I was out in public the other day and overheard a conversation between two women. One woman was telling her friend about a recent and frightening experience she had while using an e-hailing service.

The woman, who could possibly have been in her mid-30s, said that when she got into the car, she became so frightened that she pleaded with her driver not to kill her.

She told him that her child, whom I presumed could not have been older than 10, was waiting for her at home and still needed her as a mother.

What struck me about the story, however, was what happened next. The driver also pleaded with her not to do anything to harm him. He explained that he was simply trying to make ends meet and provide for his family.

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In other words, both people in that car were afraid of each other.

Luckily, the encounter did not end in violence. Instead, the two eventually spoke about how frightened they had been and reflected on the violence that has become so prevalent in South Africa lately, especially following the recent discovery of several bodies in Ekurhuleni.

That conversation stayed with me because it captured something I believe many of us can relate to: The fear of violence does not belong to one gender.

Both the woman and her driver were afraid, and both had reason to believe the other could harm them.

I could certainly relate to them. Their conversation made me realise just how much we are all subjected to the sheer threat of violence every day we venture out of our homes.

It does not matter whether you are a man or a woman. It does not matter whether you are behind the wheel, sitting in the back seat, walking home from work or simply going about your daily business.

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There is an uncomfortable reality that many of us have come to accept: at any given moment, something could happen to you.

And perhaps that is what makes the conversation around violence in our country so difficult. We are all afraid, yet somehow we have allowed that fear to divide us.

Instead of confronting violence as a society, we have allowed the conversation to become another gender war between men and women, with social media becoming the arena.

We argue about whose suffering matters more, who is to blame and which gender should be having the louder conversation.

It was particularly sad to see how some people responded to the tragic death of Elizabeth ‘Tsontso’ Moselakgomo of Kempton Park.

Her story sent chills through many people, yet some turned what should have been a moment of reflection and outrage into an opportunity to make jokes about the situation.

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That, to me, says something about where we are as a society. Even when confronted with disturbing stories, we somehow find a way to turn them into content for social media, ammunition in an argument or an opportunity to score points against one another.

Why is it that when stories of this nature break, we are so quick to label them as yet another issue of so-called gender-based violence? In doing so, do we not risk boxing a much bigger societal problem into a single category?

By no means am I suggesting that gender-based violence isn’t real, nor that we should stop talking about it. Far from it.

But perhaps we need to ask ourselves whether simply attaching a label to every tragedy is enough.

Because violence does not exist in a vacuum. It has become woven into the fabric of our everyday lives. It is the fear someone feels when getting into an e-hailing vehicle.

It is the fear of walking home after dark. It is the fear that a routine journey could suddenly turn into a fight for survival.

This is where I believe the conversation needs to change.

Every time something tragic happens, activists and campaigners come out of the woodwork with slogans, hashtags and statements.

There is outrage. There are marches. There are demands for action. And then the noise dies down.

By the way, some of those who take part in these demonstrations are simply virtue signalling.

But even beyond that, I sometimes wonder whether we have become too comfortable with the cycle itself.

Tragedy happens, we react, we express outrage, we demand action, and eventually we move on.
Then it happens again.

Meanwhile, the government issues yet another statement condemning violence, repeating the same language about protecting women and bringing perpetrators to justice.

I am not saying those statements are unnecessary. Of course, people in positions of responsibility should speak out.

But at some point, we have to ask whether condemning violence after it happens is enough.
The question should be what happens before the next tragedy.

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What are we doing to prevent it?

What are we doing to change a society where people can get into a car and immediately fear for their lives? What are we doing to ensure that the next generation does not grow up believing that this is simply what life in South Africa looks like?

These are uncomfortable questions, but perhaps they are more important than another argument about whether men or women have it worse.

Because the woman in that car was afraid.

So was the man driving it.

And that, perhaps, is where we should start.

Not with another hashtag. Not with another argument about gender. Not with another statement after someone has died.

But with the uncomfortable question of how we stop living in a society where fear has become part of everyday life.

Because if we only come together after someone becomes a headline, then we are always going to be reacting to violence rather than preventing it.