrection is not just about rising from the dead; it is about rising from despair.

“Hope is not something we wait for,” I reflected, “it is something we must choose to build, even in the smallest acts.”

Perhaps the most piercing part of our conversation was their reflection on young people. “We do not listen to young people enough,” they said. In a society that is quick to label and judge, we have constructed an image of youth that is often negative, limiting and unfair. Yet, in their work, they see something different: potential, resilience and a deep yearning to be heard.

Their message was simple but profound: listen. Not to respond, not to correct but to understand — with compassion, not judgement.

As I left, I was struck by a quiet discomfort. In a world that often celebrates visibility, recognition and scale, here were two women who have spent decades doing the work — without fanfare, headlines or applause. And yet, their impact is undeniable.

It forced me to ask: what does it mean to leave something behind? Not in terms of legacy as we often define it — in titles, achievements or material success — but in the lives we touch, the dignity we restore and the hope we ignite.

This reminded me that the true measure of our lives is not what we accumulate, but what we leave in the hearts of others when we are no longer there.

This is what stayed with me: not answers, but questions; not conclusions but a call.

A call to practise love, not merely speak of it.
A call to serve, not to be served.
A call to listen, especially to those we have overlooked.
A call to contribute, from whatever station we occupy.

Because in the end, building a better society is not the responsibility of a few. It is the calling of us all.

And perhaps, just perhaps, it begins with something as simple — and as difficult — as choosing, every day, to love in action.

Sello Hatang is the executive director of Re Hata Mmoho.