Afrikaner refugees from South Africa holding American flags arrive, Monday, May 12, 2025, at Dulles International Airport in Dulles, Va. (AP Photo/Julia Demaree Nikhinson)
Recently, 49 South Africans quietly packed their bags, boarded a flight and were granted asylum in the United States. Not because they were stateless, undocumented or fleeing war but because they said they no longer felt safe here. The world noticed, social media stirred and, for a moment, the actions of a few seemed to drown out the quiet resolve of the many.
Let’s be honest: “The 49” sounds less like a historical event and more like a failed sequel to District 9. It’s the kind of film that opens to empty cinemas and a few polite claps at a film festival in Iowa. And yet, somehow, it captured national headlines as if 49 people could declare the end of the South African dream.
But here’s the thing: South Africa didn’t stop when they left.
While we debated their reasons — fear, disillusionment, a longing for certainty — the streets were still swept, classrooms still opened, taxis still hooted and people, millions of them, still chose this place. They chose it not because it’s easy, but because it’s home.
Yes, life in South Africa can be hard. Really hard. We carry the weight of history, the burden of inequality and the daily grind of “making a plan” in the face of load-shedding, potholes, and policy limbo. But we also carry something else — something quietly extraordinary: a kind of stubborn hope; a belief, however battered, that things can be different; that they must be.
And still, despite all of it, people stay. People have stayed. Let’s not forget that when this country was at its worst, many were persecuted, imprisoned, tortured and killed not for what they feared might happen, but for what was happening. And yet they fought to make this place better, not for themselves alone but for generations they might never meet.
Even today, millions live under conditions far worse than those cited by the 49: townships with no running water; the “blokke” without real safety and security; households where hunger is a daily visitor. And yet, they stay. They build. They believe.
Meanwhile, one can only wonder what happens when Donald Trump finally accepts the truth that not all migrants come bearing casseroles and Calvinist charm? What will you, the 49, do when the red caps stop smiling and start asking hard questions about Orania, Afrikaans, and affirmative action — American style? The first sign that not all Americans are buying the persecution story has already arrived. Even the Episcopal Church, hardly known for turning away the weary, declined to assist. Because heritage doesn’t always come with a visa stamp. It lingers in your name, your accent, your Sunday habits. And it’s hard to explain your love for braai or sishanyama when nobody around you knows how to pronounce it.
I was reminded of this truth and beauty of our country in the back seat of an Uber, driven by a man from Rwanda who had every reason to run from his past. “This is the land of opportunity,” he said with a quiet conviction, “if you’re willing to see it.”
That stopped me in my tracks.
Because opportunity, like beauty, often lies in the eye of the beholder, and sometimes the privilege of living here blinds us to the very promise it still holds.
To those 49, I genuinely wish you well. Migration is as old as humanity and if your spirit truly finds peace on the other side of the world, I hope you thrive. But, let’s not crown your exit as noble resistance. Let’s not pretend that leaving is the same as leading.
Leadership looks different here. It looks like a teacher who stays behind after school. A nurse who still shows up an hour before her shift. A small business owner who keeps paying wages even when the books don’t balance. Leadership is the domestic worker who helps raise another family’s children while sending her own to school. It is the everyday commitment to stay and build, again and again.
What’s easy to forget especially when we fixate on who left is what they’ve walked away from. Not just the difficulties, but the beauty; the complex, messy, breathtaking beauty of this country. They’ve left behind mountain and mielie field, heartbreak and healing, struggle and song. They’ve left behind the very identity that made their ancestors trek into unknown lands, not to escape, but to create.
There’s a quiet dignity in staying; in staying when it would be easier to go; in choosing to love a country that doesn’t always love you back in the way you hoped. That’s not resignation. That’s courage.
So, to the millions who remain — black and white alike — thank you. You are the real story. You are not trending, but you are transforming. You are not fleeing, you are forging.
To the 49? No hard feelings. But just know: while you search for green pastures in someone else’s backyard, the soil here, though stubborn, is still rich with possibility. You just have to be willing to dig.
Dr Armand Bam is head of social impact at Stellenbosch Business School.