The Quiet Goodbye: Why Our Nurses and Doctors Are Leaving, and What It Means for Us All

If you’ve waited for hours in a clinic queue lately, or struggled to book a specialist appointment, you’ve felt it. A quiet, steady draining of skill and care from our country’s heart. It’s not just a news headline. It’s a neighbour packing boxes. It’s your GP mentioning, almost in passing, that they’ve applied for a license abroad. It’s the collective sigh in hospital corridors where the workload grows as the hands to share it disappear.

South Africa is saying goodbye to its healers. Not by choice, but by necessity.

A Tide of Resignation Letters

The numbers are staggering, but they don’t tell the full story. Think of it this way: over the past decade, we’ve lost the equivalent of the entire professional staff of over 30 large hospitals. Nearly 13,000 doctors. Almost 60,000 nurses. The gap they leave behind isn’t just empty space. It’s longer shifts for those who stay, riskier patient loads, and a system buckling under silent strain.

“People think we don’t want to work,” says Dr. Zanele Bikitsha of the South African Medical Association. “The painful truth is far worse. We have fully trained, passionate doctors volunteering in hospitals just to keep their skills sharp, hoping a paid position opens up.” Her words echo a devastating open letter to the President, revealing over 1,800 junior doctors, their training complete, sitting at home unemployed.

The Pull of a Future

While our system struggles to absorb its own talent, the world is rolling out a welcome mat. Countries like Canada, facing a projected shortfall of 70,000 nurses, are actively looking for the very professionals we are failing to employ.

Nicholas Avramis, an immigration consultant, sees the human flow daily. “One in every four inquiries we get is from a healthcare professional,” he notes. Since early 2023, that interest has surged by 50%. For many, the path starts with a one year fellowship abroad. It’s a foot in the door, a chance to work and eventually apply for residency. It’s not just about higher pay. It’s about job security, clear career paths, and working in a system that values their presence.

The Local Cost of a Global Shift

The impact isn’t abstract. Look at Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital, a titan of African medicine. In a single blow last December, it lost all of its cardiologists. Three out of four ENT specialists also resigned. When specialists of this caliber leave, entire departments crumble. Complex cases have nowhere to go. The burden shifts to already overwhelmed regional hospitals, and eventually, to the community clinic down your road.

On local social media and in community groups, the reaction is a mix of anger, grief, and understanding. “How can we blame them for leaving?” is a common refrain. Posts alternate between stories of horrific public health wait times and farewell messages for beloved local practitioners. There’s a palpable sense of watching a vital part of our community infrastructure fade away, with a shared anxiety about who will be there when our own families need care.

Not a Choice, But a Conclusion

This exodus is often called a ‘brain drain’. That makes it sound like a simple economic transaction. It’s more personal than that. It’s the culmination of years of frustration. It’s a highly skilled professional who loves their country but also loves their profession, forced to choose between the two.

For every doctor on a plane to Toronto, there are hundreds more patients here who must wait. The crisis feeds itself. As more leave, the working conditions for those who remain worsen, pushing more to consider leaving. It’s a cycle that weakens us all.

The solution won’t be found in blaming those who seek dignity in their work. It must be built here, by creating a system that not only trains world class healthcare workers but has the vision, and the resources, to keep them. Until then, the quiet goodbyes will continue, and the empty space they leave will be felt in waiting rooms and hospital wards across the nation.