From Operation Dudula to Tribalism: The Dangerous Road We’re Paving for Ourselves
By Noko Mabofa Maleka |Insight jozi news
The fear that keeps me awake at night is that after the so-called “success” of Operation Dudula, South Africa will be forced to confront an even uglier demon—tribalism.
I am often condemned for my stance against Dudula. Yet, I cannot remain silent when I see a dangerous shift in our society, where some South Africans—particularly black South Africans—are beginning to negotiate in their minds that xenophobic attacks and hate speech against fellow Africans might somehow be justified. That thought alone chills me to the bone.
It baffles me that those who share the same skin tone, the same history of struggle, and the same scars of oppression could support movements rooted in hatred and division. We know—better than anyone—the conditions that have driven our brothers and sisters from across the continent to our shores. These Africans have come not to steal our prosperity, but to share in the crumbs of a bread we ourselves are still searching for. We don’t even know who ate the loaf.
I have written, spoken, and publicly condemned Operation Dudula’s criminal acts. And yet, my greater fear is this: after the xenophobic dust settles, we will find ourselves choking on the smoke of tribalism. We will turn from blaming “foreigners” to blaming each other—Zulu against Xhosa, Sotho against Tswana, Venda against Pedi. We will carve our unity into pieces, just as our colonisers once did.
What stings most is our double standard. As black South Africans, we can erupt with rage over a single racist tweet from a fellow black man who dares use the K-word—but somehow we can rationalise an organised mob hunting down African migrants in the streets. If that is not hypocrisy, what is it?
I’ve seen tribalism up close, and it is never noble, never righteous. Years ago, I worked in the Limpopo mines in Burgersfort. Every day, workers who weren’t from Limpopo—especially those from the Free State and Eastern Cape—faced toxic hostility. Some even died. And, disturbingly, this was often treated like a joke.
When I took a vacation job in KwaZulu-Natal, I was called a mfene. People questioned why I had travelled so far just to work there. My Zulu was terrible, and at one point, I feared for my life. That fear taught me that tribalism is not just an ugly sentiment—it is a deadly disease.
And yet, across Africa, the story is the same. From Cape to Cairo, we are ruled by governments and leaders who have long stopped caring for the people who put them in power. We are fed lies because lies are easy to swallow, especially when they tickle the ear and absolve us from facing the truth.
History is littered with the consequences of our divisions. In Zimbabwe, the Shona massacred the Ndebele in the Gukurahundi. Decades later, are the Shona any better off? Did such bloodshed feed the hungry or free the oppressed? No—it merely deepened the wounds of a nation.
If we do not confront the cancer of xenophobia now, it will metastasise into tribalism. And when that day comes, the enemy will not be the “foreigner” at our door—it will be our neighbour, our co-worker, even our family member.
Operation Dudula may claim to protect South Africa, but if its spirit of hatred takes root in our communities, it will destroy us long before it saves us.
