In South Africa, curbing violence starts with showing boys their potential

A studious silence descends on the large tent that, minutes earlier, was filled with a whirlwind of activity as two dozen teenagers danced and bantered to loud South African amapiano beats. Now the boys are crouched over tables scattered with glitter and crayons, occasionally glancing up at the question scrawled on a whiteboard: “Who are you?”

Ziyaad, 13 years old, draws a red cross on a sheet of paper. “It’s my mom’s grave,” he explains to junior counselor Lutho Gcelu, who peers over his shoulder. On one side of the paper, the teen has written his deepest concern: “I do not have a mother or a father. I’m afraid I won’t make it in life without them.” In another corner, he has sketched his dream: “I would like to be a President because I want a better South Africa.”

On a recent weekend, Ziyaad was one of 39 boys ages 13 to 15 who gathered at this lush campsite an hour outside Cape Town with an unusual purpose. (Like other boys in this story, Ziyaad is using only his first name.) They were there as part of a mentoring program called iNtsika yeThemba – or Pillars of Hope – that aims to turn South African boys into “everyday activists” and defenders of women and girls.

With almost 11 women killed every day, South Africa has among the highest recorded rates of female homicide in the world. Meanwhile, according to police statistics, over 12,000 rapes were recorded in the last 3 months of 2023 alone. Earlier this year, South African President Cyril Ramaphosa urged all men to sign a pledge committing to end violence against women and girls. But despite decades of campaigning, femicide is still on the rise. 

The way boys are raised is one of the underlying causes of this gender-based violence epidemic, says Lerato Kossie, program coordinator at the Justice Desk, the human rights nonprofit that organizes iNtsika yeThemba. 

“A boy is told, ‘You must never cry; you must be the protector, the provider,’” he says. “We were taught to become robots and disconnect from our emotions.”

But iNtsika yeThemba wants to break that cycle. The boys in the program go for counseling, take regular field trips, and attend yearly overnight camps like this one, where they compete in mock Olympics, play soccer, and have candid conversations about identity, masculinity, and the pressures of teenage life in some of the country’s most disadvantaged communities.

“Here, by removing them from the daily norms and duties at home, we see boys who can express themselves fully,” Mr. Kossie says.

Julie Bourdin

Lerato Kossie, program coordinator for iNtsika yeThemba, poses for a portrait at the Justice Desk camp outside Cape Town, South Africa.

Thirty years after the end of apartheid, which segregated and oppressed South Africa’s nonwhite majority, “the country is still very much healing,” Mr. Kossie says. The aftershocks are most visible in townships, the mostly Black, working-class neighborhoods at the fringes of South African cities. Here, violence and unemployment still hit communities hard. “I see generations and generations going through the same cycle of drinking and drug use,” he says. “We need a new generation of positive male role models.”  

Fixing the wheel

On the first evening of camp, the campers sit in a circle, bundled in warm pajamas. Shuffling on their chairs to stay awake, they lean in to hear Mr. Kossie’s voice over the roar of the wind outside. “Why is there crime in Nyanga?” he prods, asking about the Cape Town township that many of the boys come from. 

The answers tumble out. 

“No jobs!” 

“No education!” 

“Poverty!” 

“Drugs!” 

Mr. Kossie scribbles them on the whiteboard. 

“And how does that come back to you? How are you stopping that cycle?” he asks. “Even me, today, I’m still trying to fix that wheel,” he continues, launching into his own story. 

Julie Bourdin

Boys play soccer in the early morning at the Justice Desk weekend camp, outside Cape Town. In between sports and various activities, the boys follow sessions analyzing the sources of anger, power, and violence.

In 1997, at the age of 18, Mr. Kossie was arrested after getting involved with a gang. Incarcerated in Pollsmoor, Cape Town’s notorious maximum security prison, “I battled with the question ‘Who am I?’” he remembers. “I knew my identity as a gang member, but when I was removed from that society, the question came striking back. The answer I came to is that I’m a human being that is allowed to make mistakes.”

When the charges were dropped eight months later, Mr. Kossie pledged he would make sure other youths would never know “the smell of Pollsmoor.” 

In a corner of the room, a 15 year-old – whose name has been omitted to protect his privacy – listens with glistening eyes as the program coordinator shares his story. The teen struggles at school and has battled suicidal thoughts. In his “Who are you?” drawing, he sketches small clouds carrying the words “not worthy” and “depression.”

But later, at an improvised talent show, he jumps onto the stage and, joined by his new friends, performs a rap song in isiXhosa to the flashing of torchlights. His favorite takeaway from the camp is something Mr. Kossie said. “[He] said you must have belonging in your life,” the boy says. “Belonging is a powerful thing.”

“What I stand for”

The morning after Mr. Kossie’s first session about breaking the cycle, the boys explore the roots of their anger. Counselors encourage them to describe what rage feels like. 

“It’s like hot water boiling up inside,” explains Corbin, who is 13. 

“Like your body is forcing you to do something,” another boy pitches in.

Julie Bourdin

A boy roasts stokbrood (bread on a stick) on the first evening of a weekend camp organized by the Justice Desk outside Cape Town.

For Mr. Gcelu, the junior counselor, the discussion feels personal. “I had too much rage, growing up. I was like a grenade,” he remembers. After graduating from the program last year, he came back this year at the age of 19 as a “big brother.” “Sometimes I wish I could live at the Justice Desk all year,” he says, smiling.

Jamie, a lanky 15 year-old with a mischievous smile who is in his fifth year with iNtsika yeThemba, also takes pride in introducing the newer boys to the camp. “I feel like it’s my job to help them understand that this is a safe place,” he says.

If it wasn’t for the program, “I probably would be roaming the streets with my friends, doing bad stuff,” Jamie admits. “Now ... I know what to stand up for.”

Case in point: Last year, the teenager broke up an incident of domestic violence in the street. “At first, the woman didn’t want to lay charges, but I stood up for her because I knew she was scared of her boyfriend,” he remembers.

He convinced the woman to open a case, and says that the perpetrator is still in prison. “I feel like that won’t be my last time,” he says. “I will do it again.”