- A year after Muhsin Hendricks was killed, there have been no public arrests or visible progress, leaving queer Muslims feeling exposed and uncertain about their safety.
- While the Constitution requires the police to investigate crime properly, there is no automatic legal duty to provide ongoing public updates about a specific investigation.
- The gap between what is legally required and what communities need to feel protected raises urgent questions about justice, visibility, and public trust in South Africa.
It has been a year since the murder of Muhsin Hendricks, and I still feel that news trembling in my body. Grief does not move in straight lines. It loops back, resurfaces at odd hours, and arrives uninvited in ordinary moments. Sometimes it is sadness, sometimes anger, but most often now, it is fear.
For many queer Muslims in South Africa, he was more than a religious leader; he was proof we were not alone. He stood at an intersection society claims cannot exist, faith and queerness held together without apology. His presence made it easier to breathe in spaces that had long felt suffocating. When someone like that is killed, the violence does not end with the act. It spreads through communities and private lives, into the fragile calculations people make each day about whether it is safe to be visible.
In the year since, there has been not only grief, but silence. There has been no public arrest, no clear indication of progress, and no visible reassurance that anyone will be held accountable. I know criminal investigations are complex and often slow, but emotionally, the silence feels like standing in an unlit room, waiting for a light that never comes.
What the law requires
In that darkness, I keep asking what the law actually requires. Does the police service have a duty to tell the public what is happening. Does his prominence change anything. Does the possibility of a hate motivated killing create stronger obligations. These questions matter because when fear is personal, understanding the legal reality becomes a way to survive.
The starting point is the Constitution. Section 205 of South Africa’s Constitution requires the police to prevent, combat, and investigate crime, protect the country’s inhabitants, and uphold the law. The Constitution also guarantees rights to dignity, equality, and freedom and security of the person. These principles guide how the criminal justice system should operate, but they do not create a general legal duty for the police to give ongoing public updates about a specific investigation. That distinction matters. There is a legal duty to investigate properly, but no automatic duty to report publicly on progress.
This often surprises people. We live in a world where information moves instantly, where public statements are expected after major events, and where social media creates the impression that transparency is constant. Legally, however, investigations are often treated as confidential processes. The reasoning is that premature disclosure could compromise evidence, alert suspects, intimidate witnesses, or undermine the fairness of a future trial. Courts generally accept these concerns as legitimate.
Under SAPS Standing Order General 156, members of the police have the discretion to disclose information to the media, provided they do so cautiously so as not to jeopardise the investigation. Silence is therefore not always negligent; it can be strategic. At the same time, it may also indicate institutional failure, something that often goes unnoticed without external oversight. When such silence is prolonged and unexplained, it can seriously erode public trust, especially in communities that are already marginalised.
There are, however, rights that apply more directly to victims and their families. South Africa has a policy framework known as the Service Charter for Victims of Crime. It recognises that victims should be treated with dignity and respect and should receive information about case progress. Families may request updates from investigators and prosecutors, including whether suspects have been identified or arrests made. However, this Charter is primarily a policy instrument rather than binding legislation. In practice, enforcement depends on administrative processes and complaints rather than immediate legal remedies. Families have recognised expectations, but not an absolute enforceable right to detailed disclosure.
This creates a gap between what feels morally necessary and what is legally required. Communities often interpret silence as neglect, while authorities may view silence as procedural caution. Both realities can exist at the same time.
Another potential legal route is the Promotion of Access to Information Act, which, in theory, allows individuals to request records from state bodies, including the police. In practice, its broad exemptions for ongoing criminal investigations allow authorities to refuse access if disclosure could prejudice law enforcement, expose confidential sources, endanger individuals, or interfere with the investigation. Even formal requests can therefore be lawfully denied while a case is active.
Knowing this does not make the silence easier to bear. It only shows that silence by itself is not necessarily unlawful.
There is also no legal distinction between a high profile victim and anyone else. Equality before the law means every murder investigation carries the same legal obligations regardless of the victim’s public status. When some cases appear to receive more attention, that difference usually arises from media pressure, political visibility, or public interest rather than from legal requirements. Visibility changes behaviour, not rights.
The possibility that this murder may have been motivated by bias against sexual orientation or religious identity adds another layer. South Africa has hate crime legislation that allows bias motivation to be treated as an aggravating factor during prosecution. If investigators suspect such a motive, they should examine it as part of determining intent. Even in hate crime contexts, however, the law does not impose additional obligations to provide public updates during the investigative phase. The classification affects prosecution and sentencing more than communication.
So legally, the situation is clear. The police must investigate. They must act reasonably and competently. They must respect constitutional rights. They are not required to keep the public informed about each step of the investigation.
Lawfulness and lived safety
Legality and social safety are not the same thing. Something can be lawful and still be profoundly dangerous.
For queer Muslims, a high profile murder, no arrests after a year, and no visible progress together create a climate of acute vulnerability. Safety is not only a matter of crime statistics. It is also a matter of perception, about whether people believe they are protected, about whether potential perpetrators believe there will be consequences.
When someone who embodied queer Muslim visibility is killed, and no one is held accountable for a long time, a message settles into our collective psyche. Visibility may be punished, justice may not come, and we are on our own.
I feel this when I walk into spaces and wonder who might see me as a target. I feel it when younger queer Muslims quietly ask if they should start hiding parts of themselves again. Fear becomes ambient, woven into everyday decisions.
This is why the absence of arrests matters, even when investigations legitimately take time. Law enforcement shapes reality not only by solving crimes but also by deterring them. When there is no visible consequence after a year, deterrence weakens. Marginalised communities feel exposed. Potential offenders may feel emboldened. Silence becomes more than a communication gap. It becomes a risk factor.
Families and communities can use several mechanisms to pursue accountability. They can lodge complaints about police conduct or delays with the Independent Police Investigative Directorate, which has statutory authority to investigate the police. If investigations seem unreasonably delayed or negligent, they can sometimes approach the courts. Parliamentary oversight can add political pressure, and civil society mobilisation is often highly effective in drawing attention and compelling a response.
However, pursuing these avenues demands resources, energy, and emotional resilience that grieving communities may not always have, turning activism into yet another burden on their grief.
I keep returning to a simple truth. The law sets minimum obligations, but justice demands more. In a constitutional democracy grounded in dignity and equality, the state’s responsibility goes beyond technical compliance with legal standards. It must also ensure that communities feel protected. When fear spreads through a marginalised group after a targeted killing, reassurance becomes a vital part of public safety.
I understand that investigations cannot always be public, that evidence must be protected, and that arrests cannot be made without sufficient grounds. This understanding does not lessen the lived reality that queer Muslims in South Africa are facing right now. We are simultaneously navigating grief, visibility, and uncertainty.
The golden thread running through all of this is simple. The police may not be legally compelled to share information about an investigation with the public. Yet when a year passes without arrests or visible progress, that silence creates real danger for those who share the victim’s identity. Lawfulness and safety are not always the same thing. Compliance with procedure does not automatically translate into protection.
Justice, ultimately, is not only about convictions secured in courtrooms. It is also about whether people can live their lives without fear, whether communities believe their lives matter to the institutions meant to protect them, and whether the state recognises the ripple effects of violence beyond the immediate crime scene.
A year later, the grief remains. So does the fear. Between those two emotions sits a question that refuses to fade, not only whether justice will come, but whether we will be safe while we wait for it.
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