PRETORIA – It was a telephone call that effectively ended nearly three decades of South African military presence in the heart of Africa. On 12 January 2026, President Cyril Ramaphosa picked up the phone to speak with United Nations Secretary-General Antonio Guterres. The message was blunt: South Africa is leaving. After twenty-seven years of acting as the "policeman of the continent," the South African National Defence Force (SANDF) is packing its bags and heading home from the United Nations Organisation Stabilisation Mission in the Democratic Republic of Congo (MONUSCO).
The official statement from the Presidency, released on Sunday, 8 February 2026, was wrapped in the usual layers of diplomatic cotton wool. It spoke of a "unilateral withdrawal" influenced by the "need to consolidate and realign the resources" of the SANDF. But for those who have watched the mounting body bags and the crumbling state of South Africa’s military hardware, the truth is far more harrowing. Behind the talk of "strategic realignment" lies a story of a broken force, a secret financial crisis, and a humiliating retreat from a conflict that has become a meat-grinder for South African youth.
For years, the SANDF has been the backbone of MONUSCO, ranking amongst the top ten troop-contributing countries. With a force presence of over seven hundred soldiers currently deployed, South Africa has been the primary shield for civilians in the eastern DRC. However, the mission has evolved from its 1999 roots under the Lusaka Ceasefire Agreement into a high-intensity war against the sophisticated M23 rebels—a war that the SANDF was increasingly ill-equipped to fight.
The Democratic Alliance (DA) was quick to pounce on the announcement, with Spokesperson on Defence Chris Hattingh MP stating that the withdrawal was "not a moment too soon." Hattingh’s words cut through the Presidency’s jargon: "The bitter reality is that our defence force currently suffers from a dangerous combination of strategic overreach and systemic decay. To continue on this path would have been reckless."
The "systemic decay" Hattingh refers to is not just a political talking point; it is a lived reality for the soldiers on the ground. Military insiders, speaking on condition of anonymity, describe a force that is "broken and broke." There are reports of troops deployed in high-threat environments without basic rations, functioning radios, or even enough ammunition. The most damning evidence of this decay came in January 2025, during the now-infamous "white-flag incident."
As the M23 rebels overran the strategic city of Goma, a video began circulating on social media that chilled the blood of every South African patriot. It showed SANDF soldiers raising a makeshift white flag. While the SANDF leadership "dismissed with contempt" the idea of a surrender, clarifying that the flag was used to seek a "truce" to recover bodies, the image became a permanent scar on the national psyche. It was a humiliating symbol of political miscalculation. Our troops were operating without adequate force protection, air support, or medical evacuation capability.
"Deploying our brave men and women while being under-equipped, under-resourced in a high-threat environment, is not merely poor strategy, it is an abdication of the fundamental duty of care a nation owes to those who serve in its name," Hattingh argued. "This is the ultimate hypocrisy, demanding the ultimate sacrifice while refusing to provide the fundamental means of survival."
The human cost of this "hypocrisy" has been staggering. In the heavy fighting of early 2025, the death toll climbed rapidly. On 29 January 2025, President Ramaphosa himself had to acknowledge the loss of thirteen soldiers in a single period of intensified fighting. The names of the fallen—Staff Sergeant William Eddie Cola, Staff Sergeant Molahlehi Ishmael Molahlehi, Staff Sergeant Shwahlane Theophilus Seepe, Corporal Rinae Nemavhulani, and Rifleman Tshidiso Mabele—have become part of a growing list of South Africans who paid the ultimate price for a mission their own government could no longer afford to support.
The financial rot at the heart of the Department of Defence is perhaps the most "hidden" reason for this exit. Years of shrinking budgets have hollowed out the SANDF’s combat capability. We no longer have the "chopper" support needed to move troops safely or provide fire support from the air. Our Rooivalk attack helicopters and Oryx transport fleet are largely grounded due to a lack of maintenance and spare parts. Without air superiority, South African soldiers became "sitting ducks" for rebel groups armed with modern anti-aircraft weaponry and mortars.
This crisis of capability was further exposed by Minister of Defence Angie Motshekga’s own admissions. In August 2025, Motshekga was criticised for failing to attend critical parliamentary meetings regarding the soldiers' welfare, even as reports emerged of troops being "captured" or "surrendering" to M23. The DA noted that she "delusionally" called the DRC calamity a success, while soldiers on the front lines were begging for basic logistics.
"The DRC must never be allowed to become a monument to South Africa’s failed commitments, written in the lives of its soldiers and the erosion of its own security," the DA statement continued. This erosion is evident in the fact that the SANDF cannot even maintain basic readiness at home while trying to project strength abroad. The "strategic overreach" has left our borders porous and our internal security compromised, as the best of our remaining equipment was shipped off to a foreign war we had no hope of winning.
The Presidency insists that South Africa will "work jointly with the UN to finalise the timelines and other modalities of the withdrawal," which is expected to be completed before the end of 2026. But the question remains: what happens to the vacuum left behind? While Ramaphosa promises to maintain "close bilateral relations" with the DRC and support SADC efforts, the reality is that South Africa’s era as a regional superpower is effectively over.
The "unilateral withdrawal" mentioned by the Presidency is a polite way of saying that South Africa has given up. The decision, communicated to Guterres on 12 January 2026, marks the end of a mission that began with the 1999 Lusaka Ceasefire Agreement. Over those twenty-seven years, the mandate evolved from simple peacekeeping to "stabilisation and peace-consolidation," but the SANDF’s resources went in the opposite direction.
Military experts point out that the withdrawal from MONUSCO is just the first domino. The Southern African Development Community (SADC) mission, known as SAMIDRC, which South Africa also leads, has suffered equally devastating losses. In early 2025, nine soldiers were killed in a single engagement as M23 advanced on Goma. The "phased withdrawal" of SADC troops is already underway, as the regional bloc realizes that without massive international air support, the mission is a suicide pact.
The DA has called for a full, transparent briefing in Parliament, demanding a "credible plan to fix the defence force." They argue that without urgent recovery, South Africa risks becoming "irrelevant in regional security and unable to defend its own interests." The focus, they say, must be on rebuilding "protected mobility, reliable airlift and surveillance, functioning logistics, and properly equipped personnel."
But for the families of those currently in the DRC, the news of the withdrawal is a bittersweet relief. They have watched as their sons and daughters were sent into a "DRC Debacle" that many military experts compared to a slow-motion disaster. The "secret" reason for the exit isn't just one thing—it is the total collapse of a military system that tried to maintain a global reputation on a local shoestring budget.
As the 700 soldiers prepare to leave, the documentary of South Africa’s 27-year intervention in the DRC draws to a close. It is a story that began with the hope of bringing peace to a broken land but ends with the quiet withdrawal of a force that could no longer defend itself, let alone a continent. The "strategic realignment" is, in truth, a desperate face-saving exercise to hide the shame of a military that has been overstretched to the point of total collapse.
The "Blue Helmets" with the South African flag will soon be gone from the streets of Goma and the jungles of North Kivu. They leave behind a nation still in turmoil and a home country that must now face the grim reality of its own weakened state. The era of the "policeman of Africa" is dead; the era of national survival has begun.
TIMELINE OF A RETREAT: THE ROAD TO WITHDRAWAL
- 1999: MONUSCO established; South Africa joins as a key peacekeeping partner.
- February 2024: Two SANDF soldiers killed in a mortar attack, signalling the rising threat from M23.
- June 2024: Further casualties reported; SANDF names more fallen soldiers.
- January 2025: Goma falls to M23; the "white-flag incident" goes viral.
- 29 January 2025: President Ramaphosa confirms 13 soldiers killed in recent fighting.
- August 2025: Minister Motshekga under fire for "gross incompetence" and skipping parliamentary oversight.
- 12 January 2026: Secret phone call between Ramaphosa and UN Secretary-General Guterres.
- 8 February 2026: The Presidency officially announces the withdrawal of 700 troops.
- December 2026: Deadline for all South African MONUSCO troops to return home.
A LEGACY IN RUINS?
The cost of the DRC mission can be measured in billions of rands and hundreds of lives, but the true cost is the loss of South Africa’s standing as a continental leader. For nearly three decades, Pretoria used its military as a tool of soft power, a way to show the world that Africa could solve its own problems. But as the last trucks roll across the border and the last transport planes take off from Goma, the world sees a different picture: a nation that can no longer afford its own ambitions.
The "realigning of resources" promised by the Presidency must now happen at home. Our borders are under threat from illegal mining syndicates, cross-border crime, and the ever-present shadow of domestic unrest. The soldiers returning from the DRC will find a defence force that is a shadow of its former self, with barracks in disrepair and equipment that belongs in a museum.
This investigative report has uncovered that the decision to leave was not a "strategic choice" but a forced surrender to economic and military reality. The "Blue Light" mafia within our own borders and the tender corruption that has hollowed out our state-owned enterprises have finally reached the front lines. You cannot fight a war in the Congo when the money for the bullets has been stolen in Pretoria.
As we conclude this documentary-style look at the DRC exit, we must remember the names of the staff sergeants and corporals who will never come home. They were the true victims of "strategic overreach." They were the ones who stood in the rain in North Kivu, holding a white flag because their radios didn't work and their helicopters never came. Their legacy is not one of failure, but of a bravery that was betrayed by the very leaders who sent them there.
The "Secret DRC Exit" is finally public. Now, the real work of rebuilding a nation’s pride begins.
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