By Tulani Ngwenya
Patricia Thwala is leading a quiet revolution in Thubelihle, Kriel, where coal-fired power stations dominate the skyline, but homes remain energy-poor. As founder of JP Nation Recycling Project NPC, a grassroots resistance initiative against extractive industries and municipal neglect, Thwala rallies youth and volunteers to reclaim toxic spaces through recycling, clean-ups, and climate justice awareness drives. No land. No funding. No formal support; just grit, solidarity, and a refusal to be erased by displacement, pollution, and neglect.
Faced with toxic air, dumped waste, and chronic health issues, Thwala’s team collects plastic bottles, cans, scrap metal, glass, and paper, turning recyclable collection into a modest source of income that has created part-time work for several local youth while restoring dignity to polluted spaces.
Yet despite operating in the shadow of mines like Dorsfontein West, the project receives no support from the extractive industry or the government. Instead, it draws strength from community collectives that offer moral solidarity even when material resources are scarce.
Thwala’s story questions dominant narratives about philanthropy and development. Who gets seen, funded, and supported in South Africa’s energy transition? And what does justice look like for communities living next to the very infrastructure that powers the nation but harms them?
Thubelihle, like many coal-adjacent communities in Mpumalanga, is caught in a paradox: proximity to energy infrastructure that does not guarantee access, safety, or dignity. “The biggest issue is air pollution from the mines, trucks, and power stations,” says Thwala. “It causes coughing, chest pains, and breathing problems, especially for children and the elderly.” Waste pollution compounds the crisis, with dumped rubbish attracting mosquitoes and creating hazardous living conditions.
Despite these challenges, JP Nation Recycling Project NPC has become a beacon of community-led resilience and has hopes for expansion. “Our dream is to have proper land and equipment to expand and formalise the project.” But formal recognition remains elusive. The municipality has not responded to requests for land or tools. “We are doing this with very limited resources, even though we are helping to clean the same community the municipality is responsible for,” Thwala notes.
Mining companies like Dorsfontein West Mine, operating nearby, have allegedly failed to engage. “They operate in our area, but they don’t give back to the community; our efforts are without infrastructure or institutional backing,” claims Thwala.
South Africa’s mining law, through the Mineral and Petroleum Resources Development Act, obliges companies to file Social and Labour Plans (SLPs) for local development. In practice, enforcement is weak, accountability is minimal, and many firms reduce SLPs to a compliance exercise rather than a binding social contract.
The absence of a broader corporate social responsibility law that mandates consistent and enforceable community investment leaves grassroots initiatives like JP Nation Recycling Project NPC in a policy vacuum. Without land, funding, or recognition, their work depends entirely on informal networks. This is how communities are sidelined in South Africa’s energy transition.
Mpumalanga’s coal belt hosts 12 of South Africa’s 15 coal-fired power stations, yet Thubelihle remains energy-poor and environmentally burdened. Many households still rely on coal stoves, paraffin, and wood fires for cooking and heating. Eskom’s Air Quality Offset Project has only recently begun reaching the area, aiming to shift households to electricity and liquefied petroleum gas. In Ezamokuhle, 91% of homes have already been upgraded with insulation and clean energy alternatives, but Thubelihle is still waiting for a full rollout.
This lack of reliable access to modern energy underscores the paradox: proximity to national energy infrastructure does not guarantee local benefit. According to the World Bank, in 2023, South Africa reported over 90% electrification coverage, yet coal-adjacent settlements like Thubelihle experience frequent outages, unaffordable tariffs, and dependence on polluting fuels.
The health burden compounds the energy poverty. According to the South African Medical Research Council (SAMRC), residents living near coal-fired power stations face a 6% higher risk of respiratory illness and premature death compared to those in districts without such infrastructure. Children under five are especially vulnerable, with elevated rates of asthma and bronchitis.
“Analysis of air quality data from the South African Air Quality Information System, alongside health statistics from Statistics South Africa and the National Department of Health, reinforces the link between air pollution and health impacts. The study confirms that air pollution increases hospital visits, especially for respiratory diseases like chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and tuberculosis,” stated Caradee Wright, Chief Specialist Scientist leading the Climate Change and Health Research Programme.
In areas like Kriel, just 10 kilometers south of Thubelihle, and Delmas, roughly 40 kilometers to the west, ambient air quality frequently exceeds World Health Organization safety thresholds, compounding chronic health conditions.
Recent research published in Voluntas confirms that over 60% of community support in Southern Africa flows through informal networks, yet these efforts receive less than 10% of formal philanthropic funding nationally.
Residents like Patricia Thwala and others across Thubelihle are not just enduring pollution; they are actively naming its sources and demanding accountability. “Why must our people always be on the losing side in our own country?” asked one Emalahleni resident during a recent community dialogue, not with despair, but with clarity.
The SAMRC’s findings on elevated respiratory risks near coal-fired power stations are echoed in daily life: coughing fits, clinic queues, and children gasping through the school day. Another resident, Nomfundo Masombuka, said, “We have a lot of illegal dumpsites, which means there’s no proper infrastructure to manage waste.”
Yet hope glimmers in reclamation: volunteer waste pickers, transforming dumpsites with dignity through informal networks striving to counter power. In Thubelihle, a model of “Many to One” giving emerges, informal, collective, and strategic. Youth groups, churches, and burial societies provide manpower and moral support, pooling small amounts through fundraisers to cover basics like gloves, refuse bags, and transport. These modest, irregular contributions, often just a few thousand rand, sustain the initiative without formal funding. “They may not have much,” says Thwala, “but they support us with their time and encouragement.”
This form of community philanthropy rejects top-down development. It is not about waiting for aid but mobilising what exists. “We don’t wait for help; we start with what we have,” Thwala asserts. Yet visibility and institutional support remain scarce. “Institutional philanthropy often misses hyperlocal efforts and overlooks grassroots groups already taking action.”
Thwala’s vision of energy justice is rooted in fairness and reciprocity. “People who live next to coal and power stations should also enjoy clean air, clean water, and opportunities, not just pollution,” she says. “Accountability means making sure the mines follow environmental laws and invest back into the communities they affect.”
Her call echoes broader demands across Mpumalanga’s coal belt, where communities are demanding not just relief but recognition. Initiatives like Thwala’s foreground how local acts of giving are reshaping the struggle for accountability, dignity, and human rights.
Patricia Thwala’s story isn’t an outlier; it’s the new pattern. Across Mpumalanga’s coal belt, communities are stitching together their own infrastructures of care. Similar initiatives include the Middelburg Social and Environmental Justice Alliance (MSEJA), which runs transition and environmental health literacy workshops, and community-led campaigns documented in Healing Coal’s Long Shadow that highlight grassroots health and justice responses in towns like Carolina and Ermelo.
In Thubelihle, giving is not transactional; it is political. It confronts the asymmetries of power that allow mining companies to extract without reinvesting and municipalities to neglect, while communities self-organise.
“Meaningful support means giving us land, equipment, and partnership opportunities,” says Thwala. “It means fairness, where the industries that profit from our area also invest in our community’s health, jobs, and environment.”
For funders, policymakers, and the media, the challenge is clear: to recognise, resource, and respect the work already being done by communities like Thubelihle. This means shifting from charity to justice, from visibility to voice, and from extractive storytelling to co-created narratives that center those most affected.
South Africa’s energy transition is not just about cutting coal; it’s about power, equity, and survival. Coal still generates 80% of electricity, with Mpumalanga hosting most of the plants. Yet communities like Thubelihle remain energy-poor, relying on coal stoves and paraffin while breathing toxic air.
The government’s Just Energy Transition Investment Plan (JET-IP), backed by $8.5 billion in international finance, promises renewables and new jobs. But rollout is slow, and critics warn the transition risks repeating extractive models that exclude frontline communities. National electrification exceeds 90%, yet coal-belt towns endure outages, unaffordable tariffs, and dependence on dirty fuels.
Patricia Thwala’s words cut through the policy jargon: “We start with what we have. But we deserve more than survival; we deserve justice.”