Die Son: A Paper that Shines for its Community
Tabloids get a bad rap. Back when I was studying journalism at UCT, I witnessed firsthand how people looked down on Die Son newspaper. “How can that be real journalism?” they scoffed. “How can you write in a language that caters to the lowest common denominator—Kaaps Afrikaans?” They pointed fingers at subjective and provocative headlines labelling criminals as “varke” (pigs).
Yet, reading Die Son, I saw something different. I discovered a newspaper serving its people with fearless vigour. Its pages burst with the colourful language of the Cape Flats, raw and alive. Die Son reports the stories that truly matter to its readers—the factory worker retrenched without pension, the mother seeking justice for her slain child. It captures the daily triumphs and struggles of a community all too often overlooked.
While the mainstream press keeps its distance with detached and analytical reporting, Die Son gets up close and personal. Die Son journalists aren’t outsiders peering in through a disconnected lens. They’re insiders serving up what their people want – the real talk they use on the streets, at home, in the shops.
For us, Die Son is where we turn to find out who’s who and what’s what in our neck of the woods. If there’s been a drive-by shooting on the corner, we’ll pour through its pages to discover who that body under the sheet was. Die Son will have the real story. We want the latest deals on wheels from the car lots lining Voortrekker Road. And when some slickster’s been running a hamper scam or a fly-by-night contractor skips town halfway through building your neighbour’s new rumpus room addition, Die Son’s got the details.
We live for those stories about talented kids from the Cape Flats finally getting the big break they deserve on the world stage. And when we need a laugh, there’s antie Mona’s advice column, filled with her signature wit and wisdom. Who can forget Robert Daniel’s “7de Laan maak my skaam” column skewering the soap opera’s absurd plot lines.
My auntie lived for her daily copy of Die Son. She’d eagerly flip through the Shoprite inserts before settling in to read the news of the day. Once she was done, the paper would get passed along our street, borrowed by a neighbour. Die Son was as much an emergency resource as it was a source of news—whether as an impromptu flyswatter, fire starter, window cleaner, or toilet paper replacement! At the end of the day, you’ll see the hard-working coloured folk completely engrossed in Die Son on their taxi or train ride home. At my high school, the boys only cared about one thing: page 3 and its scandalous photos. Die Son sellers are fixtures at intersections, ready to start commuters’ days with a dose of news.
Die Son fills a void the polite papers don’t. It throws out stifling conventions and speaks to its readers in their authentic voice. For the Cape Coloured people, Die Son isn’t just a newspaper. It’s an advocate. A friend. A rallying voice for the people, by the people. That’s journalism at its core.
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