How can one rationalise punishing miners in such a manner—miners who, in many cases, are themselves economic refugees from within South Africa who are dispossessed in their own land, asks Gillian Schutte.
Image: IOL
By Gillian Schutte
On January 13, under the anxious gaze of the community members of Stilfontein, South Africa, a disturbing scene played out that might have leapt from the pages of Joseph Conrad. The clank of a metal cage signalled the arrival of more people—exhausted survivors, limp bodies—brought to the surface from a gold mine that authorities have besieged since August last year. According to an official police statement released hours ago, 36 corpses have been pulled out over the past two days, while 82 survivors emerged, only to be arrested on charges of illegal mining and, in some cases, illegal immigration.
These numbers tell a partial story of desperation and horror, but they barely scratch the surface of the moral quandary swirling around the events in Stilfontein. The siege itself has been lauded by government ministers as a necessary response to “a war on the economy”, with illegal mining cited as a 60-billion-rand-a-year haemorrhage of South Africa’s resources. In the words of Gwede Mantashe, the minister overseeing mining, it is an urgent national crisis that demands a robust clampdown. Yet, as footage emerged on Monday of emaciated miners staggering through dark tunnels, dragging out their dead, one must ask: at what point does a clampdown turn into cruelty?
Since August, police have effectively encircled the perimeter of this disused mine, cutting off food and water supplies to starve out anyone inside. Government officials, including the Minister in the Presidency Khumbudzo Ntshavheni, made it plain in November: “We are not sending help—we will smoke them out.” For months, that statement hovered over the bleak site like a curse. Scores of men—many from neighbouring African nations—were left to subsist on whatever they could scavenge within the collapsing shafts. Such conditions, by some accounts, drove them to the outer limits of human survival.
Journalists and community members who tried to approach the mine entrance were often blocked or rebuffed. Officials insisted it was a matter of state security, urging patience. Yet whispers of unimaginable acts began to circulate. There were murmurs of cannibalism, or at least the fear of it, stoked by rumours that the scarcity of food had become so severe that the living might feed on the dead. The notion seems too gruesome, too primal, to contemplate in what is ostensibly a modern setting—just 150 kilometres from Johannesburg. But as with all taboos, if it did indeed occur, it reflects not some inherent savagery in those trapped, but the extremes to which they were driven by a siege that offered no quarter.
January 14 stands as a turning point. Reporters at the scene described a metal cage repeatedly ferrying men and bodies to the surface, day and night, for the last 48 hours. A Reuters team witnessed one miner so frail he had to be carried on a stretcher; others, painfully thin, sat on the ground in handcuffs, overshadowed by uniformed police. The official numbers—36 dead, 82 alive—were rattled off as if they were statistics in an ongoing campaign. Meanwhile, rescue operations continue deeper underground, where hundreds more individuals are said to remain, along with dozens more corpses.
The government’s stance frames these men as criminals, complicit in a large-scale illicit trade in precious metals. The impetus for such an offensive is obvious: illegal miners, or “zama zamas,” do operate in defunct mine shafts across the country. They risk their lives to glean whatever gold might remain, often feeding shadowy syndicates that thrive on cheap labour. Estimates suggest illicit mining is a major drain on South Africa’s economy, fuelling black-market smelting operations and cross-border trafficking. Here in Stilfontein, the state decided the only viable solution was to “smoke them out” by denying them the very means of survival.
Yet how can one rationalise punishing miners in such a manner—miners who, in many cases, are themselves economic refugees from within South Africa who are dispossessed in their own land. Others are from Zimbabwe, Mozambique, or Lesotho, drawn here out of dire poverty? The moral pivot hinges on whether we regard them solely as criminals or also as casualties of an exploitative global order. In effect, the clampdown at Stilfontein emerges as a microcosm of South Africa’s broader battle with poverty, migration, and the long shadow of extractive capitalism. For years, various mines in the region have been abandoned by formal companies once large-scale operations became unprofitable.
Little to no thought was given to rehabilitation or community welfare, leaving behind a dark labyrinth where desperate men might eke out a livelihood. In many ways, this entire episode reads like a modern retelling of Heart of Darkness, not in some remote jungle, but in the dusty heart of a mining town. We, on the surface, never ventured into the shafts ourselves; we only have glimpses from footage and official updates. Yet those glimpses are enough to conjure a narrative of dread and moral ambiguity. The physical darkness of the mine shafts parallels the moral and psychological shadows stretching from the corridors of government all the way to international black markets in precious metals. This is not a comfortable tale of villains and victims. It is an unsettling panorama of exploitation that continues in plain sight.
The South African government insists that the crackdown is necessary and that the blame for any fatalities lies squarely with the miners and the syndicates that back them. But we cannot ignore the fact that official agencies deliberately cut off essential supplies for months, allowing famine and thirst to fester below. Such tactics resemble siege warfare more than a law enforcement operation. The men who finally emerged—if they are indeed guilty of illegal activity—will now face prosecution. However, no public statements so far suggest there will be any accountability for the method used, nor for the 36 who returned as corpses.
Meanwhile, as the body count accumulates, we learn of more arrests—82 individuals already carted off for processing. Their alleged crime is real. Yet, in the face of such a protracted and merciless siege, one wonders: does moral culpability end with the miners themselves?
The X corridors twitter with delight at the scandal of cannibalism, many using this imagery to reinforce their internal belief in the barbarism of foreign nationals or black bodies in general. But are the real cannibals only those trapped below if, in their extremity, they truly resorted to the taboo of human flesh? Or do we locate cannibalism in a broader system that devours the most vulnerable in the pursuit of economic advantage? When public officials adopt the language of “smoking them out,” it becomes difficult to maintain the illusion that we are witnessing a measured, humanitarian approach to law enforcement.
Consider, too, the families who wait outside the lines of police tape. Some only discovered their loved ones were in the mine after pleas for help reached them through circuitous channels. Others watched the drama unfold on news broadcasts—footage of paramedics carrying stretchers, the pained moans of survivors. Communities have asked: why did it take so long for rescue efforts to commence in any meaningful way? If the state had the means to extract men and bodies for the sake of an arrest, was there not also a moral obligation to provide relief earlier, to spare those whose only aim might have been a meagre income?
What emerges, ultimately, is a haunting tableau. If the economy were truly at war, then Stilfontein’s shafts became its frontline trenches. Those who survive ascend to face handcuffs. The bodies of the dead testify to months of what can only be called siege tactics. Police say rescue operations will continue for days, with daily updates on the number of men, alive or not, forced to the surface. As we bear witness to these revelations, we must ask whether the approach taken here—denying basic necessities, waiting for forced surrender—sets a precedent for dealing with social and economic crises to come.
Heart of darkness is a phrase that once evoked wild frontiers and colonial cruelty. Yet in Stilfontein, the darkness is disturbingly close to home, cultivated by the interplay of national policy, corporate abandonment, and human desperation. We have not ventured into those perilous tunnels ourselves. But the images and updates offer more than enough insight into a reality that has turned men into wraiths, forced them into acts beyond our worst nightmares, and then criminalised them for emerging with little more than the breath in their lungs.
On the 14 January, as 36 bodies lie bagged and 82 gaunt survivors shuffle toward prison vans, the government continues to trumpet its success against illegal miners. Whether this war on the economy also amounts to a war on humanity remains an uneasy question. For if we accept that starvation and entrapment are legitimate strategies, then we have abandoned more than just the men below—we have lost something vital at the core of our shared moral conscience.
* Gillian Schutte is a film-maker, and a well-known social justice and race-justice activist and public intellectual. Follow Gillian on X - @GillianSchutte1 and on Facebook - Gillian Schutte.
** The views expressed do not necessarily reflect the views of IOL or Independent Media.