Celebrity Breeze Bringing you fascinating stories
Related Articles
A disturbing video has ignited outrage across South Africa — a Zimbabwean mother reportedly gave birth on the floor of Addington Hospital in Durban after being denied a wheelchair by nurses who allegedly told her to walk while in active labour. The baby, witnesses say, did not survive.
The video, shared widely on TikTok, shows the mother in visible distress moments after giving birth. The post’s author, who said they were deeply shaken by the footage, claimed nurses ignored the woman’s pleas for help because she was a foreigner. “She told them she could feel the baby coming out, but they still made her walk,” the post read. “What was so difficult about providing a wheelchair? She was in pain and couldn’t walk. Unfortunately, the baby didn’t make it. Nurses, please do better.”
The case has triggered anger and grief online, reigniting fierce debate about how South Africa’s public health system treats foreign nationals — a topic already charged with political tension. Many have linked the incident to growing hostility fuelled by Operation Dudula, a controversial anti-migrant movement accused of harassing immigrants at clinics and hospitals.
In recent months, Operation Dudula activists have stationed themselves outside public facilities, demanding that foreigners — even those with valid passports — be turned away. Their name, which means “to push back” or “force out” in Zulu, reflects the group’s mission to remove undocumented migrants and, increasingly, to exclude all non-South Africans from basic services.
At a community clinic in Diepsloot, north of Johannesburg, the movement’s campaign has become a daily reality. Men in branded T-shirts stand at the gates, checking IDs and questioning those entering for treatment.
Zimbabwean national Sicelokuhle Moyo has experienced it firsthand. She has lived in South Africa since 2006 and relies on the clinic for her chronic medication. But one morning, she says, she was stopped by Operation Dudula members and told her passport was not acceptable. “They said they only want South African IDs,” she explained. “I tried to reason with them, but they refused to let me in.”
Nearby, another woman, Tendai Musvava from Mozambique, was also turned away. “I don’t have an ID, only a passport,” she said, clutching her bag of empty medicine bottles. “I just feel like they do what they want because it’s their country. I don’t have a choice.”
Such scenes are now becoming routine in parts of Gauteng and KwaZulu-Natal, where Dudula supporters have expanded their campaign. The movement insists it is protecting South Africans from being “overrun” by foreign nationals who they claim drain public resources.
South Africa is home to roughly 2.4 million migrants, most from neighbouring countries like Zimbabwe, Lesotho, and Mozambique. Many work in low-paying jobs and depend on the country’s public clinics and hospitals — facilities that already serve nearly 85% of the population.
Operation Dudula leader Zandile Dabula says the state cannot afford to treat everyone. “We want prioritisation of South Africans,” she said. “Emergency care — yes, that’s fine. But if you are illegal, you must be handed over to law enforcement. Health cannot be a freebie for everyone. We don’t have enough.”
But critics argue that the movement’s tactics violate South Africa’s Constitution, which guarantees healthcare access for “everyone,” regardless of nationality. Human rights lawyer Fatima Hassan from the Health Justice Initiative has condemned Dudula’s actions as “lawlessness.”
“To have a group that is not sanctioned by the state deciding who gets treatment and who doesn’t is deeply dangerous,” she said. “Unless government intervenes soon, it risks losing control of its own public institutions.”
Deputy Health Minister Dr Joe Phaahla has echoed that warning. “Health is a human right,” he said. “You don’t organise it through bullying or intimidation.”
Yet enforcement remains weak. Several Operation Dudula members have been arrested for obstructing public health facilities — only to be released hours later. Police have cited limited resources, saying they are “stretched” and unable to monitor all incidents.
The South African Human Rights Commission attempted to challenge the movement in court earlier this year but the case collapsed on a technicality, leaving the group free to continue its campaigns.
In Diepsloot, the effect is already visible. Some residents have welcomed the activists, claiming shorter queues and better access to medicine. “Before, the line was long. Now I get my medication in minutes,” said local resident Sipho Mohale.
Others, however, see this as a sign of something far darker. “We are heading down a dangerous path,” said a nurse at a Johannesburg clinic who asked not to be named. “Today it’s foreigners. Tomorrow it could be anyone who doesn’t have the right papers.”
The tragedy in Durban has thrown this reality into sharp focus. While the exact details of the case are still under investigation, many South Africans see it as part of a pattern — one where fear and prejudice increasingly shape who receives care and who doesn’t.
Health activists say such incidents are bound to increase as Operation Dudula’s rhetoric spreads. The movement recently announced plans to extend its campaign to public schools, arguing that “illegal immigrants” also burden the education system.
Meanwhile, many migrants are left trapped between danger and despair. For people like Musvava, the only option may be to turn to private clinics — a costly alternative few can afford. “I will have to pay,” she said quietly. “I don’t know how, but I will have to make a plan.”
At Addington Hospital, where the Zimbabwean woman’s baby died, the outrage has not faded. Questions about accountability remain unanswered. Was it prejudice, negligence, or a symptom of a system buckling under pressure?
Whatever the reason, the story has become a symbol of something larger — a country wrestling with its conscience. A place where compassion, once enshrined in law, now competes with fear and resentment.
As South Africans mourn yet another preventable tragedy, one truth stands painfully clear: a mother’s loss has laid bare the growing cruelty of a system that seems to have forgotten what it means to care.
