The sun was barely over the horizon when they began to gather. First a dozen, then a hundred, then a thousand. Young men and women, some still in their teens, others well into their thirties, clutching stacks of printed CVs and wearing expressions that hovered somewhere between hope and desperation.
By 9 a.m. on Tuesday, the intersection at Reverend RTJ Namane Drive and Elijah Barayi Street in Tswelopele, Tembisa, was a sea of youthful faces. They carried no weapons. They chanted no violent slogans. They held up handwritten signs that read: “We are not lazy, we are unemployed,” “Hire local first,” and “Our parents are tired of feeding us.”
Led by the Labour and Civic Organization (LACO), a grassroots movement that has gained traction in Gauteng’s townships over the past year, the marchers set off on a route that would take them through the industrial heartlands of Tembisa, Olifantsfontein, and Midrand. Their target: factories, warehouses, and distribution centers that they say prefer to hire undocumented foreign nationals over South African citizens.
“We are not here to fight,” said Thabo Nkosi, a 27-year-old mechanical engineering graduate who has been unemployed for three years. “We are here to work. That is all we want. A chance. A job. A future. But the gates are locked. The doors are closed. And the people inside are not us.”
By the time the march wound down in the late afternoon, the results were modest but meaningful. According to LACO organizers, at least 21 young people had secured job offers or on-the-spot interviews after handing out resumes directly to factory managers willing to engage. But for every one who walked away with a job, dozens more walked away with nothing—their CVs ignored, their pleas unanswered, their hope a little more frayed.
The March Route
The procession moved with a discipline that belied the frustration simmering beneath the surface. Marshals wearing bright yellow vests directed traffic and kept the marchers on the sidewalks. A small contingent of police officers followed at a distance, monitoring for any signs of unrest. There were none.
The first stop was the industrial park in Tswelopele, a cluster of warehouses and light manufacturing units that once hummed with activity. Today, many of the units stood empty. Those that remained open had high walls, barbed wire, and security guards who watched the approaching crowd with nervous eyes.
“We are not here to break anything,” LACO organizer Mpho Letsoalo called out through a megaphone as the marchers paused outside a food processing plant. “We are here to deliver our CVs. We are here to ask for work. Open your gates. Talk to us. Give us a chance.”
A few gates did open. A handful of managers, perhaps moved by the spectacle or simply curious, came out to accept resumes. At a packaging factory in Olifantsfontein, a human resources officer spent nearly an hour speaking with young job seekers, collecting CVs, and promising to “review them internally.”
But most gates remained locked. Most security guards stood firm. Most factories went about their business as if a thousand young people were not gathered outside their walls, pleading for the dignity of work.
“They don’t see us,” said Precious Mthembu, a 24-year-old who completed a business administration course in 2023. “We are invisible to them. We stand outside their gates every day, holding our CVs, waiting for a chance. And they drive past us in their cars. They don’t even look.”
The Numbers That Drive Despair
The desperation on display in Tembisa and Midrand is not born of laziness or entitlement. It is born of cold, hard statistics that paint a grim picture of South Africa’s jobs crisis.
According to Statistics South Africa’s Quarterly Labour Force Survey for the fourth quarter of 2025, the country’s official unemployment rate stood at 31.4%—one of the highest in the world. For young people aged 15 to 34, the picture is even bleaker: 43.8% are without work. For those aged 15 to 24—the so-called “lost generation”—the rate skyrockets to 57%.
That means more than half of South Africa’s youngest adults are neither in employment nor in education or training. They are at home, in the townships, on the streets, their days stretching endlessly in front of them with no structure, no purpose, no paycheck.
“I finished matric in 2019,” said Sipho Dlamini, a 24-year-old from Tembisa who joined the march. “I have applied for over 500 jobs. I have gone to interviews. I have done learnerships. I have done everything they told me to do. And I am still sitting here, with nothing. My mother is a domestic worker. She cannot support me forever. But what am I supposed to do?”
Economists point to a combination of factors: slow economic growth, deindustrialization, a mismatch between skills and labor market needs, and a regulatory environment that some say discourages hiring. But for the young people on the march, the explanation is simpler and more visceral: they believe foreigners are taking their jobs.
The Foreign National Debate
The issue of undocumented foreign nationals in the South African labor market is highly contentious and politically explosive. Employers in sectors like logistics, security, hospitality, and domestic work often argue that foreign nationals are more willing to accept lower wages, longer hours, and poorer working conditions—making them attractive hires in a competitive, low-margin environment.
Critics say this creates a race to the bottom, undercutting South African workers who refuse to work for below-minimum wages.
“We are not against foreign nationals,” said LACO leader Andile Mahlangu, addressing the crowd during a stop in Olifantsfontein. “We are against the system that allows employers to exploit undocumented workers while ignoring South African citizens who are ready and willing to work. We are against the broken immigration system that lets people cross our borders without papers and walk straight into jobs that should go to our children.”
The South African government has acknowledged the problem. In 2024, the Department of Employment and Labour launched a crackdown on employers hiring undocumented foreign nationals, conducting raids at factories and farms across the country. Hundreds of undocumented workers were arrested and deported. But critics say the enforcement has been sporadic and insufficient.
“The law is clear: employers must verify the immigration status of their workers,” said immigration lawyer Fatima Khan. “But enforcement is weak, penalties are low, and the incentive to look the other way remains strong. As long as it is cheaper and easier to hire undocumented workers, employers will do it. The government needs to make it expensive and difficult.”
The 21 Success Stories
Despite the locked gates and the overwhelming odds, the march did produce tangible results. By late Tuesday afternoon, LACO organizers had confirmed that at least 21 young people had been offered jobs or invited for formal interviews.
At a logistics warehouse in Midrand, a manager accepted 15 CVs and offered four people casual positions starting the following week. At a cleaning services company in Olifantsfontein, two young women were hired on the spot as office cleaners. At a small manufacturing unit in Tswelopele, a young man with welding qualifications was told to report for a skills test on Wednesday.
“For those 21 people, today changed their lives,” said Mahlangu. “But what about the other 1,000? What about the 2,000? We cannot celebrate 21 jobs when we need 21,000. This is a drop in the ocean. And the ocean is drowning our young people.”
One of the successful applicants was Nomsa Dlamini (no relation to Sipho), a 22-year-old from Tembisa who had been searching for work since dropping out of a tourism course due to lack of funds. She was hired as a general worker at a food packaging plant in Olifantsfontein, earning a starting wage of R3,500 per month.
“I cried when they told me,” she said, clutching her offer letter as if it were made of gold. “I have been trying for so long. My mother was going to lose our house. Now I can help her. I can pay the rent. I can buy food. I can live.”
But even as she celebrated, she acknowledged the unfairness of it all. “Why me? Why not the person standing next to me? She has a degree. I have nothing. It doesn’t make sense. The system doesn’t make sense.”
The Political Response
The march drew muted responses from political parties, perhaps a sign of how sensitive the issue of foreign nationals has become in an election year.
The African National Congress (ANC), which has governed South Africa since the end of apartheid, issued a brief statement acknowledging the marchers’ “legitimate grievances” and promising to “accelerate job creation initiatives.” But the party did not send any senior representatives to the march, and its statement made no mention of the role of undocumented foreign nationals.
The Democratic Alliance (DA) called for “comprehensive immigration reform” and “stricter enforcement of labor laws,” but stopped short of endorsing the marchers’ call to prioritize South Africans over foreign nationals.
The Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF) took a harder line, with leader Julius Malema tweeting: “Foreigners must not take jobs from South Africans. Our people are suffering. Close the borders. Hire our youth.” The EFF sent a delegation to the march, though Malema himself did not attend.
ActionSA, which has made immigration enforcement a central plank of its platform, was the most visible political presence, with several local councillors walking alongside the marchers and handing out water.
“We have been saying this for years,” said ActionSA’s Tembisa ward councillor, Thabo Msimango. “Our young people are desperate. They are angry. They are being ignored. If the government does not act, the anger will not stay peaceful forever. That is not a threat. It is a warning.”
The View from the Factories
Not all employers were hostile. At a plastics factory in Midrand, the owner—a middle-aged white man named Pieter van der Merwe—opened his gates and invited the marchers inside. He spoke to them for 20 minutes, accepted dozens of CVs, and offered two people temporary positions.
“I understand their frustration,” van der Merwe said afterward. “I have been in business for 30 years. I have seen the economy collapse. I have seen young people struggle. But I also have to keep my business alive. I cannot hire someone just because they are South African if they don’t have the skills I need. That is not racism. That is reality.”
He acknowledged, however, that some employers exploit undocumented workers. “There are bad actors. There are people who hire foreigners because they can pay them less and treat them worse. That is wrong. That should be stopped. But don’t paint all of us with the same brush.”
The Role of LACO
The Labour and Civic Organization, which led the march, is a relatively new player in South Africa’s labor landscape. Founded in 2024 by a group of disaffected trade unionists and community activists, LACO positions itself as a more militant, more grassroots alternative to the established union federations like COSATU and SAFTU.
“We are not a political party,” said Mahlangu. “We are not trying to win elections. We are trying to win jobs. We organize workers and job seekers directly. We knock on doors. We stand at factory gates. We march. We demand. And sometimes, like today, we deliver.”
LACO has been criticized by some for its hardline stance on foreign nationals, which some see as xenophobic. The organization rejects that label.
“We are not xenophobic,” Mahlangu insisted. “We have nothing against foreign nationals as people. We have everything against a system that allows employers to break the law. If the government enforced immigration laws properly, we wouldn’t need to march. We wouldn’t need to protest. Our young people would get jobs. It is that simple.”
The Human Cost of Unemployment
Behind the statistics and the politics are real people, living real lives of quiet desperation. The young men and women who marched on Tuesday are not abstract data points. They are sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, parents and partners. They are people who want to work, who want to contribute, who want to stand on their own two feet.
“I have a four-year-old daughter,” said Bongani Mkhize, a 29-year-old from Tembisa who has a diploma in logistics. “She asks me why I am always home. She asks me why I can’t buy her the same things her friends have. I don’t know what to tell her. I don’t have an answer. I just say, ‘Soon, baby. Soon.’ But soon never comes.”
Mkhize has worked odd jobs—cleaning cars, digging trenches, painting houses—but nothing permanent, nothing with benefits, nothing that allows him to plan for the future. He joined the march because, he said, “sitting at home wasn’t working.”
“Maybe this will change something,” he said, gesturing at the crowd. “Maybe someone will see us and realize we are not statistics. We are people. We are suffering. And we are tired of being ignored.”
What Comes Next
LACO has promised more marches in the coming weeks, targeting industrial areas in Germiston, Boksburg, and Springs. The organization is also planning a national “Day of Action” for May Day, when it hopes to mobilize tens of thousands of unemployed young people across all nine provinces.
“We are not going away,” said Mahlangu. “We are not going to stop. Every locked gate, every ignored CV, every empty promise from the government—it just makes us more determined. We will march until our young people have jobs. We will protest until the system changes. We will not be silent.”
For the 21 who found work on Tuesday, the march was a success. For the hundreds who did not, it was another day of hope deferred, another reminder that the gap between their dreams and their reality remains vast.
As the sun set over Tembisa, the marchers dispersed. Some went home to crowded shacks and hungry stomachs. Others gathered at a local tavern, spending their last coins on a beer to dull the pain of another rejection. A few sat on the pavement, staring at their phones, scrolling through job portals that never seemed to lead anywhere.
They are the young people of South Africa. They are educated, ambitious, and desperate. They are the future of a country that seems unsure whether it wants them. And they are marching—not with weapons, not with anger, but with CVs in hand and hope in their hearts—for the one thing that could change everything: a job.
The question is whether anyone in power is listening. And whether, this time, the gates will finally open.
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