Women's Rights

One of my favourite protest songs rings out every year on August 9, which is Women’s Day in South Africa. The song works as a call and response: one set of voices cries out, “You have struck a woman,” while another set responds, “so, you have struck a rock!”

The chant dates back to the historic protest that gave South Africa’s Women’s Day its date and meaning. In 1956, 20,000 women marched on the Union Buildings in Pretoria in opposition to “pass laws” that the apartheid regime was seeking to extend to African women. African men were already subject to the indignity of carrying passes, and with this latest move, thousands of domestic workers across the country immediately understood that they too would be subjected to random stops and searches by police. What little freedom of mobility they enjoyed would be snatched away.

Led by the multiracial Federation of South African Women (FEDSAW) and the Women’s League of the African National Congress (ANC), a group of politically engaged women organised a petition and a march to oppose the incoming laws.

After months of hard work, thousands of women, most of them Black, woke up at the crack of dawn and began to make their way to the Union Buildings, the seat of power of the Afrikaner government. By nine that morning, they had gathered in front of the office of the Minister for Native Affairs.

It was no accident that the rally took place on a Thursday, which was also known as “Sheila’s Day.” In the 1950s and 1960s, Sheila was a generic name used to describe Black women who were domestic workers; a casual way for white women employers to refer to the African women who worked in their homes without having to remember their actual individual names. Most madams gave their staff Thursdays off and so it came to be known as Sheila’s Day.

As a delegation handed over a petition, the women broke out in song, pointedly addressing then Prime Minister JG Strijdom and insisting, “Strijdom, you have struck the women, so you have struck a rock!”

I was a young feminist in the 1990s and I remember singing that song countless times at rallies, protesting gender-based violence and calling for treatment for pregnant women living with HIV and AIDS. I remember, too, the stories of older women who marched on August 9, who reminded younger activists that many of them had taken to the streets over the objections of their husbands and fellow male comrades. They explained that at the time they did not have the language to explain how race, class and gender intersected; they just knew how sexism felt in their bodies.

By the time we were marching for a new set of rights, they had gifted us the language and analysis to describe how race, class and gender shaped women’s experiences. Their stories also showed us that sexism did not sit neatly outside the struggle against apartheid: women could stand alongside men in a liberation movement while still having to fight for equality with those same men. This was one of the most important legacies of the women’s march in 1956.

The rally that day failed to stop the pass laws, but it had a far more significant impact on the South African political landscape, effectively launching the South African women’s movement. The momentum and defiance of that day gave women in subsequent generations a blueprint for activism and analysis.

When apartheid ended in 1994, many of the women who had been at the forefront of the march in 1956 were still active in politics. The movement they had helped build was such a powerful force in the transition to democracy that almost a third of the incoming parliament comprised women, making South Africa one of only a handful of countries with such strong women’s representation in politics.

Once they were in power, the daughters of 1956 pushed through numerous legal and policy changes on reproductive rights, customary law and marriage – and the rights of domestic workers.

As a result of their efforts, South Africa has some of the most progressive laws and policies promoting gender equity and equality in the world. More than 30 years after the end of apartheid, women still constitute about 45 percent of parliamentarians and 44 percent of ministers.

Yet these gains have not translated into safety. South Africa’s first national gender-based violence study found that 33.1 percent of women aged 18 and older had experienced physical violence in their lifetime, while one in five men surveyed admitted to perpetrating physical or sexual intimate partner violence. The persistence of such violence exposes the limits of formal equality: laws can change faster than the attitudes, relationships and behaviours that shape women’s lives.

The same gap between formal rights and lived reality is evident in economic life. The disconnect between the rights enjoyed by women in positions of power who have helped shape South Africa’s laws and the lives of women in the poor communities to which they are accountable is stark.

South African women living in poverty are besieged by high levels of unemployment, gender-based violence and poor access to health and education services, while middle-class women enjoy many of the privileges once reserved for whites only. This is because in the last 30 years the ANC-led government has done little to dismantle the underlying economic structures that upheld apartheid. Formal equality has not translated into material equality for millions of women.

It is hard to find hope for women in South Africa’s statistics. Indeed, many women I know don’t celebrate Women’s Day – they are weary. Yet the women’s movement that the march helped galvanise 70 years ago still has much to teach us.

The lesson we learn from the vibrant movement that was created that day is that gender equality cannot be driven by women’s demands alone. Real progress requires call and response. Women have been making the call for generations. It is time for men to respond.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

Deir el-Balah, Gaza – For years, Nuha Abu Lebda dreamed of becoming a mother. But Israel’s genocidal war on Gaza has turned that dream into loss, time and time again.

As she was forcibly displaced several times across the Gaza Strip since the war began in October 2023, Abu Lebda lost three pregnancies. She says the losses came after months of air strikes, hunger, fear and living without proper medical care.

“I miscarried because of the air strikes, the displacement, the difficult conditions, the lack of clean water and malnutrition,” she tells Al Jazeera.

After each miscarriage, she hoped she could still become a mother.

“When I lost my baby, I was exhausted. I woke up hoping my baby was still inside me. But the dream I carried for 10 years was gone.”

Abu Lebda sold her gold and almost everything she owned to pay for injections of heparin, a drug prescribed to some women to prevent blood clotting during pregnancy. She hoped the treatment would help her bring her pregnancies to term, but she lost the babies despite it.

“I cried so much because I lost the baby I dreamed of every single day,” she laments.

Even after the fighting slowed, her dream remained the same. “I dream of bringing a baby into this world. I want to be a mother and have children. Every time I see my husband playing with children, I start crying.”

Medical officials in Gaza say they are treating a surge in miscarriages, which they link directly to Israel’s genocidal war and blockade. The trend has worsened as Gaza’s health system has collapsed under bombardments and Israeli ground operations with malnutrition and psychological strain cited as key drivers.

Dr Yasser Saadeddine, the maternity director at al-Awda Hospital in Deir el-Balah in central Gaza, told Al Jazeera roughly 70 percent of pregnancy losses his team treats are linked to the war and blockade.

‘I lost my daughter during childbirth’

Abu Lebda is one of many women in Gaza who say they have lost pregnancies during the war. They describe miscarriages, premature births and losing newborns while trying to survive bombardments, displacement, hunger and the collapsing healthcare system.

Mai Zaqout tells Al Jazeera she lost her daughter because she could not access the medical care she needed.

“I lost my daughter during childbirth. She had already died inside my womb for a month, but I could not deliver her because the medical resources and support I needed were not available,” she says.

Her loss came shortly after another tragedy. “All of this happened within a very short time after my husband was killed.”

For Sara al-Awad, she had a scare when she was eight months pregnant. She says powerful explosions in Tal al-Hawa, a neighbourhood in Gaza City, caused extreme fear and stress, leading to severe bleeding.

“Because of the fear, anxiety and the power of the explosions, I started bleeding. My placenta had separated.”

Al-Awad says no ambulance could reach her, and she waited for hours before her brother took her to al-Quds Hospital in a wheelchair. “The doctors decided I needed an emergency C-section immediately.”

Her baby, Muhammad, was born weighing only 1.1kg (2.4lb) and was placed in an incubator. But as fighting continued around the hospital, Sara and her family were separated from him.

“My brother had to leave for the south while Muhammad stayed alone in the incubator. We could only check on him through messages from the medical staff,” she says.

After more than a month, al-Awad was finally reunited with her baby. “Thank God, the ceasefire came. … Muhammad left the incubator after 37 days.”

‘I witnessed horrific situations’

Across Gaza, other women have similar stories.

For Iman Badah, the loss was of the child she had waited years for.

“I am a mother who lost my only son. I waited six years to have him. I gave birth prematurely while I was being displaced,” she tells Al Jazeera.

Nuha Salameh was carrying twins during the war. “Fear and trauma caused me to lose them.”

She says doctors told her that, before the war, her babies may have survived.

“The doctor told me that if the situation had been normal, we would have placed them in the incubator, and they would have lived.”

Nidaa Seyam says she experienced her second miscarriage during the war. “I lost a baby girl, and this is the second time I have miscarried.”

She says doctors told her the war conditions affected her pregnancy. “They told me it was because of the psychological stress we are living through and malnutrition.”

She also describes surviving intense bombardment.

“I witnessed horrific situations where I was trapped under air strikes. I inhaled a lot of toxic fumes.”

‘War, blockade, malnutrition, displacement’

Palestinian doctors say these stories are becoming more common.

They report more miscarriages and pregnancy complications linked to hunger, stress, displacement and the lack of medical care.

At al-Awda Hospital, doctors say they have seen a major increase in pregnancy losses.

“During the war, there was a significant increase in miscarriage cases we received,” Saadeddine says.

He says the causes include “the war and the blockade, including malnutrition, poor hygiene, environmental contamination and continuous displacement”.

Doctors say miscarriages are only one part of the crisis. They are also seeing more babies dying in the womb, more premature deliveries and more dangerous pregnancy complications.

Many women lost their homes, medical records and access to regular check-ups during repeated displacements. Hospitals are also struggling with shortages of medicines, equipment and medical staff.

For many mothers, the war has left wounds that continue to hurt even after most of the fighting has stopped. For women in Gaza, the war has not ended with October’s “ceasefire”. It continues with every pregnancy lost, and every dream of motherhood left unfulfilled.

After years of closure due to war, hospitals in the Sudanese capital are welcoming mothers again, despite lingering economic and logistical hurdles.

In the Sudanese city of Omdurman, the maternity hospital, known locally as Al-Dayat or ‘Midwives” in English, has resumed operations after a long closure caused by the war. Mothers are once again arriving at maternity wards, navigating difficult economic and logistical conditions to give birth safely.

Al-Toma Jabara, a mother from East Nile, gave birth to her daughter, Doaa, at the hospital two days ago. She told Al Jazeera that she was unable to conceive during the war years. Fighting between the Sudanese armed forces and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) separated Jabara from her husband for two years.

She has lived under constant bombardment and clashes in her home, making a normal family life seem impossible. She described Doaa’s arrival as a “new beginning” for her family after years of fear and deprivation.

At Bahri Hospital, Fatima Abdel Rahman, a mother from Al Jazirah state, recounted her exhausting and expensive journey to the capital Khartoum. Her family had to spend a large portion of their income on transportation and temporary accommodation near the facility to monitor her condition post-delivery.

Abdel Rahman noted that medication shortages forced her to buy basic drugs from outside pharmacies at inflated prices, adding to her financial burden. However, she stressed that the functioning maternity ward provided her with a vital sense of safety, sparing her the fear of dying due to lack of medical care – a constant dread she lived with during the war.

Rebuilding the shattered health sector

During the conflict, the closure of specialised maternity hospitals forced many women to undergo unsafe home births or travel long distances, drastically increasing risks for both mothers and infants. An anonymous official from the Khartoum State Ministry of Health confirmed that maternal and infant complications and mortality rates surged during the war due to closures.

The official told Al Jazeera that complication rates are now gradually decreasing as services resume. The health ministry has repaired and reopened 15 maternity wards across the capital, including Al-Dayat and the Saudi Hospital. The capital’s hospitals are now recording a significant increase in births, reaching about 7,000 new deliveries per month.

Emad Abdullah, director of the Omdurman Maternity Hospital, noted that it initially received only one or two cases a day upon reopening. Today, that number has climbed to approximately 60 births per day, as services expand to meet growing demand.

The hospital has several vital departments, including a caesarean section, an intensive care unit and a neonatal department equipped with about 140 incubators, making it the largest in Sudan.

Rising costs and logistical nightmares

Maternity costs vary significantly depending on the facility. At government hospitals, a natural birth typically costs about 130,000 Sudanese pounds ($216), while C-sections cost around 400,000 pounds ($666). In private hospitals, the cost of a natural birth shoots up to approximately 500,000 pounds ($813) and C-sections range between 600-800,000 pounds ($999-1,322), depending on the service level.

Despite the reopening of wards in Khartoum, Omdurman and Bahri, large challenges remain with patients from distant regions such as Al Jazirah and Kordofan facing exhausting journeys and exorbitant transport costs.

In the hospitals, there is a shortage of basic medicines and emergency rooms often operate beyond their capacity. In addition, the wartime exodus of doctors and nurses has left a critical gap in qualified staff, while essential medical equipment needs regular maintenance to keep up with demand.

Amira Othman Abdel Majeed, an infection control officer at Bahri Hospital, described the war as the most challenging period for the health sector, marred by severe shortages of supplies, electricity and water. That has imposed psychological pressure on medical staff who feared losing mothers and children during treatment.

However, she said the “liberation of Khartoum” and the resumption of maternity services have dramatically changed the landscape. Staff emerged stronger and more resilient, with the ongoing medical care serving as a prime symbol of the capital’s recovering health sector.