Most teachers attempt to grade objectively but many students feel it is unfair. Photo: File
The recent controversy involving allegations of academic misconduct in the marking of students’ work at the University of Cape Town has raised concerns about fairness, transparency and bias in academic assessments. For some students and lecturers, as well as former vice-chancellor Mamokgethi Phakeng, this was a confirmation of what has been long suspected.
In the academic domain, fairness is often promised, but commitment to it is rarely questioned. Students are told rubrics ensure fairness, that assessments are objective and judgments are made based on the strength and quality of their arguments.
But beneath this lies a fragile reality — the quiet and persistent imbalance of power shaped by structural inequalities and by personal beliefs, biases and the illusion of neutrality.
Most teachers attempt to grade objectively but many students feel it is unfair. In South Africa, these concerns are often linked to the country’s historical legacy. Both during and after apartheid, many people from marginalised backgrounds have called for fairness, justice and transformation in the education systems. Protests such as the 2015 #RhodesMustFall and #FeesMustFall movements are examples of students advocating for more equitable and inclusive education. These protests have sparked conversations about student empowerment, decolonised learning and accessible education.
While some progress has been made since then, many inequalities remain alive, especially in how universities value and measure knowledge.
Grading students’ is not only about evaluating their assignments or writing skills, it also involves exercising power over their intellectual labour. The process makes the marker an authority figure who decides what constitutes good thinking, coherent writing and critical analysis. While these terms are presented as if everyone agrees on what they mean, and that anyone’s work can be judged fairly and equally, they are far from being neutral. The question is, who gets to decide what knowledge is legitimate and on what terms.
These terms are not isolated from politics; they are shaped by specific historical events, cultural power structures and intellectual traditions. What many consider academic excellence is often measured through standards that have emerged from Eurocentric epistemology, which prioritises Western notions of rationality and linear arguments.
Although these norms are presented as universal, they reflect a specific cultural and philosophical tradition. In South Africa, like any other post-colonial society, education systems were constructed through the lens of colonial and apartheid power. Knowledge was filtered through elitism, Englishness and white supremacy.
The Bantu Education Act of 1953 (originally proposed in 1951) brought black education under the direct control of the apartheid government and extended racial segregation to the school system. Its goal was clear — to train black students as labourers for a white-dominated economy and society, regardless of individual talent, ambition and intellectual capacity.
Hendrik Verwoerd, then the minister of native affairs and later prime minister, infamously stated in parliament: “There is no space for him [the Bantu] in the European community above certain forms of labour. For this reason, it is of no avail for him to receive training which has its aim in the absorption of the European community, where he cannot be absorbed. Until now he has been subjected to a school system which drew him away from his community and misled him by showing him the greener pastures of European society where he is not allowed to graze.”
This statement reflects a logic of imperialism, where white supremacy was used to control land and labour and systematically destroy black culture, language and knowledge systems.
Even today, more than three decades into democracy, the stubborn legacy of these systems continues to shape what is seen as valid knowledge in universities. It is not uncommon for students who have spent three or four years at university to return to their homes feeling distant, disconnected or “above” those they left behind.
This sense of disconnection is not only personal but reflects what Max Weber described as disenchantment, a product of bureaucratised education that prioritises rationality and abstraction over lived, communal knowledge. In such systems, students often internalise institutional values that distance them from their cultural roots. This is not an accident. As Verwoerd’s last statement above shows, colonial education was designed to break students away from their communities and make them adopt a white, Western way of thinking.
These colonial legacies continue to be embodied by higher education institutions. Different ways of thinking and writing, especially African, indigenous and communal epistemology, is often marginalised. For instance, students who think, write or argue outside Eurocentric lenses or frameworks often find their work not valued or is undermined. Not because it lacks depth or critical insights, but because it doesn’t conform to inherited academic norms.
It’s common that those who challenge these norms and status quo face academic consequences. So, before expressing their dissenting views, students must carefully consider their social position in the academic hierarchy because, in many cases, academic consequences lead to socio-economic consequences. It is not just about marks, it is about funding, graduation and future opportunities. This constitutes soft censorship and contradicts what education is supposed to be — a space of open dialogues and critical thought. These forms of marginalisation take place in silence, beneath the surface of institutional promises of inclusion, fairness and transparency.
When a student is penalised for not writing in polished academic English, or for grounding their arguments in experience rather than abstract theory, the issue is no longer about grammar, structure or even intellectual depth. It becomes about what kinds of knowledge are recognised as legitimate in academic spaces and which are dismissed as inferior or unacceptable.
As the writer and thinker David Fryer puts it, this is like telling a student, “This is how you are supposed to feel pain. You’re not supposed to feel pain that way. This is how you must define your pain, and you must prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that your pain is real.”
If justice is to have any meaning in academic settings, it should begin with intellectual humility. Institutions and lecturers must acknowledge that their methods of evaluating knowledge are not the only valid ones. They should be open to listening to and learning from different epistemologies, such as indigenous, African and communal perspectives.
Also, these epistemologies should not be viewed only as alternatives or examples of diversity; rather, they should be recognised as legitimate and valuable ways of understanding the world. True academic freedom begins when all forms of knowledge are given equal space.
Samkelo Nyakeni is a postgraduate sociology student at the University of the Free State. His research and writing focus on critical reflections on justice, fairness and the structural inequalities that shape our everyday lives.