There was no great public outcry for the drafting and adoption of the Basic Education Laws Amendment (BELA) Act, no groundswell of parents demanding that school governing bodies lose their power over admissions or language policies, no mass protests clamouring for provincial education departments to dictate what local communities have long decided for themselves … and yet, here we are. With the stroke of a pen, President Cyril Ramaphosa has enacted legislation that few seemed to want, but that the political class was determined to impose.
The story of BELA is not just one of creeping centralisation. It is a cautionary tale of how political elites and their factional pressures can converge to override the will of the public. It is a story of how power, once concentrated, rarely returns to the people. And it is a story of how the institutions meant to protect our freedoms − political parties, civil society, even our own vigilance − have faltered, leaving communities weaker and the state stronger.
An inevitability, but not a certainty
To say the signing of BELA was inevitable is true − but only in the political sense. Once Parliament passed the legislation, the machinery of the Constitution left Ramaphosa with little room for manoeuvre. However, South African presidents have historically demonstrated a remarkable ability to delay legislation they find politically inconvenient or simply too unbothered to assent. Several bills, from the Criminal Law (Sexual Offences and Related Matters) Amendment Act to the Administrative Adjudication of Road Traffic Offences Act, languished unsigned for years under both Ramaphosa and his predecessors.
Ramaphosa’s decision to sign BELA into law, therefore, was not simply a constitutional obligation. It was a political calculation. The ANC’s internal dynamics apparently left him with no choice but to proceed. Panyaza Lesufi, the leading figure in the ANC’s Gauteng faction, has long championed policies that centralise control over education and weaken the autonomy of schools. Lesufi’s influence − and his open disdain for Afrikaans as a medium of instruction − made it clear that Ramaphosa’s hesitation could only last so long.
But other external pressures were just as significant. The Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF) have made the BELA Act a cornerstone of their post-2024 election campaign to dismantle what they say are the vestiges of apartheid in South African schools. This has placed Ramaphosa in an uncomfortable position. To delay signing BELA further would have risked accusations of pandering to “white supremacist interests,” a label the EFF deploys with gleeful abandon.
Is BELA really that bad?
Some may question whether the BELA Act is truly as problematic as its critics suggest. On the surface, it claims to promote inclusivity and equity − noble goals in a country still grappling with the legacies of apartheid. But just a cursory reading of BELA reveals its troubling implications. Under the South African Schools Act (SASA) of 1996, the post-apartheid education system deliberately moved away from the centralised, state-controlled education model that characterised apartheid. Instead, it empowered local school communities through democratically elected School Governing Bodies (SGBs) to set policies on admissions and language, ensuring decisions reflected the unique needs and demographics of individual schools and their communities.
BELA undoes much of this decentralised framework. Through its contentious sections 4 and 5, the Act shifts these powers to provincial heads of education departments, consolidating authority in the hands of bureaucrats who may be far removed from the specific challenges and dynamics of individual schools. This marks a significant departure from the post-apartheid vision of educational governance and, in doing so, undermines the principle of community-driven decision-making. Most strikingly, this rollback of democratic local autonomy in favour of centralised control is now being happily accepted by the Democratic Alliance (DA) − once a staunch defender of decentralisation − because it has secured a seat at the GNU table. The party’s newfound willingness to acquiesce to ANC centralisation undermines its credibility and leaves its supporters wondering whether the principles of local governance and accountability have been sacrificed for political expediency.
The DA’s convenient opposition
In South African politics, opposition parties rarely wear white hats. The DA, South Africa’s former main opposition, played its initial part in resisting BELA. But its motives, as always, were more complex than they appeared.
At face value, the DA’s opposition was rooted in principle. BELA’s centralising tendencies and its potential impact on mother-tongue education are genuine concerns. Yet beneath the surface, the DA’s resistance was as much about political expedience as it was about ideology. Opposing the ANC’s legislative agenda is a natural reflex for any opposition party, and BELA provided an opportunity to galvanise one of its core constituencies − many of whom view Afrikaans-medium schools as cultural touchstones worth preserving.
The irony, however, lies in the DA’s newfound proximity to power. As a partner in the Government of National Unity (GNU), the DA now finds itself in an awkward position. Minister of Basic Education Siviwe Gwarube, a DA member, will oversee the implementation of BELA’s norms and standards. This arrangement has allowed the DA to frame itself as a moderating force within the GNU. But it has also diluted the party’s oppositional fervour, leaving critics to wonder whether the DA’s resistance to BELA was ever truly resolute.
And this raises an important question: what, if anything, would cause the DA to leave the GNU? Time and again, the ANC has pursued policies that seem to contradict the DA’s stated principles. From BELA to the National Health Insurance (NHI) Bill to the unresolved Phala Phala scandal, the ANC has repeatedly crossed lines that the DA once claimed were non-negotiable. Yet the DA remains firmly in the GNU, toeing the line and softening its opposition. Has the DA finally succumbed to the “ANC lite” allegations that have dogged it for years? Or has its seat at the GNU table become more important than its principles?
Criticism of the DA’s decision to join the GNU now seems increasingly justified. Many warned that such an alliance would weaken the DA’s commitment to principles like federalism, decentralisation, and its role as a strong opposition to ANC overreach. Concerns were also raised about how the GNU relegated the DA to administrative roles with limited influence, leaving the ANC firmly in control of key ministries and the legislative agenda. The passage of the BELA highlights these fears, as the DA’s alignment with the ANC’s centralising policies has eroded its ideological distinctiveness and its ability to act as a counterbalance to ANC dominance. Calls for the DA to remain independent appear vindicated, as its participation in the GNU increasingly looks like a trade-off of principles for proximity to power.
The role of civil society
No discussion of BELA would be complete without examining the role of the civil society organisations, AfriForum and Solidarity. These organisations were firmly in the spotlight ever since Cyril Ramaphosa phoned Kallie Kriel and Dirk Hermann to discuss their concerns regarding BELA before he assented the Act. These groups, ostensibly non-partisan, have emerged as powerful players in the South African political landscape and one could argue have even more importance now given the coopting of most former opposition parties in the GNU. Their opposition to BELA is vocal and impassioned, and their ability to mobilise public opinion should not be underestimated.
Yet their framing of the Act’s implementation now that the Bill has become the Act − particularly the emphasis on regulations as a mitigating factor − is revealing. Both organisations have portrayed the forthcoming norms and standards as a potential safeguard against BELA’s centralising tendencies. This narrative serves an important purpose: it allows them to claim a partial victory, even in the face of legislative defeat.
But let us be clear: this is pure public relations spin. Regulations, while important, cannot contradict the legislation they are designed to implement. The BELA Act, as passed, grants provincial education heads sweeping powers over school admissions and language policies. Regulations may shape the exercise of these powers, but they cannot overturn the centralising logic of the Act itself. AfriForum’s well-documented efforts to protect schools highlight its broader strategy of focusing on this emotive issue, yet the hard truth remains that the BELA represents a legislative defeat for those who champion decentralised governance and community autonomy.
How did we get here?
Polling has shown that 89% of South Africans objected to the BELA Act. While such figures may not be entirely representative, they raise an important point: there was no significant public outcry demanding the changes that BELA introduces. Before this legislation was even tabled, there was no widespread movement calling for the centralisation of school admissions or language policies. This begs the question: how did we get here?
The answer lies in a confluence of failures across multiple fronts. The legislative process allowed a bill, widely opposed by the public, to pass with minimal legislative scrutiny. Political parties failed to uphold the principles they claimed to represent, and civil society, while vocal, was ultimately unable to marshal the kind of resistance that could halt the BELA’s momentum. More importantly, we must confront the uncomfortable reality that as citizens, we have allowed this to happen. The institutions that are meant to reflect our will and protect our interests − parliament, political parties, civil society organisations − are only as strong as the public’s engagement with them.
Conclusion
Schools have always been a critical battleground in South African politics. The Soweto Uprising of 1976, was a defining moment in our nation’s history, which erupted over the imposition of Afrikaans as the medium of instruction in what were then black schools. While the context today is vastly different, the parallels are striking. Then, as now, education became a locus for political control and conflict, with decisions imposed from the top down, igniting resistance from communities who felt their voices had been ignored.
The BELA may not trigger protests of the scale seen in 1976, but it is a continuation of this troubling tradition of using schools as ideological battlegrounds. Instead of recognising the importance of local decision-making and cultural autonomy, the Act shifts power to provincial bureaucracies, far removed from the communities they claim to serve. This centralisation, under the guise of equity, risks undermining the very principles of inclusion and diversity it purports to uphold.
Perhaps the most sobering lesson of the BELA is not just how far we have strayed from the democratic ideals of decentralisation, but how easily we have allowed it to happen.
If there is a silver lining to this story, it is the reminder that while the GNU may be new, the parties involved are still as skew.
The views of the writer are not necessarily the views of the Daily Friend or the IRR.
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