‘By the time I get to Phoenix … she’ll be rising’

Fifty years ago, a dusty patch of cane fields and gritty dirt was given a name borrowed from a mythical bird. Today, that bird is very much on the move.

By the time I get to Phoenix, she’ll be rising.

Those words, borrowed from Glen Campbell’s ode to Phoenix, Arizona, feel oddly prophetic for our own Phoenix, Durban. Because if you’ve travelled the M25 lately, dodging a pothole here and a philosophical goat there, you’ll have seen it: a suburb once called “the poor cousin of Chatsworth” is now a bustling, vibrant, unapologetically loud-and-proud heart of the north.

Let’s be honest. Ripped from our homes and scattered like borrowed sugar under Group Areas, Phoenix was hardly the dream posting. Chatsworth had a head start. Phoenix had gritty dust, a few brand-new schools, and the kind of “social housing” that taught you to appreciate the word “character”.

I speak with some affection here. I travelled from Shallcross so often to see my future bride that the conductor on the Phoenix bus started saving me a seat. And over those years, I watched something remarkable happen.

Shops sprouted. The White House Hotel, bought by the Naidoo brothers from Lourenço Marques, became the place to unwind over a cold drink and a plate of something delicious.

Soon after, the White House Shopping Centre followed. The Phoenix Plaza arose. Phoenix was no longer a stopover. It was a destination.

The good, the bad, and the burst pipe

Now, no 50th birthday celebration is complete without a few uncomfortable truths. (Ask anyone who’s been to a golden anniversary where Uncle Vee brings up the family feud.)

Phoenix today is a tight-knit community that still grapples with serious municipal headaches: water cuts that arrive like uninvited relatives, power outages that last longer than a family wedding, and refuse that piles up as if the truck drivers are on a permanent tea break.

Alongside these challenges, rising unemployment and the spread of drugs remain urgent concerns.

In January 2023, a blistering heatwave, combined with a 40-hour power cut, pushed about 80 frustrated residents over the edge. Tyres were burned, highways blockaded. The mayor did not show up. The trash, however, stayed for weeks.

But here’s where the Phoenician spirit shows its true colours. While some say smashing things was the only language the government understood, others argue: “We are destroying a Phoenix that future generations have to inherit.”

So, they organised a candlelight protest.

Quiet. Dignified. The message? A community that works together can fix its own town. And that, dear reader, is the heart of this story.

The deep wound, and the healing hands

We cannot talk about Phoenix’s 50 years without acknowledging the shadow of July 2021.

The vigilante violence that erupted, left 36 people dead, and carved deep scars between Indian and black African neighbours.

Let’s not sugar-coat it: those wounds are real. The ghosts of 1949 are never far away.

But here is the crucial point: Phoenix is not its worst day.

In the years since, community dialogues, restorative justice efforts, and ordinary people refusing to hate have begun to stitch things back together. As one resident put it: “Politicians keep us divided so we don’t work together. The moment we realise our enemy is a burst pipe, not a neighbour, we win.”

That is the kind of social cohesion that deserves a cheer. Because a 50th celebration is not about pretending the past didn’t hurt. It’s about saying: we hurt, and we are still here, still sharing a joke at the Plaza food court, still helping each other with a jumper cable, still teaching our children that Greenbury Secondary produces top 10 matriculants, and that good scholars come in every shade.

From Gandhi’s tree to the local legends. Let’s lighten the mood, shall we? Because Phoenix has treasures.

The oldest and largest banyan tree in South Africa, planted by 1860 indentured labourers, still stands at the Berea Temple in Stanmore. That tree watched our great-grandparents meet, plan, and dream. It is still watching.

And then there is the Phoenix Settlement itself. Mahatma Gandhi founded it in 1904. His home, Sarvodaya, the old printing press that produced Indian Opinion, it’s all there, a Unesco-worthy gem on our doorstep. Shree Emperumal Temple in nearby Mount Edgecombe, built in 1875, is arguably the oldest Hindu temple in the country. Not bad for a “poor cousin”, hey?

Rising, just like the song said

Today, Phoenix is home to the Mahatma Gandhi Memorial Hospital, numerous clinics, Palmview Nature Reserve, the Inanda Heritage Route, and the newly-revamped Phoenix Plaza, one of the largest shopping centres north of Durban.

Young Phoenicians are becoming doctors, engineers, artisans and entrepreneurs. Animal welfare marches show a community with a conscience. Even the lake is being rediscovered for quiet bird-watching.

Yes, the water still cuts out. Yes, the police station is understaffed. Yes, the trauma of 2021 will take time to fully heal.

But here is the optimistic, congratulatory truth: Phoenix is rising.

Not because the government finally fixed the pipes. Not because a hashtag went viral. But because the Phoenicians themselves, from Rockford to Caneside, from Sunford to Foresthaven, have decided that a community that burns its own substation, is a community that loses its own light.

So, on this 50th birthday, raise a glass (or a plastic cup, if the water hasn’t come back yet).

To the old banyan tree. To the future bride I travelled so far to see. To the cramped flats and the sprawling units. To the bunny chow and the broken pavements. To the candlelight protests and the stubborn, glorious hope.

By the time I get to Phoenix, she’ll be rising.

And from where we’re standing, she’s already halfway there.

Happy 50th, Phoenicians. Keep rising.