“We’ve been standing here for 26 seconds, and nobody has been raped”. On the 2nd of February 2000, the late Minister of Safety and Security went on an American broadcast show called 60 Minutes, to talk about the rape crisis in South Africa, and made the above comment. Often heralded as one of the worst displays of leadership from a politician, his casual dismissal of the gravity of the rape epidemic, in favour of better ‘aesthetics’ for South Africa in front of Americans, illustrates the massive failure of the South African government to curtail this crisis. This essay will analyse scholarship on the rape crisis, in an attempt to not only illustrate it as a ‘crime’ committed by individuals to individuals, but to expand upon the wider political and social context in which it is committed with such frequency in South Africa. Particular focus will be given to the following points; how rape ‘manifests’ in the contemporary South African context; rape’s conceptual point of origin and how it has evolved into its contemporary manifestation; what factors have encouraged this evolution; the groups of people ‘rape’ most affects (physically as well as socially); and finally various contradictions within ‘rape scholarship’. The goal of this essay is to do what the Minister of Safety and Security failed to do, which is to provide a nuanced and well-researched perspective on rape in South Africa, framing this crisis within the broader context of the law, the lived experiences of women, coloniality, and race.
The introduction to this essay suggests that rape is not merely a crime committed in isolation but a societal complex phenomenon with social and political implications for the victims and communities in which it occurs. However, when discussing how the problem of rape manifests in the modern South African context, it is best to begin with its criminal (legal) definition. Including a legal definition is valuable because it sets a baseline for analysing how rape manifests in South African society. South Africa’s legal definition of rape reflects the state’s current position on what is considered rape, which shapes how rape is understood and prosecuted in society. Furthermore, South African rape laws have evolved over time (as is illustrated below). Including a definition allows this essay to discuss changes in legal approaches to rape and how these changes affect its manifestation in society, such as the expansion of the definition to focus on the lack of consent as its most critical aspect. Most importantly, a legal definition offers a point of comparison for discussing the gaps between legal frameworks and societal experiences of rape.
Rape in South Africa was traditionally legally defined under common law as a male engaging in sexual intercourse with a female without her consent. While rooted in Roman-Dutch law, South Africa’s definition of rape has since evolved, heavily influenced by English law. Unlike Roman-Dutch law, which required violence as part of the crime, South African law, following the English approach, emphasized lack of consent as the key element. In 1999, the South African Law Commission (later renamed the South African Law Reform Commission in 2002) proposed a Bill on Sexual Offences, suggesting the term ‘coercive circumstances’ replace ‘lack of consent’. The Commission argued that this shift would focus less on the victim’s subjective mindset and more on the power imbalance during the incident. However, the current Sexual Offences and Related Matters Amendment Act 32 of 2007 defines rape as missing both voluntary and uncoerced agreement, combining elements of both consent and coercion into the definition. The full definition of rape in the act reads, “Any person (‘A’) who unlawfully and intentionally commits an act of sexual penetration with a complainant (‘B’), without the consent of B, is guilty of the offence of rape”.
In summary, this definition, which emphasizes the lack of consent and considers coercive circumstances, illustrates how the state acknowledges the complexities of sexual violence, prioritizing power dynamics and gender hierarchies over mere physical acts. This framework fundamentally shapes societal understanding and legal prosecution of rape, signalling a progressive shift from earlier definitions that focused on violence and male perpetration alone. At first glance, one might assume that the society which housed such a holistic and comprehensive definition of rape, would be a society without a rape crisis, as surely this piece of legislature automatically translates into the appropriate practices and adequate infrastructure to address the problem of rape. However, the lived experiences of survivors often reveal a disconnection from these ideals the legal definition seems to suggest. It is the gap between South Africa’s progressive and inclusive legal framework and the widespread prevalence of rape, as well as other forms of gender-based violence, that represent how the rape crisis manifests uniquely in the modern South African context.
As is mentioned above, the current lived experience of women in South Africa in regard to sexual violence stands in great contrast to the progressive and inclusive ideals of legislation on rape. In 2010-2011, reported rape cases reached 56,272 annually, though the true number is likely much higher due to the practice of under-reporting. It is further estimated that one in three South African women will be raped in their lifetime.
Additionally, levels of non-consensual and coerced sex, which may not always be recognized by victims as rape, are alarmingly high. South African academic, Pumla Dineo Gqola, elaborates further on this contradiction in the manifestation of rape and other forms of gender-based violence in South Africa, “The Republic of South Africa, therefore, has the contradictory situation where women are legislatively empowered, and yet we do not feel safe in our streets or homes. Truly empowered women do not live with the haunting fear of rape, sexual harassment, smash and grabs and other violent intrusions into their spaces, bodies and psyches,”. Gqola rightfully suggests that although the legislation aims to protect women, in practice it has not lessened the violence South African women experience at all. She vehemently denies the idealistic reality the legislature seems to point at, saying, “A genuinely gender-progressive country is without the gender-based violence statistics that South Africa has, making South African women collectively a majority (at 52 per cent) under siege,”. As is substantiated above, legislature on rape in South Africa is progressive, in that its definition is victim centric. It focuses on ‘lack of consent’ and coercive circumstances as being the most critical part of the crime, as opposed to violence, the relationship between the perpetrator and victim, penetration etc. However, these liberal, feminist values enshrined in the legislation, have little to no bearing on the lived experiences of women in South Africa, as the rape statistics for only the first quarter of 2024 are at a staggering 9252 reported cases. It this contradiction of one highest rates of rape in the world against the backdrop one of the most progressive Constitutions and subsequent pieces of legislation in the world, that illustrate the uniqueness of how rape manifests in contemporary South Africa.
Rape has come to be commonly understood within South Africa, as having evolved as a symptom of the patriarchy. Social scholarship has shifted away from earlier interpretations of rape as an act driven by sexual desire or individual pathology, focusing instead on its roots in systemic power imbalances. Patriarchy is seen as the foundation from which the social and gendered dynamics of rape have emerged, framing it not just as a violent act but as an expression of deeply entrenched power relations. Scholars have long argued that rape is a tool used by men to uphold patriarchal dominance, creating a climate of fear among women to sustain male authority, particularly when in environments where male power is perceived to be under threat. This view reframes rape as a social construct linked to patriarchal systems, evolving in response to shifting power dynamics. In the South African context, rape is widely viewed as a symbol of patriarchal oppression and a manifestation of the ongoing quest for gendered power.
It serves as an indicator of the persistent patriarchal hierarchies that continue to define post-apartheid South Africa, despite formal advancements in women’s constitutional rights and the widespread adoption of liberal human rights discourse. The evolution of this understanding underscores the contradiction between the government’s progressive stance on gender equality and the lived reality of gender-based violence faced by many women, as is elaborated on in the previous paragraph. The ‘patriarchy theory’ is a plausible conceptual point of origin for rape to have evolved from, however it does present certain problems when applied to the South African context. South African scholars have argued that ‘while useful, western aetiological models that highlight the anger, fear and inadequacy of individual men or the monstrosity of patriarchy as central to the “story” of why men rape, fail to provide sufficiently nuanced explanatory or analytical frameworks for the current South African experience of pervasive sexual violence’. The ‘patriarchy theory’ is also problematic as it has a tendency to feed into assumptions that some societies are, inherently, more patriarchal than others, and that countries with a high level of rape, such as South Africa, are therefore more ‘patriarchal’. These assumptions can tie into colonial discourses of third world countries as being inherently patriarchal and violent, sidestepping broader issues of context and history. For these reasons, this essay will not use ‘the patriarchy’ as the conceptual point of origin when discussing how rape has evolved into its contemporary manifestation discussed above, but rather colonialism.
To frame rape and its evolution within the context of colonialism, and in keeping with this essay’s pattern of using definitions of rape as the base line for analysis, the definition of rape during the 19th century colonial period can be used. In the colonies, rape was often defined as an illegal act of reproduction. Up until at least 1845 in the Cape, a man could only be convicted of rape if the prosecution could prove that ejaculation had occurred— both “emission as well as penetration” were required. This made prosecuting rape more difficult in the Cape compared to England, where, after 1828, rape victims no longer had to prove ejaculation. This legal discrepancy between the colony and the metropole reveals how racial hierarchies were maintained through the control of sexual relations. Illegal reproduction, particularly involving a black man and a white woman, was seen as a direct threat to the foundations of colonial society. This illustrates the extent to which black male sexuality was demonised, colonial South Africa was not interested in protecting women from rape by black men, but rather they were interested in preventing black men from reproducing with white women because this threatened the racial purity and social order that colonial South Africa sought to maintain. The primary concern was not the protection of women but the preservation of white supremacy through controlling interracial sexual relations. By framing black male sexuality as dangerous and predatory, colonial authorities used rape laws as a tool to reinforce racial boundaries and prevent the mixing of races, which they viewed as a direct threat to the colonial hierarchy.
The legacy of colonial rape laws continues to shape how rape is handled in contemporary South Africa. While modern legal frameworks, such as the Criminal Law (Sexual Offences and Related Matters) Amendment Act, have expanded the definition of rape to include non-penetrative acts and recognize the role of consent, echoes of colonial logic persist in societal attitudes and the administration of justice. The historical framing of black male sexuality as dangerous and predatory continues to influence present-day racialized narratives of sexual violence, where black men are often disproportionately perceived as perpetrators. This racialized perception affects policing, media portrayals, and judicial processes, reinforcing harmful stereotypes. Furthermore, the colonial preoccupation with controlling women’s reproduction is reflected in contemporary discourses on gender-based violence, where the burden often shifts to victims to “prove” their lack of consent, reminiscent of the evidentiary burdens of ejaculation proof in colonial Cape law. The colonial obsession with maintaining racial hierarchies through the control of sexuality also finds echoes in how marginalized communities, especially black women and queer individuals, experience systemic neglect in the pursuit of justice for sexual violence. Therefore, while South Africa’s legal definitions and procedural safeguards have shifted, the socio-political underpinnings of how rape is understood, prosecuted, and discussed remain haunted by colonial ideologies of race, gender, and control.
Similarly, the concept of rape in this colonial period also evolved as a tool used to subjugate black women. In the nineteenth-century Cape, rape laws allowed for the death penalty in severe cases, such as the rape of ‘a girl still unmarriageable’ (pre-menstruation), married women, or by men in positions of authority—most of these categories possibly serving as a proxy for whiteness (native marriages were not recognised by white society so black women were treated as ‘unmarried’, and a black man could never be in a position of authority). In Cape Dutch settler society, women’s honour was tied as much to the men of their families as to themselves, and this concept of honour and status played a crucial role in how rape cases were handled. It influenced whether a rape was reported, how it was evaluated, and the severity of punishment given to the perpetrator. Black women in the colonies were not given any honour, as they were the ‘colonies most degraded category’, as a result of them being twice removed from society (in their race and gender) and so their rape cases were never considered deserving of full legal protection. In fact, some scholars have gone as far as to categorise black women as ‘unrapable’ during the colonial period, as they have pointed out that before the abolishment of the death penalty in South Africa, no white man had ever hung for rape, and the black men that had hung for rape, had only been convicted of raping white women. In the entire history of the death penalty (343 years) in South Africa, not a single rapist of black women was punished, at least never to the extent that rape of white women was punished. This illustrates the colonial legal system’s focus on preserving racial and gender hierarchies, which meant that black women’s experiences of rape were not considered significant, as their social status was already devalued. This lack of recognition for black women’s dignity and humanity reinforced the idea that they were ‘unrapable’, since the colonial power structure only prioritized protecting white women’s purity and honour, often using rape laws as a tool to control interracial relations rather than to seek justice for black women. In summary, it can be suggested that the contradictory contemporary manifestation of rape in South Africa, evolved not as a result of the patriarchy precisely, but rather as a result of colonial social structures that legitimized violence against marginalised groups. These social structures were built to dehumanise black men and women and are still present in the contemporary manifestation of rape today, which could explain why rape persists as an ongoing crisis (rape is still viewed as an individualised personal crime, or because of misogyny inherent in patriarchal systems, and not as a weapon of oppression inherited from the colonial era). In order to develop infrastructure and resources to combat rape, solving the problem of rape first needs to be understood as part of the greater project of decolonisation.
Decolonization calls for the dismantling of inherited colonial power structures that continue to render black women and other marginalized groups invisible in the eyes of the law and society. It demands that rape be reframed as a tool of structural violence, rather than as an isolated act of deviance or moral failure. The colonial construction of black women as “unrapable” persists today in how the legal system, media, and public discourse often delegitimize the experiences of marginalized survivors. The over-policing of black men as “inherently dangerous” also reflects colonial logics that pathologized black masculinity. Therefore, decolonizing the approach to rape would mean rethinking the entire system of justice, from how survivors are treated in police stations and courtrooms to how perpetrators are prosecuted. This includes dismantling the racialized logic that frames rape as an “exceptional” crime when it crosses racial or class boundaries but treats intra-communal violence with indifference.
Moreover, a decolonized approach to rape would focus on community-based solutions rather than relying on punitive state mechanisms, which themselves are products of colonial control. Restorative justice models, survivor-centred support systems, and community-driven accountability processes are all essential components of this reimagined framework. Addressing rape as part of the broader project of decolonization also requires educational reforms that confront the colonial roots of gender-based violence and challenge the normalization of sexual violence in marginalized communities. This means developing a consciousness that sees rape not as an individual “crime of passion” but as part of a broader continuum of violence rooted in colonial domination. By recognizing rape as a colonial legacy, it becomes clear that addressing it requires more than tougher laws or higher conviction rates—it requires dismantling the entire colonial order that made rape a tool of domination in the first place.
In order to elevate this essay’s previous point of rape being a tool of oppression against black men and women, both in physical and social ways, this essay will further detail how the concept of rape is used to form the social identities of black women and men. To begin with how it affects black men in South Africa, rape is often framed as a problem of ‘South African’ men, with race frequently left unmentioned. Many empirical studies on masculinity and rape refer to ‘South African men’ or simply ‘men’ in their titles and findings, yet, upon closer examination, their research samples tend to focus on poor, black men, typically from rural or urban areas. While race and class clearly inform sampling choices, explicit discussions of race are often absent, and its presence is only implied through references to colonialism and apartheid. This silence is not race-neutral, as ‘men’—especially violent men—are implicitly conflated with black men, particularly those from the working class. The identification of ‘problematic masculinity’ predominantly in black working-class contexts reinforces this bias. For instance, a widely publicized study stating that up to one in four ‘South African men’ admit to raping a woman was based on a sample of poor black men from townships. Other commonly cited literature reviews on rape also always seem to cluster their research in provinces with predominantly black populations, such as the Eastern Cape, Limpopo, Mpumalanga, and the Northern Province, rather than in the Western Cape, Gauteng, or KwaZulu Natal, which have higher concentrations of white and other racial groups, despite high levels of rape in these regions as well. While rape statistics are reported across all provinces, research tends to be concentrated in black communities, and specifically on black men. This reinforces stigmas about black men, inherited from the colonial period, through which their sexuality and ultimately their greater personhood, are demonised as being ‘bestial and predatory’.
Black females and their sexuality are structured as the counterpart for black males and their sexuality, ‘namely as always already raped and therefore unrapable both in law and in social understanding,’. Their ‘unrapable’ identity is deeply rooted in the racist and patriarchal legal and social systems established during colonialism and apartheid. This legacy persisted even into apartheid and beyond, where the rape of black women became so normalized that it was largely ignored by social workers, doctors, police, and even the victims themselves. As Gqola pointed out, rape was so prolific against black women that it was simply accepted by society. Rape during colonialism and apartheid served as a weapon of control, not just by state agents but across society, reflecting the deeply entrenched racial and gender hierarchies. The enduring impact of this colonial legacy is echoed in the words of colonial judge Menzies, who noted that women in the ‘lowest ranks’ suffer less degradation from rape than women of higher status, underscoring how the legal system viewed black women as less deserving of protection and dignity. This inheritance continues to shape the power dynamics in South Africa today, where black women are most likely to be raped, not because of any inherent traits of black men, but due to a history of marginalization and the assumption that the suffering of black women matters least.
In the effort of providing a nuanced argument for the purposes of this essay, this paragraph will be dedicated to various contradictions in rape literature and discourse. In the previous pages of this essay, it was mentioned that while the death penalty still existed within South African courts, no black or white man had hung for the rape of a black women. Black men had only hung for the rape of white women. As this essay suggests, this takes black women out of the equation as victims of rape. Following the logic of the political and social system of the colonial period, which informed its legal framework, black women could not be raped. Or when they were raped, it was not a crime. However, this pattern of logic also leaves white men incapable of being rapists, as no white man had hung for the crime of rape. According to colonial thinking, white men were not capable of raping anyone. As is substantiated above, contemporary rape scholarship seems peculiarly fixed on portraying poor black men as their rapists, meaning that this is yet another colonial injustice that has persisted in modern South Africa (the omission of white men and their equal, if not bigger, capacity to rape).
During the colonial period, white men sat at the top of the hierarchy of power and maintained their seat through developing a complex racial and sexual economy, in which black women (being both ‘black’ and ‘women’) are the most subordinate. It is this system that has allowed white men in South Africa to have historically not been seen as rapists (because of the narratives they constructed around race and power) which framed sexual violence in ways that excluded their own actions from being labelled as rape. In colonial and post-emancipation South Africa, black women’s bodies were viewed as property, particularly the property of white men, and their sexual abuse was rationalized as part of maintaining white supremacy. As was elaborated previously, the criminal records of the time focused on constructing black men as violent aggressors and black women as inherently sexual, while omitting the sexual violence perpetrated by white men. Illustrated in cases like the Booysen petition, where white men defended a black man accused of rape, their actions were not about racial solidarity but rather about preserving their own racially constructed sexual rights over black women. In this way, white men were able to deny the honour and personhood of black women, ensuring that their own sexual violence was neither recognized nor punished, further entrenching the view that they were not capable of being rapists. Including white men into the discussion of rape, is essential as it provides a more nuanced and complete look at rape in South Africa and fills in longstanding contradictions and commissions in popular discourse.
The colonial legacy of framing white men as “incapable of being rapists” continues to influence contemporary discourse on rape in South Africa. Public narratives, media portrayals, and even academic literature tend to disproportionately focus on black men as perpetrators of rape, often portraying them as hypersexual, violent, and predatory. This framing echoes colonial ideologies that pathologized black masculinity while constructing white men as rational, moral, and beyond reproach. As a result, the sexual violence perpetrated by white men is frequently rendered invisible or downplayed in public discourse. Discussions about rape in South Africa often centre on poor, marginalized black men, reinforcing stereotypes and diverting attention from the violence committed by white men, particularly those in positions of power. This racialized framing affects how rape cases are reported, prosecuted, and perceived by society, as white men are less likely to be publicly associated with the image of a “rapist,” even when evidence exists to the contrary. It also shapes the experiences of survivors, as victims of white male perpetrators may face additional hurdles in having their cases believed or taken seriously. By failing to confront the role of white men in the continuum of sexual violence, South African discourse on rape remains incomplete, reinforcing the colonial myth of white moral superiority while continuing to pathologize black men. To develop a more comprehensive understanding of rape, it is essential to expose and challenge the historical roots of these narratives, ensuring that white men are no longer exempt from the accountability that is so forcefully applied to black men. Decolonizing the discourse on rape requires broadening the scope of analysis to include all perpetrators, regardless of race, and dismantling the colonial logic that continues to shape modern perceptions of sexual violence.
In conclusion, the rape crisis in South Africa cannot be understood solely as a series of isolated acts of violence, but rather as the product of deeply entrenched historical, social, and legal structures rooted in colonialism and apartheid. The normalization of rape, particularly against black women, is an inheritance of these eras, where racist and patriarchal systems devalued their bodies and lives. The failure to address this crisis by figures like the late Minister of Safety and Security, exemplifies the ongoing neglect in acknowledging and confronting the broader societal and structural forces that sustain this violence. This essay has aimed to provide a more nuanced analysis of rape in South Africa, considering not only its contemporary manifestations but also its origins and evolution within systems of power, inequality, and racial injustice. Addressing this crisis requires more than superficial responses; it necessitates a recognition of the historical legacies of violence and an unwavering commitment to dismantling the intersecting systems of oppression that perpetuate it. Only through such an understanding can meaningful change be envisioned for the future.
Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: South African spectators watching a football match, Image source from Wikimedia Commons | CC License, no changes made