“Cry, My Beloved Nation,” to loosely quote Alan Paton. These phrases reverberate as soon as once more — not from the pages of a novel, however from the center of a grieving nation, crying out for justice for Cwecwe.
JUSTICE FOR CWECWE. JUSTICE FOR CWECWE. JUSTICE FOR CWECWE!
This column typically serves as an area for religious dialog — a spot the place activism, training and consciousness intersect with the sacred. Whether or not we’re talking of land, ritual, reform or the soul of our folks, spirituality is the through-line. And right this moment, that religious thread is grief.
On the centre of this second is Cwecwe — a baby. A baby whose innocence was violated, not by strangers within the shadows, however by adults entrusted along with her care. A baby who needed to be rescued not by methods designed to guard her, however by a mom whose alarm needed to be sounded via social media earlier than justice even started to stir.
Let’s sit with that for a second. Let’s sit with the truth that if her mom had not made noise, the violence in opposition to Cwecwe would doubtless have been buried — and people accountable, together with the enablers, would nonetheless be shifting freely amongst us, cloaked in silence and guarded by institutional apathy.
Cwecwe isn’t just a baby. She is an emblem. A mirror. A wake-up name. Her story forces us to confront how establishments — colleges, church buildings, initiation colleges, even authorities entities — have, time and time once more, chosen to answer abuse with silence. With inaction. With complicity.
