As anti-migrant sentiment grows in South Africa, and as “foreigners” are increasingly blamed for crime, unemployment, poverty and social decline, Maulana Usamah Dockrat asks a fundamental question: What exactly is a “South African”?
What is this identity so often invoked to determine who belongs and who does not? What makes one person a “local” and another a “foreigner”?
It cannot be race. South Africa is home to black Africans, Indians, Coloureds, whites, Malays and many others.
It cannot be ethnicity. The country contains Zulu, Xhosa, Sotho, Tswana, Venda, Pedi, Tsonga, Ndebele, Afrikaner, Indian, Cape Malay and numerous other communities with distinct histories and traditions.
It cannot be language. South Africa has 12 official languages, alongside many more spoken in homes, businesses, schools and places of worship.
It cannot be religion. Muslims, Christians, Hindus, followers of traditional African religions, atheists and secular liberals all share the same country.
Nor can it be culture. The lived experience of a Muslim family in Johannesburg may differ greatly from that of a rural Christian family in Limpopo, an Afrikaner family in the Free State, or an Indian family in Durban. Even within the same ethnic group, culture varies according to class, geography and circumstance.
So what is the common identity that supposedly unites all these people while separating them from those who happen to live beyond the border?
Nationalism
In reality, “South African” is primarily a political identity. It is not a race, language, religion or single culture. It is an identity rooted in citizenship, legal status and a line drawn on a map.
Yet those borders are not eternal realities. They emerged through colonial conquest, political settlements, wars, administrative decisions and historical circumstance. The people existed before the borders.
Nationalism transforms these political boundaries into moral boundaries. It teaches people to imagine that those inside the line are “us”, while those outside it are “them”.
Once this distinction is accepted, compassion becomes selective. One poor person is viewed as deserving because he belongs to the nation, while another is regarded as a burden because he does not.
One struggling trader is called a local entrepreneur; another is labelled a foreign national. One family’s suffering becomes a national concern; another family’s suffering is dismissed.
But why should a border determine whose suffering matters more?
If two people are equally poor, equally vulnerable and equally human, what moral significance is attached to the place where they happened to be born?
If a government document can transform a foreign national into a citizen, does that person’s worth change the moment the paperwork is approved?
These questions expose the arbitrariness at the heart of modern nationalism. It takes a political arrangement and elevates it into a hierarchy of human value.
The contradiction becomes even clearer when we consider how recent the South African state actually is. The Union of South Africa was created in 1910 when Britain merged four colonies. The Republic of South Africa emerged in 1961. The democratic state known today dates from 1994. Which of these South Africas is the authentic one?
Why should one particular political moment become the basis for determining who belongs and who does not?
Long before these borders existed, people moved across the region for trade, marriage, work, education, safety and survival. Families, communities, languages and trade routes often extended across the very borders that now separate people.
In many cases, the people were there before the border. The line came later.
Whether someone is regarded as a migrant or a local often depends entirely on where one chooses to begin the story.
If the story begins today, the recent arrival is called a foreigner.
If it begins several generations ago, many who are now considered locals were themselves migrants or descendants of migrants.
If it goes back further still, entire communities moved, settled, mixed and became part of the land.
Who, then, decides when migration ceases to be foreignness and becomes part of the national story? Why is one group’s movement celebrated as history while another’s is condemned as invasion?
Nationality and humanity
States may issue passports, permits, identity documents and citizenship papers. These may have legal significance, but they possess no inherent moral value. A border may define a state’s jurisdiction, but it cannot determine whose life carries worth and whose suffering deserves compassion.
This is the central deception of xenophobic nationalism: it converts a political arrangement into a moral hierarchy.
It asks people to believe that the accident of birthplace grants one human being a greater claim to dignity than another. It asks them to believe that a passport reveals something meaningful about a person’s worth.
Yet human dignity does not come from the state. It is not granted by governments, conferred by paperwork or created by borders.
Islam offers a far clearer and more profound understanding of human identity.
Allah says in the Qur’an:
“O mankind, We created you from a male and a female, and made you into peoples and tribes so that you may know one another. Indeed, the most honoured of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous of you. Surely Allah is All-Knowing, All-Aware.” (Qur’an 49:13)
The Qur’an recognises differences between peoples and tribes, but rejects the notion that such distinctions determine human worth. The measure of a person is not nationality, ethnicity, race, language or birthplace. It is taqwa: consciousness of Allah and righteousness before Him.
In a world increasingly divided by borders and national identities, this reminder is more necessary than ever: a passport may determine where a person can travel, but it can never determine the value of a human life.
Maulana Usamah Dockrat is an Islamic scholar who graduated from Jami’ah al-Ulum al-Islamiyyah in Johannesburg.
