Dr Celiwe Dada is a South African medical doctor and mother of three who has recently gained significant attention on social media, particularly TikTok, due to her candid storytelling about her personal life. She has shared her experiences of surviving an abusive marriage, focusing on the emotional and financial toll it took on her.

Have you ever moved to a neighbourhood, town, city or country and lost the community you were part of? How did you build a new network? Have you ever been witness to someone’s distress, for example, the wailing of a neighbour or a woman being beaten, and you have held your peace, too scared to intervene?

That was me as a younger, less confident woman. This is why networks are so important. There’s a story from Nicaragua of a group of women coming together to beat up the man in their neighbourhood who beat his wife. The beating stopped.

This subject of community and its importance is on my mind because a series of unsettling conversations have emerged from South Africa that compel us to question the fabric of our communities. Dr Celiwe Dada, a doctor who endured years in an abusive relationship, Nonkanyiso ‘LaConco’ Conco, a teenage girlfriend and mother of one of former president Jacob Zuma’s children and reality star, is now revealing the complexities of her life.

These stories serve as poignant reminders of the role community plays—or fails to play—in the lives of people facing dire circumstances. Alongside popular reality dramas like Uthando neS’thembu, these narratives shed light on the intense personal struggles within relationships and the critical silence from family and community members who might have intervened.

When browsing social media comments about Dr Dada, some criticise her by suggesting that her doctorate has not protected her from abuse, overlooking the fact that she was only 18 when she fell in love with a man who would become her abuser. Similarly, in discussions about LaConco, we often see comments like “uyaphapha” directed to her for being forward when referring to her relationship with a man over 60, a president at the time.

While it is essential for people to take responsibility for their actions, these reactions also highlight a broader societal issue.

Rather than solely blaming these women, we must examine the systemic factors and cultural narratives that contribute to their situation. At the core of these stories lies a troubling theme: the absence of communal support and intervention during times of crisis. Dr Dada’s experience with abuse, which left her both financially and emotionally scarred, raises vital questions about the vigilance and engagement of those closest to her.

Similarly, LaConco’s experiences highlight the need for community awareness and accountability. Why are family, friends, and neighbours often silent witnesses to the suffering of their loved ones? Does this silent complicity stem from an ingrained individualistic approach to life, where personal autonomy and privacy are prioritised over communal responsibility and engagement?

The rise of individualism, particularly in contemporary society, has profound implications for the health of our communities. In many cases, it fosters an environment where people feel disconnected from one another, reluctant to intervene in the lives of others out of fear or belief that it is not their place to do so. This mentality can lead to a dangerous bystander effect, where people look away even when they know something is wrong.

The narratives we see on social media and television vividly illustrate this; we are left questioning why the friends and family of participants do not step in to provide support or assistance when they clearly need it. The lack of intervention suggests troubling normalcy in isolating individual struggles rather than embracing the collective responsibility of being part of a community.

Community matters because it fosters connection, belonging, and mutual support. When people come together, they create a collective awareness that amplifies voices that might otherwise remain unheard. The importance of solidarity cannot be overstated; it is through our bonds with one another that we find the strength to face challenges, hold each other accountable, and cultivate resilience.

Communities prioritising collective well-being empower their members to speak up against abuse or exploitation. They create safe spaces where people can share their struggles without fear of judgment or isolation, establishing a culture of care essential to personal and collective healing.

However, the growing trend toward individualism poses significant challenges. In a world increasingly obsessed with self-sufficiency and personal achievement, we may lose sight of the interdependencies that define our existence. The individualistic mindset often leads to a lack of understanding regarding our influence over one another’s lives. It breeds apathy towards the struggles of our fellow community members, creating an atmosphere where problems like domestic abuse or financial exploitation can flourish unchallenged. This shift away from collectivism inevitably undermines the very foundation of community, eroding the connections that should bind us together in times of need.

Our choices about how, where, and with whom to spend our elderliness are not always straightforward—economics and relationships impact decision-making.

My friend Fifi is trying to identify a carer for her mum, who lives in a rural village. If she were to want to bring her mom to live with her in Johannesburg, currently, there are just too many challenges to navigate. As a single mom without a great support system, she already juggles complex logistics.

I sympathised with my mother’s prejudice towards retirement homes. I have heard these comments in my circle: “I’ve stopped taking nice clothes for my mother to the retirement home. The next time I visit her, they’ve been shrunk in the wash or gone missing.” OR “When my mother died, I realised just how much of her jewellery had gone missing.”

Another acquaintance who moved into a retirement village with her frail husband, who wanted to support for the situation she found herself in, said how hard it was to read the regular death announcements on the notice board.

So Mapi surprised me when we had the time to chat for long hours on holiday. She is saving, she said, so that she can spend her elderliness in a retirement village. She explained that her bottom line is that she does not want to depend on family members for support.

I respect that she has a lot of experience within her own family about how problematic it can be for the younger generation to support an elderly relative financially, emotionally, and health-wise. People with full-time jobs do not have time to transport parents, aunts, and uncles and sit with them in long queues at a clinic. Or they make time, at a cost to themselves and even their performance at work.

I have discovered that, at their best, retirement villages can be fabulous for all concerned. I visited a friend who’s just moved into a bungalow in a high-end village. She is surrounded by her carefully chosen mementoes of a long life. I know her adult children are relieved that she is no longer living alone – especially when they no longer live in the same city. She commented cheerfully, “I have come here to die. I’ve told my children that I want to die here, in my own bed.”

I am not sure whether that last wish will come true. And there might be a better option for all concerned. This is a story recently shared with me.

“We are three siblings, and none of us are living full-time in Johannesburg any longer or are able to have my mother live with us. My mother agreed the family home would be sold, and together with my siblings, we chose a retirement home.

During Covid, many of us put our affairs in order. For my mother, this included completing her Do Not Resuscitate document (DNR).

I was in Cape Town when I got the call that my mother had had a stroke. I got on the first flight I could. When I arrived, my siblings and aunt were with my mother. There was an ambulance parked at reception.

The head nurse asked to speak with me. Your mother’s condition is serious. She has a Do Not Resuscitate order in place. We have the ambulance at the ready to take her to hospital, but we want to know if you want the DNR to prevail?

I responded that I needed to speak alone with my aunt and asked that she be called to join us. My aunt, sad and stoic, said, “It’s bad.” She supported that the DNR should prevail. The ambulance would not be needed. My siblings were angry. They treated me as though I was the witch from hell.

The family took turns entering and out of the retirement home’s high-care nursing room. Management asked to speak with me. “Your mother isn’t going quickly. We have a designated bungalow. If you like, we could move your mother there, and you’ve got two bedrooms available for sleeping over.” It was a godsend to have this space.

And it was true; my mother was taking her time. Death, to us, did not seem imminent. To my lay eyes, there was no sign of deterioration. On the third day, the nurse, taking most responsibility for my mother’s treatment, making sure she was comfortable and free from pain, asked if I would come with her for a walk on the grounds. I went.

“I want you to be ready. You realise that today may be the day.” I looked at her with surprise. “Your mother’s hands and feet are cold. She is wearing socks,” she continued. If you roll down her socks, you’ll notice that her skin is purplish.”

My mother died that day. As a family, we were all ready. It was beautiful. I will be forever grateful for the nursing and the psychological support we received.

This story has challenged some of my assumptions. I assume I would prefer to die at home and find it hard to make the transition to living in a retirement village. I have not considered the support such quality nursing care can offer a family. I am questioning my assumptions, and I am looking at my finances. What might be affordable?

More to come!

It’s a dilemma that gnaws at the very core of our being: how do we reconcile love for family with the reality of their monstrous actions? How do we navigate the tightrope of loyalty and morality when those we care about have become entrenched in all that is wrong?

During my holidays, my book-loving self came across Giles Harvey’s December 2024 New York Times 25-page expose of a family history that literature lovers worldwide did not want to know. Canadian Alice Munro, Nobel Prize winner, had known that her husband, stepfather to her three daughters, had abused her youngest nine-year-old. Munro pretended not to know. Later events reveal otherwise. She failed to support and protect her child. There was a covenant of silence. Too many held too much fear about the consequences of truth-telling.

I was gob-smacked by what I read.

Closer to home:

“I have always known that my brother is a scamming, lying piece of work who has not only groomed and destroyed dozens of young girls who were his pupils but has also been a horrible husband to his wife. But in the 37 years I have been aware of his dark side, I have always believed and hoped he would change. Now at 59, he is head over heels involved with one of his former pupils, who is now 23 and just as delusional as he is.

My brother’s descent into darkness began in his twenties when he made the outrageous claim that he was a medical doctor, taking on the title of Dr Gumbi—not his real surname, of course. A few years later, it became clear that this was a complete fabrication. Somehow, he found himself teaching at the local high school, where he used his charm and mathematical abilities to convince others of his brilliance. Even today, people think he holds a PhD. He has a gift of gab—an uncanny knack for convincing people to see him as something he is not.

Beneath his facade lies a man who has caused immeasurable harm. He has impregnated at least four of his pupils and engaged in numerous affairs with them. It’s an uncomfortable truth to acknowledge; what he has done can easily be classified as rape. Yet, because he is blood, I still feel compelled to wrap up his disgusting character in a way that seems more palatable, as if softening the blow of his actions will somehow lessen the chaos he leaves in his wake.”

During the recent holidays, a friend shared this burden with me. She spoke of her brother, a man much like mine, who had walked a similarly dark path.

Over the years, my brother has inflicted immeasurable misery on our family, a story steeped in the darkness that involves two murders, a prison sentence, and, at 60, a protection court order stemming from his relentless abuse of my sister, the one who tirelessly cares for our family home. We have endured years of verbal, emotional, and, at times, physical torment, yet despite the havoc he has wreaked, he remains a presence in our lives. How is it that someone capable of such destruction continues to be part of our story?

My friend confided in me about her own struggles with guilt and the toll her “doctor” brother is having on her sense of what is right and wrong and mental health. Despite being on the verge of retirement, the weight of his actions looms large. My friend was clearly troubled, grappling with whether she should confront him. She sought advice, though any words I could offer felt inadequate in the face of such horror. My heart ached for her; the burden she carried mirrored my struggle with my brother.

In sharing her story, I was reminded of the eerie parallels between our two brothers, and this revelation only deepened my sense of helplessness. Every fibre of my being wants to protect her from the anguish that comes with confronting a loved one’s misdeeds. I understand that the pain of knowing can sometimes feel heavier than the burden of ignorance. And yet, isn’t it a moral imperative to hold these men accountable?

As I listened, it struck me that my friend’s sister-in-law had confided in her not merely as an act of admission to witnessing these acts for years but as a desperate plea for understanding. Perhaps, in some twisted way, she hoped to absolve herself of his sins, saying nothing. But my friend has known about this for longer than her sister-in-law.

I told my friend that accountability requires more than mere confession; it demands action and confrontation, often against the very fabric of familial bonds.

For my friend, the decision to confront her brother is fraught with uncertainty. Should she expose him to the world, risking the wrath of an unforgiving society? Or should she seek to understand why he fell into such depths, perhaps even offering a chance for rehabilitation? Each option carries its weight, each threatening to tip the scales of familial love into the abyss of disgust and betrayal.

This internal conflict brought back memories of my brother’s misdeeds, and I realized that the burden we carry often remains unshared, festering in silence. We become complicit in the acts we refuse to confront, allowing harmful behaviours to persist under the guise of familial loyalty. Yet, what kind of love allows abuse, deception, and betrayal to run rampant?

I thought of the girls whose lives her brother had irrevocably changed—their futures altered, their potential stifled. Each one was a victim of a man who should have been their protector and guide, yet chose to exploit them instead. How many more would suffer if his actions remained unaccounted for?

So, I took a deep breath and considered my friend’s dilemma. “It may not be easy,” I finally said, “but confronting him may not only bring you peace but could also prevent future harm. You carry the burden of knowing; don’t let it weigh you down in silence. Speaking up could be the first step towards healing—for you, for him, and for those he has hurt.”