PsySSA Decolonising Division (DPD)
She sat on the clinic chair with her shoulders folded inward, as if trying to shrink from the world that had suddenly become too loud, too cruel, too invasive. “I didn’t think it would follow me home,” she whispered. “But it’s on Facebook… on TikTok… even my little cousin saw it.”
She is nineteen. Her story is one I have heard too many times in different variations the trusting conversation, the shared photo, the quiet belief that intimacy will remain intimate. But in a matter of hours, her private world became public property. Her images were stolen, edited, mocked, and circulated by strangers who would never know her name yet felt entitled to her body, her dignity, and her pain.
There were no bruises to show the nurses. There was no fracture in the X-ray machine. But her world had collapsed. Her mother said she barely left her room. She said she barely slept. She said she no longer recognised her daughter’s voice.
This is the new face of violence in South Africa: silent, borderless, and devastating.
Our country has long been haunted by the shadow of gender-based violence. Statistics South Africa (2024) confirms that one in three women will experience physical or sexual violence, a number that reflects only those who managed to speak. But the terrain has shifted. Violence now slips into digital spaces, where the assault is repeated every time someone views, shares, downloads, or laughs. In this new frontier, harm does not end when the perpetrator walks away; it lingers, replayed endlessly in the survivor’s mind.
Amnesty International (2023) notes that nearly 40% of South African women have experienced online harassment. Behind that number are real lives: the Grade 12 learner bullied by classmates after her private messages were leaked; the young professional whose career stalled when intimate images were weaponised against her; the village girl whose family shamed her instead of supporting her. Digital violence strips away safety, identity, and belonging and the psychological wounds are often deeper than what we see in therapy rooms.
As psychologists, we need to recognise that digital violence is not about technology alone. It is born from old patterns of power, gendered, cultural, and historical that have simply moved into modern spaces. A decolonial perspective reminds us that Black women, especially, carry layered vulnerabilities. Their bodies have long been sites of exploitation and scrutiny, and the digital world merely amplifies those inherited injustices.
Responding to this requires more than therapy. It requires compassion, community, and the courage to confront the systems that enable this harm. It demands that we listen without judgment, validate without hesitation, and support without condition.
To every woman and girl who has endured this unseen assault: your pain is real. Your fear is understood. Your story matters.
And to all of us, families, educators, colleagues, partners may these days urge us not into slogans, but into empathy. We urge you to stand firm for dignity, for justice, and for a digital world where freedom does not come at the cost of one’s humanity.
Let us create homes, schools, workplaces, and digital spaces where a woman’s dignity is not negotiable, where her voice is safe, and where her existence does not come with a cost.
Because violence may evolve, but so must our humanity.
