Dignity and labour: Volunteer Food Handlers demand justice and access to UIF

It has long been a moral, ethical—and indeed legal and philosophical—question: What is dignity? Who deserves it? Why is it important?

Fortunately, for the people of South Africa, the question of dignity is not merely rhetorical. It is a constitutional imperative. Section 10 of the Constitution affirms unequivocally: “Everyone has inherent dignity and the right to have their dignity respected and protected.”

And yet, for the food handlers who worked tirelessly in our school kitchens—feeding children, maintaining hygienic environments, and ensuring that the school ecosystem could function—this right to dignity has come under assault.

The process of claiming from the Unemployment Insurance Fund (UIF) has been nothing short of traumatic for these workers. Many have encountered rejection, bureaucratic runarounds, and a seemingly endless stream of administrative stumbling blocks. For women already grappling with financial insecurity after the end of their two-year contracts, these hurdles are not just inconvenient—they are devastating.

When they were working, many food handlers report being treated with a semblance of respect, due to the visible importance of their role: ensuring that children were fed and able to concentrate in class. They upheld the dignity of the school—and by extension, the Department of Education—through their care, labour, and consistency. But now, with their contracts ended, they feel discarded. Their labour, once seen as essential, is rendered invisible. Their dignity, once faintly acknowledged, now outright denied.

To deny dignity to any person is to suggest that their humanity is lesser, their worth inferior. In this context, the erasure of the food handlers’ dignity is not only a personal injury—it is a political disgrace. It undermines the very democratic values that South Africa claims to uphold. It is a betrayal of the constitutional promise of equality and fairness. And it dishonours the struggles of the many freedom fighters who envisioned a society in which the most vulnerable are protected, not forgotten.

Dignity is not abstract. Its violation has material consequences. It is deeply traumatic to be unseen and unheard by the very systems meant to serve and protect. It eats away at the ability to show up for oneself, for one’s children, for one’s community. It deprives people not just of benefits, but of belief.

The food handlers, like many women in the care work sector, navigate working environments that mirror the conditions of domestic labour: cooking, cleaning, emotional care, physical strain, and the psychological toll of being constantly undervalued. In these roles, they are vulnerable to both subtle and overt forms of abuse—forms that are normalised, overlooked, or dismissed outright.

This mistreatment did not begin with the UIF process. It is cumulative. It includes their exclusion from school staff functions. It includes the casual accusations of theft without proper investigation. It includes being denied basic tools and cleaning equipment, and having to purchase or bring their own. It includes being overworked and—crucially—not being credited for the full hours they worked, which directly impacts the UIF they are eligible to receive.

These indignities are not isolated incidents. They are systemic patterns that speak to how society views poor Black women: as disposable, voiceless, unworthy of care or compensation.

And yet, in the face of this injustice, the food handlers have not surrendered. Through their monthly gatherings, they continue to hold space for each other—spaces marked by radical care, compassion, and mutual respect. In these rooms, they are not invisible. They are seen. They are heard. They are believed.

These moments of community have given them the strength to continue fighting—not only for their UIF claims, but for the broader recognition of their dignity and rights as workers and women.