We bent, we broke, we are still rising

THE day Sizwe Gumede died in my car changed me forever.

- PREVIN VEDAN

In July 2021, during what became known as the “July Unrest,” Sizwe, my administrator and confidant, suffered a fatal asthma attack while seated next to me. We were racing toward RK Khan Hospital, less than two minutes away. Hours earlier, he had been refused a R1 Prednisone tablet by a pharmacy. I turned from the road to check on him, saw his fingers flicker, then felt him collapse against me.

At the hospital, doctors declared him dead. I insisted they try to revive him; I could not fathom how someone who minutes earlier had been preparing a meeting was suddenly gone.

I did not cry. I did not scream. As a South African man, I had been taught to soldier on, bury grief, and always be strong for others. Minutes later, I chaired the meeting he had prepared, speaking in a steady voice to calm community tensions, the same tensions that had led the pharmacist to refuse him service.

That day, I learned how deadly silence can be.

In our communities, boys are told to “toughen up” before they understand what softness means. Survival shaped every lesson, leaving no space for vulnerability. We learned to wear invisible armour, hiding pain behind humour, overwork, or withdrawal.

The consequences are stark; around 14 000 South Africans die by suicide annually, 75% of them men. Suicide is the second leading cause of death among those aged 15-29.

Silence is killing men.