29/05/2026
🌙 Aunty Jo's Late Night Thoughts🌙
The children of Durban are not okay.
Actually, let's tell the truth.
The children of South Africa are not okay.
Lately I've been thinking about how much has changed.
Couple of years ago it felt like we were constantly talking about child abandonment. Tiny babies found in places no child should ever be found. We begged people to pay attention. We begged people to care.
But somewhere along the way the crisis grew.
Now we are seeing children who have survived r**e, children covered in bruises, children living in circumstances that most people would struggle to comprehend, children carrying trauma so heavy that it changes the way they see the world, children struggling with anxiety, depression, self-harm, anger, fear and grief before they are even old enough to understand those words.
We are seeing children raising children, children feeding siblings, children protecting their mothers. Children carrying responsibilities that should belong to adults.
And then, after surviving all of that, they are often the ones removed.
The ones who have to leave everything behind.
The ones who have to sleep in strange beds, follow new rules, meet new people, start over.
As though they were the problem.
Tonight I keep thinking about the children who arrive at our door.
Not one arrives with a neat little suitcase packed with their favourite things.
Most arrive exactly as they are.
No teddy, no blanket, no toothbrush, no spare clothes, nothing.
Just the clothes they are wearing.
And often even those are too small, too dirty, too worn out or too full of holes.
Sometimes trauma is the only thing they own.
I wish people could understand what it feels like when my phone rings and I see SAPS or Welfare on the screen.
My stomach immediately drops, my heart starts racing, my brain starts making lists before I've even answered.
- Beds.
- Bedding.
- Clothes.
- Shoes.
- Brave Bags.
- Formula.
- Medication.
Because I already know.
The voice on the other side is never calling to ask how my day was.
The voice is always tired.
Always gentle.
Always carrying something painful.
And eventually the words come.
"We need you."
And every single time my heart breaks.
But every single time I am grateful too.
Because it means somebody thought about that child.
It means somebody picked up the phone.
It means somebody cared enough to try.
It means that for a little while we get the privilege of loving that child through one of the hardest moments of their life.
But tonight I keep asking myself the same question.
What have we become that there are so many children needing rescue?
Why does the number never seem to go down?
Why does it feel like every year the stories get harder to hear?
This is not normal, his is not okay.
And this is not a feel-good charity story.
This is an emergency.
A real one!
Because these are only the children who are found.
The children who make it onto a social worker's desk.
The children who survive long enough for somebody to notice.
There are thousands more.
Children going to bed hungry, children lying awake listening to violence, children wondering if they are safe, children carrying secrets that no child should ever have to carry.
Tonight my children are warm, safe, fed, clean, loved.
And for that I am deeply grateful.
But somewhere tonight there are thousands of children who are not.
And if that doesn't disturb us, if that doesn't make us uncomfortable, if that doesn't keep us awake at night, then perhaps the crisis is even bigger than we realise.
Because the children are crying out.
The question is...
Is anybody listening?
A worried Aunty Jođź’”
