Safety, fear and the stories we tell about cities.

One of the first, and most persistent, questions from friends and family before we moved to Johannesburg wasn’t about my husband's job opportunity here, the weather, or the lifestyle. It was about safety. Not whether I’d enjoy it, but concerned if I'd be safe living here at all.

It would be disingenuous to pretend this reputation comes from nowhere. Johannesburg is consistently ranked among the world’s most crime-affected cities. According to the 2026 Numbeo Crime Index, it sits 5th globally, with a crime score of around 80.8 and a safety score below 20, placing it firmly in the “very high” category. The problem isn't contained within Johannesburg. South Africa as a whole ranks among the top five countries globally for crime, and its major urban centres, including Pretoria and Gqeberha (formerly Port Elizabeth) dominate international rankings.

Johannesburg CBD

But these headline numbers only tell part of the story. Of course, every person in Johannesburg is at risk of being a victim of crime, but generally, what kind varies geographically and socially. On one end, the city is notorious for violent crime: armed robbery, carjacking, assault, and one of the highest murder rates globally at a national level. On the other, there is pervasive property crime: theft from vehicles, burglary, and opportunistic robbery, which form a significant proportion of reported incidents across the city.

In wealthier areas like Sandton, for example, the most common offences are commercial crime and theft-related incidents, rather than violent attacks. Across other parts of the city, and in more vulnerable areas, assault and more serious violent crimes feature more prominently.

My own experience of living here has been relatively trouble free. I haven’t been a victim of crime, but that comes with a caveat. I’m acutely aware that I’m buffered by my personal circumstances. I live in an affluent area, behind walls, with 24-hour security. Safety, here, is a privilege. It’s designed, paid for and sadly not the reality for everyone. South Africa has one of the largest private security industries in the world, with hundreds of thousands of active guards and private security personnel outnumbering the police by roughly three to one.  In many neighbourhoods, it’s private companies, not the police, who respond first when an alarm goes off. Safety, in that sense, is something that citizens must subscribe to.

That doesn’t mean I can move through the city carelessly. I don’t walk at night. I don’t wander around with my phone out. Wearing my headphones and being oblivious to the world is a luxury I realised I couldn’t afford after one slightly unnerving walk in my neighbourhood where I became aware that I was being followed. Fortunately, I was a few metres away from my building and hurried inside before my stalker got too close.

The only time I’ve felt genuinely unsafe wasn’t with a stranger on the street, it was during a traffic stop. My husband was driving us home one evening when we were pulled over, just two blocks away from our apartment. It seemed routine, until it wasn’t. The police officer seemed determined to find an issue, and eventually he found one. I didn’t have my passport on me. Technically, as a foreigner, you’re expected to be able to prove your legal status within the country, but in practice, a photo is often enough. What followed didn’t feel like law enforcement. It felt like leverage. I was told I could be taken to a police station and held overnight. The officer took hold of my wrists and began leading me towards the van. Then all of a sudden, the implication was clear: this could all go away, for a price. He asked that we give him 3,000 rand (roughly £125) and in exchange we would be free to go home. Like anyone would be, we were reluctant to give in to the pressure so we told them we would go withdraw the cash (while he confiscated Alistair's driving license). Instead we drove home, collected my passport, and when we returned we were lucky that it was a non-bent copper to pull us over, and after showing him our passports, he returned the drivers license from his (now obviously furious) colleague. While the whole experience was stressful we were very smug that we didn't pay the bribe.

It’s difficult to reconcile that experience with the idea of safety as something that is protected by the state. And while not every interaction with the police is like this, stories of roadside extortion and opportunistic enforcement are common enough that they shape attitudes towards the police in the same way as any other perceived risk. Which, perhaps, helps explain the reliance on private security. Not just as a response to crime, but as a response to uncertainty about who, exactly, is there to protect you.

Over time, our behaviours in this new city stop feeling like precautions and start to feel like instinct. I don’t consciously think, I am modifying my behaviour because this is a high-crime city. I've just adapted. I now live with kind of low-level vigilance that hums in the background. Not panic, not even necessarily anxiety, but being cognisant that you are responsible for your own safety in a very immediate way. For me, this is the difference between rational awareness and ambient fear. Every city has its own version of this. Even in London, I would keep my phone away in certain areas. But in Johannesburg, the stakes feel higher.

And yet, at the same time, life here is full. Ordinary. Social. People go out for dinner, walk their dogs, make plans for the weekend. The city is not defined by fear in the way its reputation might suggest. I think so much of how we understand unfamiliar places comes down to hearsay and the stories that we choose to believe. Johannesburg is a city people speak about in warnings. And yet, living here, the reality feels more nuanced. Yes, there is risk. Yes, there are precautions, some subtle, some significant. But there is also normality, warmth, humour, routine. Life, carrying on in all the ways it does everywhere else.

And so the story of Johannesburg as a place characterised by crime is not entirely wrong. But it is incomplete. Because living here forces you to rethink what it really means to feel safe. It becomes less of an assumed guarantee like it did at home but something that must be navigated daily - shaped by where you are, who you are, and what systems you have access to.

Notes from 26° South.