Are we learning to love corruption?
This wonderful Madam and Eve cartoon got me thinking… Do South Africans have a weird version of Stockholm Syndrome?
For those unfamiliar with the term, it’s used to describe the psychological coping mechanism people can develop during prolonged periods of trauma or abuse, where they actually start to feel sympathy or even affection for their captors or abusers.
It takes its name from a bank robbery in Stockholm in 1973. During a 6-day standoff with police, many hostages started to feel sympathetic towards their captors – to the point where some refused to later testify against them in court and even raised money for their defence!
So, why do I think some South Africans might have developed this strange but somewhat understandable trait?
Because we’ve lived with the fallout from corruption for so long, we’re starting to make it work for us.
Now before you jump to the (completely erroneous) conclusion that I’ve finally gone over to the dark side, let me give you a few examples to illustrate what I mean.
During the prolonged periods of loadshedding we’ve endured on and off for years, many enterprising individuals devised ways to make money from the problem.
Traffic lights not working at major intersections in rush hour? Cue Hi-Viz-wearing unofficial traffic cops, directing vehicles with surprising and commendable efficiency. Frustrated motorists were only too happy to pop a few Rands into their outstretched hands in return.
An article in the Daily Maverick in November last year introduced us to Sifiso Ntuli, from the Inanda informal settlement northwest of Durban. He said load shedding meant an accidental bounty for him and other homeless people, who could make up to R500 a day directing traffic.
“Those motorists travel this route every weekday [and] had become used to us,” says another informal traffic official, Sandile Sibaya, who made anywhere from R250 to R400 a day.
“If they didn’t toss coins and notes, they gave us food, fruit or cold drinks. It felt so good because we were providing a community service. We were so successful that the real traffic officials became jealous of us.
“After the electricity was restored, I tried to look for a job, but I was unsuccessful. I had to start collecting cardboard and other stuff to sell so that I can buy food.”
Here’s another example:
A lack of road maintenance, which, in many instances, stems from corruption within local municipalities, provided significant accidental employment for many who were previously struggling to feed their families.
Former South African Road Federation president Mutshutshu Nxumalo said that while our road network is one of our country’s greatest assets, only 5% its costs are covered by the national fiscus.
“Sanral is doing good work, but they can’t do it on their own,” he says. “There is an imbalance between the understanding of what needs to be achieved and the political will. We have legislation but the wrong leadership.”
I’ve read reliable news reports stating it can cost between R2000 and R3000 to fix a single pothole – and up to 18 times more if a section of road is so badly potholed that a much bigger rehabilitation is needed.
With estimates putting the number of potholes on South African roads north of 25 million, it’s hardly surprising that corruption-riddled municipalities can’t find the money to repair them.
This provides a perfect opportunity for informal “pothole repairers” who independently fix potholes on roads, usually without any official permits or contracts.
In areas where government infrastructure maintenance is conspicuous by its absence, these people make a living from handouts from grateful motorists – it’s infinitely cheaper to tip a “pothole activist” R50 or even R100 than to replace a tyre or rim.
And because they mainly use basic tools and whatever filler material they can readily get their hands on, the repairs, although well-intentioned, are not usually very long-lasting. This means the unofficial road workers cannily ensure they have an ongoing supply of work.
There are so many other examples I could give you, but there is a more serious side to the corruption and/or lack of competence or interest that has created these informal lines of employment for a few resourceful individuals.
The issue is, that while South Africans in general have black belts in “making a plan” we’re ultimately all just putting lipstick on a pig. Rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, as my auntie used to say.
In other words, we learning to live with the consequences of corruption instead of trying to rid our country of them.
And we’re worrying good at it.
While some direct traffic and fix potholes, others put solar panels on their roofs, opt for private education and healthcare, or, if all else fails, “pack for Perth.”
What we not very good at is tackling the root cause of the problem.
Some, like the informal entrepreneurs, have no real interest in doing so, because life presents more opportunities when things don’t work than when they do.
Others, who are fortunate to have the means to avoid relying on the government for basic necessities, pay fortunes for private alternatives.
None of which is helping to rid South Africa of the corruption that, while some are admittedly grateful for – is slowly destroying us as a country.
Let’s not succumb to Stockholm Syndrome. Let’s not sympathise with our captors and abusers so much that we stop realising we’re being abused.
If we work together to find ways to end corruption, we will help reduce unemployment to levels where people don’t have to rely on load shedding and lack of basic infrastructure maintenance to earn a living.
The South African Reserve Bank estimates that in 2022, loadshedding alone cost our country over R40 billion.
Imagine if even a quarter of that had been spent on job creation.
A study by The Conversation found that load shedding was associated with a 2.6% lower chance of being employed, 1.3% fewer working hours per week and 1.7% lower real monthly earnings.
The higher the stage, the greater the effect. For instance, stage 3 was associated with 1.9% lower employment, compared to 3.6% for stages 4 and 5 and almost 6% for stage 6.
Of course, currently, load shedding is mercifully rare, but I for one don’t trust the situation will last. 2023 was our worst year on record for rotational blackouts, but it followed several years where they were much less frequent and severe.
And even though the lights are currently on, we now have the spectre of a water crisis looming, so we’re effectively out of the frying pan and into the fire.
It’s time to step up our actions before we all get seriously burned.
(Cartoon included below)