Nestled along the shores of Algoa Bay, Port Elizabeth (now officially renamed Gqeberha but still commonly called PE) carries the scars and triumphs of South Africa’s turbulent past. Founded in 1820 as a British colonial outpost, the city was named after the wife of a governor but built on land violently taken from the Xhosa people. The Donkin Reserve, with its iconic pyramid monument, stands as a bittersweet landmark—a tribute to Elizabeth Donkin but also a symbol of displacement.
By the mid-19th century, PE became a hub for settler colonialism, with British immigrants transforming the landscape through wool exports and later, the automotive industry. The city’s strategic port made it a linchpin in the empire’s extractive economy, a pattern repeating today as Chinese and European corporations vie for control of its deep-water harbor.
While Cape Town’s District Six dominates global narratives about forced removals, Port Elizabeth endured identical brutality. Neighborhoods like South End—a vibrant multicultural community—were bulldozed under the Group Areas Act. Over 50,000 people, mostly Coloured and Black families, were relocated to segregated townships like New Brighton and Kwazakhele.
The Red Location Museum, built amidst the corrugated iron shacks of New Brighton, confronts this legacy. Its exhibits don’t shy away from the irony of liberation: though apartheid ended, economic apartheid persists. Unemployment here hovers near 40%, and the townships remain geographically isolated—a deliberate apartheid-era design that still dictates who accesses jobs and clean air.
Few know that PE’s industrial identity is tied to Nazi Germany. In 1946, a former Luftwaffe officer helped establish Volkswagen’s first overseas plant here. During apartheid, the factory became a site of both oppression (exploiting Black labor) and resistance (hosting underground ANC meetings). Today, as global automakers pivot to EVs, PE faces existential threats. The just energy transition isn’t just about coal—it’s about 30,000 auto jobs at risk.
They call PE the "Windy City," but climate scientists use darker terms. Rising sea levels threaten the harbor, while droughts—like the 2015-2018 crisis that nearly emptied the Kouga Dam—preview a dystopian future. The wealthy install desalination plants; the poor queue for water trucks.
Algoa Bay’s marine biodiversity, including endangered African penguins, is choking on microplastics. Ironically, the same currents that made PE a colonial port now funnel global trash onto its beaches. Local activists (like the "Baywatch" citizen scientists) document this crisis, but solutions require holding multinationals accountable—a nearly impossible task in a city where jobs trump ecology.
The COEGA Industrial Development Zone, just north of PE, tells a 21st-century colonial story. Chinese companies dominate its special economic zone, from automakers to renewable energy projects. The promise? Jobs. The cost? Sovereignty. When a Chinese firm recently demanded tax breaks threatening to pull out, the government complied—echoing the British East India Company’s 19th-century tactics.
In 2023, a sanctioned Russian cargo ship mysteriously docked in PE’s harbor, allegedly to load arms for Mozambique. The incident exposed South Africa’s precarious neutrality in global conflicts. For locals, it revived memories of the 1980s when PE’s port smuggled oil to apartheid’s allies.
Despite systemic neglect, PE’s art scene thrives. The Athenaeum, a crumbling colonial building, now hosts avant-garde exhibitions critiquing gentrification. Gqeberha’s new name itself is a linguistic rebellion—reclaiming the Xhosa click sounds erased by colonialism.
Yet every step forward meets resistance. When the city proposed renaming streets after anti-apartheid heroes, some businesses refused to update addresses. The past clings like the coastal fog.
Port Elizabeth’s story mirrors South Africa’s unresolved contradictions:
The city’s future hinges on whether it can confront these paradoxes—or if it will remain a pawn in others’ games, just as it was in 1820.